Title: My Pleasures Were (To Say The Least) Undignified
Author: Optimizer
Keywords: M+F MF FF MFF Fdom Mdom tg tv exhib reluc
Summary: A classic story, extrapolated to modern times.

The source material's been done to death, of course. A few have even taken it in the direction this story goes. But none have been terribly faithful to the original, and commercial considerations prevented them from following things to their logical conclusion.

# My Pleasures Were (To Say The Least) Undignified

## by Optimizer

I've finished preparing the next set of doses and carefully stored them away. I still should have at least another few hours. Just enough time to finish composing this and hide it somewhere out-of-the-way. But where to begin?

At the beginning, I suppose.

"...that truth, by whose partial discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful shipwreck..."

It was the end of the day, and I was examining some bedroom furniture I'd recently obtained at an estate sale. I ran an antique dealership on the outskirts of Boston that was, if I may say so, upscale and well-respected among a more refined clientele. The bed, wardrobe, bureau, and so forth had been indifferently cared for but I felt that with some restoration work I could turn a good profit on them. Late 19th-century sets such as this one were a bit in fashion in certain circles.

My first hint of something strange was when I started to remove the drawers from the bureau. The final one, on the bottom left, refused to come out completely. It appeared to be stuck on something inside the frame. I bent low and examined it carefully; I certainly had no intention of damaging it. To my surprise, I realized there was a hidden catch preventing it from coming loose. I'd seen this before, in other furniture of the period - I had stumbled upon a secret compartment.

Cautiously I disengaged the catch and removed the drawer from its slot. There was indeed a hollow concealed beneath. I carefully extracted the contents, puzzling a bit at their curious nature. Two small, thick, stoppered bottles came out first. The larger vial contained a residue of a very dark, reddish, viscous substance. The smaller one was almost empty, holding just a few grains of some white crystal. Beneath them, perhaps a dozen pages of handwritten notes, yellowed with age. Nothing else.

I skimmed the pages quickly, my excitement mounting. At first I thought it was a portion of Stevenson's 'Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde', and a handwritten copy could be worth a good deal. But slowly I realized it was something different, and much stranger. It was old, clearly. But it wasn't Stevenson's work... at least, not as published.

It was the confession of one 'Dougal Tawesson', and mostly it followed 'Jekyll's' from the story. Large chunks were identical. (A pure liberal arts education isn't worth much outside of academia, but at least I knew literature.) Key details were different, though. It took place in Edinburgh, not London. Instead of murdering a prominent citizen, his alternate form had killed a prostitute who'd refused him 'service'. But, like in the original (Or was it original? I had begun to doubt...) there had been a witness to the crime. And so on.

Whatever I'd found, I had an unaccountable hunch that it was important. I looked to the stoppered bottles in the drawer. Perhaps it was a set of props for one of the plays based on the story? It was old enough to be an early production - still worth some money to the proper collector.

Or, far more valuable - might this be an early draft of the story? That could be very lucrative, and buy some useful publicity besides. Then there was the dim, scarcely-possible chance that I had found an earlier work, something Stevenson had based his story upon. The papers could easily be that old... and if that were the case, they would be nearly priceless.

It's ridiculous now, looking back. Even my craziest, most half-baked imaginings fell so far short of what I actually had in my hands. I didn't even begin to suspect what I now know to be the truth until later that night. I decided to leave the set for the morning. I bundled up my finds, locked up the store, and drove home.

My house was a sizeable cottage in the older part of the city. Somewhat expensive, but my business brought in a respectable income and I had no one but myself to spend it on. I'd restored much of it to its original condition, with a few discreet updates. The electrical system had needed the most modernization, I remembered as I sat in front of my computer, skimming sites and Googling details.

The first thing I did was find a copy of the original story online and compare it with my find. As I'd thought, it was mostly identical. Only the names and a few circumstances and details were different. Next I began to research those circumstances.

There really had been a Tawesson, and he'd been killed by one of his servants, who had then killed himself. He'd been a learned doctor, at least later in life, and while the fit was not exact there were other parallels between him and the fictional Jekyll. A record of churchgoing and charitable pursuits. There'd been hints of blackmail between him and the 'newly hired' servant, Henry Cuilidh. Tawesson's body was never found.

And like Jekyll, he'd apparently craved the respect of 'higher society', though he'd had somewhat less success in garnering it. His past was a trifle too disreputable - an excess of drinking and brawling when he was young, heroic service in the Anglo-Zulu War but stories of brutality had dogged him afterwards. (Considering the times, that implied a truly shocking level of ruthlessness.) A gentleman, true, but... not a gentleman's gentleman.

I knew some of the history of the furniture, and it had indeed come from Britain. The elderly lady it had belonged to was definitely of Scottish descent. I could find no solid link to either Stevenson or Tawesson, but such a connection could not be ruled out.

More interesting. There were hints - just hints, but still - that Tawesson had been abused as a child. And that was a primary risk factor for developing multiple personalities, I'd read. And a quick search found that 'cuilidh' was Scots Gaelic for a 'cellar' or 'secret place'...

I looked again at the bottles from the drawer. I wasn't ready to admit, even to myself, what I was starting to suspect. But I was filled with an unjustified agitation nonetheless, anxiety mixed with a hint of almost formless hope.

"...I stood already committed to a profound duplicity of life..."

I acted on my tension in the way I often did at night, alone, with the shades drawn. I shut down the computer and walked up the stairs to the spare bedroom, locking the door behind me. And then I unlocked the lovely Victorian wardrobe therein and regarded the contents as I began to undress. In moments I was naked, semi-erect, and my former clothes were banished from sight in an empty drawer, closed swiftly with a familiar motion.

I moved differently now, a sway in my hips, my weight shifted to my toes. A wig - light brown hair, with a gentle wave - settled onto my head and became my own. Sheer black panties slid up my legs and concealed my burgeoning erection. Enough to ignore, at least. I stole a glance at the imposing, full-length mirror on a stand in the corner of the bedroom.

A garter belt next. Black with red piping, so sexy. Then sleek, genuine silk stockings. You couldn't even see the hair now. Sometimes I shaved, but I was frightened of being discovered with shaved legs somehow... no, not important, not now. I turned, admiring the dark line running up the back of each stocking. No wonder girls in WWII had painted those lines on when silk ran short. They just accentuated the legs so well, and drew the eye along the curves, up to where they should be looking.

A corset next, so tight... my waist had that girlish slimness I so loved. The forms tucked invisibly into the cups of my favorite brassiere, and with practiced ease I slipped it on and hooked the straps.

The dress followed swiftly. An evening dress, skirt to the knee, no cleavage showing but still emphasizing my bosom. Light lace trim, frilly and playful. High-heeled, strappy shoes.

A bit of makeup, expertly applied. A touch of blush, shadow. Mascara? Tonight, yes. And now red lips puckered at me in the mirror, blowing a kiss. Delicious lips. I could see them pressed against a hairy cheek, nuzzling a neck with an Adam's apple... wrapped around a stiff cock. Oh, yes, they were perfect for that.

The opening rites of the ritual were complete. There she was in the mirror: Sherry Dulce. Sweet, sassy, strong, intoxicating. The shoes gave me such a walk as I sashayed across the room, poised yet seductive.

No one, not my small remaining family, not my handful of friends, certainly none of my customers, knew about Sherry. Only once had she gone out in public. A buying trip to a less staid city, where I could not possibly be recognized. I had dressed in my hotel room and dithered for almost half an hour before sneaking out the back stairs and hailing a cab to a bar I'd read of.

I entered with trepidation inside, but Sherry would never feel that way and outwardly I was collected and confident. I could see others like me scattered about. Some were better-disguised than others, a few I couldn't even be sure about. It was clearly the right place.

I had a few drinks at the bar, and a man even asked me to dance. I did well, I think, despite only having practiced in the mirror. Sherry would have enjoyed it, but I still felt awkward inside, an imposter. I gave no sign; he even asked me if I wanted to go home with him.

In reality, things had gone no further. I had chickened out, unable to live up to Sherry's ideal. I wasn't gay, in all truth. Dressed up, in my bedroom, I'd have all kinds of wild notions. But in my daily life, I'd never been attracted to a man. I'd eye the ladies, enjoy their charms, and examine their clothes for ideas. Not once had I pictured myself with any of my customers. That night I'd made my excuses and gone back to my lonely hotel room.

But now, in my spare bedroom, in Sherry's room - in my own world - I did go home with him. He was much more handsome, a gentleman. He had led me into the bedroom and kissed me gently. I could almost feel his hands gliding over my body, appreciating the ladylike curves he found. He pulled me close, and held me tight.

My breath increased its pace as my phantom lover handled me with escalating roughness, squeezing me, playing with my breasts, sneaking a hand between my thighs. (Somewhere else, my hand stroked my penis through the dress, but that was irrelevant compared to my imaginary loveplay.)

I let him draw me toward the bed. (On that other level, a vibrator emerged from the wardrobe, and was quickly lubricated...) He threw me down on top of the bedspread and held me down, proud kisses muffling my moans of pleasure. I helped him hike up my skirt and push my panties out of the way. I was so wet, he slid in so easily.

Oh, I was such a naughty girl!

I groaned and came when he did, shivering within my passage. It was heavenly, fulfilling, wonderful. I basked for a period in the afterglow, whispering endearments to the man who had possessed me.

Now that I had come, the glamour receded in increments. My stomach was wet and sticky, my anus dripping and aching slightly. Guilt grew to replace the dreamy satisfaction of before.

I had never found a woman I could share this with, that I could even dream of taking such a risk on. The scandal, if it got out... I'd be ruined. People expect a certain dignity in an antiques dealer. And so, here I was, a lonely middle-aged man playing dress-up at night. My face burning with shame, I cleaned everything thoroughly, put the clothes in the wash and the toys away, and went to take a shower before bed.

"...a side-light began to shine upon the subject from the laboratory table."

Sal Travis was a friend of mine, one of a few. A chemist at a testing firm. As I said, I only have a liberal arts education so when he tried to explain his work, it mostly went over my head. But he enjoyed antiques, too, which was how we'd met. He'd helped me out a few times, checking the age of some items of questionable provenance.

We would meet once in a while somewhere and have dinner. It had been a few months since the last time - he'd gotten over his divorce and started dating again. But he was happy to hear from me and readily agreed to get together.

We met at our most frequent haunt, Fleming's, a tasteful midtown restaurant that served fine steak with excellent Cabernet Sauvignon. As we were wrapping up the meal I finally broached the subject I'd been patiently avoiding.

"Anyway, I found these bottles locked away in a bureau. I was hoping you could take a little time and tell me what's in them. Or, at least, what was in them. I don't think they've been touched in a century or more."

Sal looked them over doubtfully. "Huh... not much left. And this red stuff here is definitely organic. If they're that old, they'll have decayed badly by now. Why do you care, anyway?"

"Honestly, at the moment I'd rather not say."

He peered at me, somewhat confused. "Seriously?" he half-smiled.

"I'm afraid so. If I told you what I think it might be, you'd... I don't know. Laugh at me for sure."

"Now you've got me curious."

"Well, apply that curiosity to what's in those bottles. I really want to know what's in them."

"I guess I could run them through the chromatograph and such at work, that'd tell me something."

"...scientific discoveries had begun to suggest the most naked possibility of such a miracle..."

A week later (a week that felt very long to me) we were again having a final glass of wine over the remains of an excellent meal. Sal, sensing my burning curiosity, had nevertheless put off his report on his findings until then.

"Okay, the red mixture is weird. Lots of different things, some are impurities, leftovers from the chemistry back then. They just couldn't make stuff as pure as we can now. It's also broken down pretty far, but not so completely that I couldn't figure it out. Basically a bunch of simple organics. There's a small amount of a plant-based MAOI, but there's more Melanopsin and Melatonin - those come from the pineal glands of birds. So far as I can tell, that's where most of the impurities come from. Whoever whipped this up seems to have chopped up a bunch of bird brains and filtered out the fluid."

"So... what does all that mean?"

"Wait, it gets better. Most of the solvent evaporated by now, but all these substances were once dissolved in DMSO, Dimethyl sulfoxide. An organic solvent." He smiled again. "DMSO glides through most body tissues like they aren't even there. You get a little on your fingers and suddenly you can taste the stuff. It's that fast. It can carry other chemicals along, too."

"Forgive me, I'm just a BFA." He grinned. Like most technical types he had a bit of a superiority complex over those who didn't pursue the 'harder' subjects. It didn't make him a bad guy but he did enjoy ribbing me. The good news was I could exploit it to keep him talking.

He paused. "DMSO was expensive then - there's a reason it's there... but I'm getting off-track. Overall though, the stuff is pretty benign. The most you might get out of drinking it would be an upset stomach."

I paused, wondering, and embarrassed to be a little disappointed. "And the white powder?"

"There wasn't much left, but I was able to get a good reading. It's more complicated, but it's basically a hydrochloride, a salt, of a medium-size organic molecule."

Now his smile was very wide. "I'm dying to know who the heck brewed this up. If you mixed them, you'd get a quick reaction that would combine the precursors to produce a variant of Dimethyltryptamine - DMT. He must have been trying for a powerful, fast-acting hallucinogen, at least with the MAOI - Monoamine oxidase inhibitor - that's in there. It's been used for centuries in tribal rituals and the like."

Now I worried that the 'change' had been all in Tawesson's head. "Well, I can tell you the guy I have in mind had done some travelling in Africa."

"Must be where he got the idea. A little goes a long way. I nicknamed it Shaman's Hangover. Partly because it shouldn't have worked."

"What?" My confusion was unfeigned.

"I said he was 'trying for' a hallucinogen. But it'd be the wrong form. Most organic molecules have multiple forms, diastereomers or etaniomers, mirror images or partial mirrors..." He finally noticed my blank expression. "Anyway, the form produced would be biologically inactive. Except for a contaminant in the salt."

My mind flashed back to what I'd read. "I am now persuaded that my first supply was impure, and that it was that unknown impurity which lent efficacy to the draught." Trying to be casual, I asked, "What 'contaminant'?"

"The salt itself has a few etaniomers. Looks like he got lazy separating them out. Or maybe he just couldn't tell the difference, a lot of this wasn't understood well back then. In any case, it was a lucky break. The mixture of both produces an active variant of DMT. This might be the first designer drug; you've found a Timothy Leary for the 1800s."

His eyes got a faraway look. "Mixed with the MAOI... they would've gone on a hell of a trip. Not sure what the Melatonin and such would add. Descartes thought the pineal gland was the 'seat of the soul' but now we know that it regulates bodily rhythms and such... Anyway, with the DMSO carrying the Hangover, the effect would be practically instantaneous - faster than crack. It'd rocket across the blood-brain barrier. I'm not sure, but I think it'd also metabolize faster. It might be like the whole trip was compressed into a few seconds. But pharmacology isn't really my field, I'm guessing at a lot of this."

The moment of truth. "Could you whip up a fresh batch?"

He stared blankly for a moment. "That is just about the last thing I expected you to ask." A long pause. "Why should I?"

"I... I'm not in a position to say yet. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

Sal looked thoughtful. "As they say, 'Friends help you move. Real friends help you move bodies.'" He considered a moment more, then shook his head. "Sorry, Carl, you're not quite that good a friend."

"Look, I never should have..." I began.

"Wait, let me finish. I can't make this for you. I won't be legally responsible for you killing yourself or ending up in a padded room." A smile broke the thoughtful expression. "But hey, I don't care how people get their jollies. It's not that hard to make - the raw ingredients are legal and fairly easy to come by, and you don't need much equipment. A stove, a professional timer and thermometer, a couple of graduated beakers and a few other instruments..."

"I think I see," I said with a smile of my own.

"I can always say 'I just told him how the guy would've made it.' I thought I was only helping your research..."

"But the temptation of a discovery so singular and profound, at last overcame the suggestions of alarm."

Much later that night I sat at my desk, my elbow propped on the edge, chin resting on my hand. Sal's handwritten notes lay next to Tawesson's papers. The website of a chemical supply firm was displayed on my computer.

So. Did I really believe it could work? Or was I just a lonely pervert driven half-crazy by desperation, willing to risk poisoning myself? But still... I reread a few lines from the 'confession': "...I began to perceive more deeply than it has ever yet been stated, the trembling immateriality, the mist-like transience of this seemingly so solid body in which we walk attired..."

That sounded a lot like the modern new-age 'Quantum Consciousness' stuff you heard nowadays, just expressed in 19th-century terms. Sal was ruthlessly derisive about such 'cranks'. He said they were badly misinterpreting Quantum Mechanics.

But now, I couldn't help but wonder. What if he was wrong? What if they were onto something? And then, a bit further: "I not only recognised my natural body for the mere aura and effulgence of certain of the powers that made up my spirit, but managed to compound a drug by which these powers should be dethroned from their supremacy, and a second form and countenance substituted, none the less natural to me..."

If the 'Quantum Consciousness' types were right, then a drug that mucked with the self-image, that allowed buried aspects of the personality to become dominant in the right way...

On the other hand, I didn't want to be a murderous sociopath. I wanted to be... I wanted to be Sherry. My eyes alighted on another passage I'd read and reread before. The one that had made me take the bottles to Sal: "Had I approached my discovery in a more noble spirit, had I risked the experiment while under the empire of generous or pious aspirations, all must have been otherwise... The drug had no discriminating action; it was neither diabolical nor divine; it but shook the doors of the prison-house of my disposition; and like the captives of Philippi, that which stood within ran forth..."

Yes, I was going to try it.

"...endowed besides with excellent parts..."

Preparations took two and a half weeks. The supplies came quickly enough but several days were wasted as I learned how to do organic chemistry by trial and error - mostly error. Sal's directions included warnings and tests at the critical steps but I hadn't done anything like this since high school. I closed the store early every night, rushing home to play mad scientist into the wee hours.

Eventually, though, one Tuesday night I had proper amounts of the reddish potion and the salt, and they had the right density and such. Even then I hesitated; but I'd come this far.

I went upstairs with the components and dressed myself, taking my time, making everything perfect. First a bath, and this time I shaved everything, even shaping my pubic hair. Pink toenails and fingernails; I never did that on a weeknight, it was too much trouble to clean them, but tonight... The lacy stockings felt wonderful on my smooth legs. High heels, my very favorite dress, flowing hair. Complete makeup - my lashes were that long! Jewelry too - a lovely broach, rings. The sole compromise was the clip-on nature of my earrings. Shaved skin I could cover, pierced ears I could not. But when I was done I was just scrumptious.

I was hard and throbbing as I admired myself in the mirror, but I tried to imagine it as an empty ache, lower down... a tiny sharp clit, soft lips... breasts with hard, sensitive nipples...

I poured the crystals into the potion. It bubbled furiously for several moments, then settled down, turning purple. Seconds passed and that gave way to a light green. On the edge of orgasm, I downed the mixture in one swift chug, like a sorority girl doing shots at a party.

It tasted horrible but that barely had time to register before I went into agonizing spasms. Every bone in my body felt like it was being twisted and a wave of weakness and nausea washed over me. But, even stronger than the physical symptoms, there was a sense of profound horror, of both oblivion and awakening.

It passed as quickly as it had come, and I felt myself swiftly recovering. But I still was pained and uncomfortable; my chest was being crushed. I yanked down the top of my dress and tore off my brassiere and the forms that had been squeezing my breasts. The wig fell to the floor, freeing the hair that now spilled to the small of my back. Only then did I finally regard myself once more in the mirror.

Looked at objectively, the girl in the mirror should have been laughable. The dress and stockings and even the shoes were too big for her. The top of the baggy dress was bunched under her breasts and a bra dangled from her hand.

No one could have looked at her objectively, however. Dainty feet with mischievous toes. Long shapely legs surmounted by the curviest, sexiest hips. A tiny wasp waist, flat tummy... firm, high, ample, absolutely symmetrical breasts with perky nipples that cried out to be touched, licked, suckled. Sleek, smooth, feminine arms tipped with hands of obvious, supple dexterity. Long, flowing, light-brown hair that framed a fine-boned, ideally-proportioned face, with wide but sultry eyes; full, luscious lips slightly parted as she stood panting, an enticing hint of the white teeth and nimble tongue visible within.

And the way she moved... animal, wanton, a blatant invitation. All she had done so far was shift her weight, lower her arms, cock her head slightly. It was still more erotic than any porn I'd ever watched.

There was nothing about her that was remotely masculine. She was fantastic. A beauty that demanded ravishing. She was a sexpot.

I laughed out loud in recognition. Here was the Sherry that Carl had always imagined, the Sherry he'd so crudely imitated all these years. His little dress-up games had produced an image no more true than a scarecrow was to a real person. It didn't feel like a discovery so much as a recollection; everything was new but somehow familiar, like deja vu.

My age was... indeterminate. I could have been a teenager, but I was no older than the late twenties. That was at least twenty years younger than Carl, and I felt every second of that. My skin was smooth and unlined, my muscles toned, my joints limber. I was full of the kind of vitality you only notice after it goes away with age.

And again, the mental and emotional changes were greater still. I was hornier than I'd ever been, on fire body and soul. The most wicked and depraved notions filled my mind; images and sounds and smells welled up constantly in my imagination. And shame and guilt - conscience itself - had vanished. That little voice of judgement everyone hears inside had been completely silenced. I felt pure, unalloyed. Distilled to an essence like a fine sherry.

I wasted no time tearing off the silly clothes. Even the corset was too big for me now! In a twinkling I was naked, devouring my new form with my eyes and hands. The novel erotic sensitivity of my nipples dragged a moan from my throat as my fingertips brushed and tweaked them. Then I was turning my back to the mirror, leaning forward, spreading my legs and craning my neck to see. My ass was incredible, round and padded yet still defined, with the cutest little rosebud hole. Seemingly of their own will, one hand remained to glide over my breasts as the other slid down my belly to my exposed pussy.

My pussy... it was beautiful, drawing hand and eyes with equal power. Sweet dewy pink folds that my fingers greedily explored. My thumb brushed my clit, diamond-hard amid all that moist softness, and I came instantly, dropping to my knees, my fingers curving into my vagina, screaming out my joy for what must have been minutes. A female orgasm is an amazing thing. Everything gets involved, even the uterus contracts.

Eventually I let the pleasure subside and stood up, a bit shakily. I struck a few poses in the mirror, enjoying my delectable form. But that was a momentary amusement. With a confidence, an arrogance almost unimaginable to most people (except perhaps sociopaths) I knew that I was the most gorgeous creature in the world. I enjoyed it but had no need to confirm it to myself. Not a trace of self-doubt remained.

So I marched determinedly over to the wardrobe and prized the vibrator from its hiding place. Then I jumped onto the bed with a giggle and squirmed myself into a comfortable position on my back.

My senses appeared to be much sharper now; I didn't just hear the buzz of the toy as I switched it on, I didn't just feel it in my hand. When I'd been a little boy (a memory that seemed completely alien to me now), at the end of every haircut the barber would take an electric razor to the back of my neck. It never failed to raise my hackles, my whole spine stiffened and my skin tingled where the shaver was about to land.

Now my entire body had a similar sensation... but with a critical difference. It was lustful anticipation, it was feverish tension. Every bit of my skin could sense it, was tingling with how it shivered in my hand. I brought it down to my cunt, my juices almost spilling from between the lips. I stroked it back and forth along the slit, each square inch of my vulva more sensitive than the whole of my unlamented cock had ever been.

I found my entrance and gradually pushed it in. The buzz wasn't just on my skin, it was inside me now, my whole body was trembling. The walls of my pussy were stretching, melting, dissolving. I clamped down with muscles I'd never possessed before, trying to pull it further within. It was wonderful, it was ecstasy. (There was a sensation that I didn't register as pain then, but I later realized was me pushing through my own hymen.) I began to move the toy out and in, over and over, more and more powerfully. My other hand started rubbing my clit and I was screaming, my back arching, my breasts jiggling on my chest.

Over the next hour or so I brought myself to orgasm repeatedly. But I knew I needed more, much more. I rolled off the bed and began to search through the clothes for something that would fit well enough.

"The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise..."

I bolted from the house before the taxi I'd called had finished parking in the driveway. I was impatient to get going, but what if I were pulled over? Sherry had no license, no ID of any kind.

I went straight to the front passenger seat and hopped in with a flounce. I was wearing the best-fitting dress I could find (cinched closely at the waist) and a pair of strappy high-heeled shoes similarly pulled tight... and nothing else. I didn't need lacy underwear or jewelry to feel like a woman now! The only purse I had didn't go with the dress but I needed to carry some money.

The driver was stunned. According to Tawesson, people had reacted to Cuilidh with a unique, visceral disgust, sensing the purity of his evil. I've since witnessed Sherry evoking an equally strong reaction, too, but of a different nature. She is literally an incarnation of Lust, and all are fascinated and attracted to her often despite themselves.

I enjoyed his stupor for a moment. He was a middle-aged, vaguely Eastern European man. Not particularly good-looking, rather unkempt. He needed a shower. None of that mattered, I was delighted with his stubble, his paunch, his odor. I licked my lips and gave him a slow smile. "Aren't you supposed to ask me 'Where to'?" I asked with wide eyes.

He jerked, and stammered. "Wh... wh... where..." I knew I was going to have such fun with him. I couldn't wait anymore to get started.

"Tell you what. You just head downtown... while I go to town." He pulled out into the street and started heading toward the main road.

He kept stealing glances at me, mostly at my breasts with their rampant nipples. I loved the attention and the way he was squirming in his seat. I leaned in close and reached for his crotch, knowing exactly what was making him uncomfortable. I grasped his stiff cock through his pants and he groaned.

"Here, let me help," I said smirkingly as I started to undo his belt. He didn't fight at all, he just kept driving. Driving slowly, I noticed. Soon I had his pants undone, and he hunched his ass into the air, letting me slide them down. He had a raging hard-on. I squealed like a little girl who'd just opened her favoritest present, it felt incredible in my hands. Without the slightest hesitation I leaned down and began sucking happily.

"Bozhe Moi!" he exclaimed, panting and groaning. For my part I was transported; cocksucking was an utter sensual delight. I slowed down as it twitched a little in my mouth; I couldn't have him coming too quickly, I was having too much fun. With a skill that I still don't know the source of, I held him straining at the brink of orgasm for more than ten minutes.

Finally even I couldn't stop him anymore. He exploded, delicious cum surging into my mouth for many seconds. I'd been having my own low-grade orgasm for a while and it peaked with his. My hips shivered and bucked, and my muffled moans blended in with the sounds of horns honking behind the taxi.

I sat up, wiping my mouth and sighing with temporary release. I looked around and realized we were on the edge of downtown. The driver had started moving again, passing under the light that had long since turned green. Still breathing heavily, he was babbling some kind of thank-you but I interrupted him with, "You can just let me off here."

He pulled to the side of the street and I hopped out, blowing him a kiss. I laughed as he hurriedly tried to yank up his pants, and strolled off into the city to seek my fortune.

"...an unknown but not an innocent freedom of the soul."

As I walked down the street, everything seemed alive and excited and there just for me and my own amusement. I drew stares from men and women alike and relished the attention. There were frequent whistles and catcalls that I gaily acknowledged as my due. A few times I literally stopped traffic. For my part, I surveyed everyone with a sexually-charged appraisal, continually visualizing myself engaging in manifold perversions with him, or him over there, or her, or them...

It wasn't long before I came across a simple, unassuming sports bar tucked in a side street. Clearly a gathering place for students, and young and athletic was just what I had in mind.

In the movies, there's a cliche: A beautiful woman walks into a bar, and there's a sudden lull in the conversation. I doubt that happens much in real life, but it did then. As I stepped in the door and looked around, the noise level faded swiftly. I was the focus of dozens of stares.

I strutted to the bar and asked the bartender for a girlish cocktail. I probably should have been carded but I had such a presence I doubt it even occurred to him. Conversation had resumed by then and I glanced about, evaluating the patrons like a butcher examines a bull to be slaughtered. It was that callous; I had needs and they would be satisfied, regardless of anyone else's feelings in the matter.

I was not surprised that a strapping young man was already zeroing in on me. "Let me get that for you," he declared, paying the bartender. I looked him over hungrily; tall, well-muscled, short dark hair. Yummy.

"My hero," I purred, leaning close. "I'm Sherry. Who do I owe the pleasure?"

"Mike. Mike Pryzowski," he said. He was putting up a brave front but I could tell he was trying to figure out if I could possibly be for real. "I'm sure I haven't seen you here before," he essayed.

"I'm new in town," I smiled. "So, what does a girl do around here for fun?"

"Well, come with me and find out." He led me over to where he and his friends were having a few beers and playing pool. He was obviously the alpha male of this little pack of five, but I was attracted to all of them in their own ways. Even the shy chubby one. Their accuracy dropped precipitously when I joined the game.

Their eyes were all over me - every eye in the bar, really - and I willingly gave them plenty to see. I bent low over the table as I made shots; my tits were almost spilling out of my dress as it was, and the skirt rode up high in the back. The way I stroked my pool cue was clearly distracting them terribly. Mike's hands were almost trembling as I had him hold the bridge for me on a difficult shot. As I leaned down, one leg idly rubbing against his, I looked back over my shoulder and caught him regarding my rear with awe. He sheepishly averted his eyes but my chuckle made him look back.

I favored him with a slow wink and a knowing smile as I cocked my hips, inviting a more thorough appreciation. I could feel his eager gaze sweeping over my body as I turned back and took my shot. As I came up to watch the balls rattle about I leaned back into Mike, enjoying his smell, the feel of his chest against my back. His fingers brushed my ass, testing the waters, and I smiled and pushed it back into his hand.

I wasn't particularly good at pool but that wasn't the game I was playing. Mike and his friends were the game, and I was winning. It was wonderful being the center of all that male attention. They were falling over themselves to be helpful and I could not pay for anything.

Mike and I sat the next round out, me perched on his lap, driving him half-insane. His arm supported me around my waist and that was driving me crazy. Flirting and seducing was almost as much fun as screwing. Almost, but I was no longer interested in half measures. I nodded at the table and nuzzled his ear, saying, "Those aren't exactly the balls I want to be racking, you know."

"Let's head to my place," he proposed, almost drooling. He ran his nails along my bare leg and I shivered.

"No. I can't wait," I declared, my voice husky. I hopped off his lap and pulled him to his feet. "Come on, let's go."

He followed me like a pet on a leash into the men's room. He was about as dazed as any guy would be if he'd stumbled into the world of the Penthouse letters column. But once we were in a stall with the door closed he wasted no time pinning me against the back wall and mauling me with hands and mouth.

I moaned with voracious passion, helping him hike up my dress. He got a hand on my pussy and I nearly passed out, it felt so good. I pumped my hips and he finger-fucked me while he fumbled with his belt. Finally I broke free and jerked the dress over my head, throwing it to the ground, heedless of the messy floor. I knelt and tugged at his belt. In moments I had his pants down. Since it was right there, I took the chance to lick and stroke his generous cock for a moment.

He groaned, and his hips bucked a little, but I wanted something new. I jumped up and locked my lips with his. He roughly picked me up and slammed me into the wall again. A few seconds of confused coordination and I was slipping onto his dick. It was bliss: complete, hedonistic, animalistic satisfaction.

My legs were wrapped around his waist as he pumped into me. It sent shooting bolts of pleasure everywhere each time his dick pistoned up into my channel. He was warm on my front, the tile was cold on my back. My hands roamed over his meaty shoulders, his back, his butt. His mouth mashed with mine, and traced wet kisses over my neck and shoulders. I let out repeated, uninhibited screams and moans.

It was practically a continuous orgasm for me, and even Mike, who struck me as the silent type, let out an occasional throaty groan. Soon enough he gave voice to something like a roar and came violently, his cum joining my own juices, making a delightfully slippery mess and sending me to new heights of pleasure.

I came down slowly. Mike made a few more powerful thrusts and then seemed to deflate. That was the first time I encountered that difference between males and females. I felt alive, energized, ready for more - but he was obviously exhausted. He set me down and worked to catch his breath. I was panting, too, but with excitement.

I bent over to pick up my dress. Mike was pulling up his pants as I, still naked, opened up the stall to find my discarded purse. I must have been a sight: bare, my boobs jiggling on my heaving chest, jism leaking down my leg. It sure pole-axed the guy coming into the bathroom.

It was the plump one, Rich or Rick or something. He stood there gaping at us... or more accurately, at me. Mike's annoyed glare caused him to mumble something like, "I really have to go..."

"So go," Mike spat, and turned back to me. Chubby made his way to a urinal and shortly I heard his piss splashing away. It was distracting; the sound kept reminding me there was an exposed dick nearby.

Mike had collected himself somewhat and was staring as much as Chubby had. "Wow," he exhaled. "That was awesome. You are the hottest piece of... of anything I've ever seen." Shakespeare he wasn't, but in my sexually-charged mood it was music to my ears. I gave him a kiss, my nipples rubbing against his shirt.

Chubby was sneakily ogling me; he'd partly turned to get a better view as he was tucking himself away, so I got a peek in the mirror at what was between his hands.

"Oooh, it's not circumcised!" I cried with undisguised delight, whirling around. "Let me see, let me see!" I demanded, reaching for his pants. He was too shocked to stop me and in a flash I had his jeans and underwear pulled down.

Just as I'd thought, it was uncut. The flesh over the tip was so cute, just begging to be pulled back to reveal what lay within. So I did, of course. There was a heavenly smell, which I've since found to be unique to the uncircumcised. Both sets of my lips moistened immediately.

The subject of my examination, already semi-erect, commenced rising to its full extent. I giggled and gave it a kiss. It tasted as good as it smelled. Chubby was dumbfounded, and looked up at Mike. Then his eyes closed involuntarily as I took him into my mouth. The feel as it stiffened against my tongue was mesmerizing.

Mike might have said something at that point, but if I so I didn't care. He was no longer relevant. His cock wasn't hard, and the one I had now was.

Blowing Chubby was different, the foreskin glided with my movements and made for a new and delightful experience. I held it retracted with my hand as I drew back and flicked my tongue at his head. The tip was different, too; the skin was softer, more like a giant clit. He wriggled as I snuck the end my tongue into the hole.

Then I wrapped my lips around him again and slid him deeper than before, to the back of my throat. Wine tasters have a term, "mouthfeel". Every dick has its own, just like every wine. I knew I was going to be a cock connoisseur. Or at least a gourmand.

Chubby never made a sound as he came, except perhaps a breathy hiss. I wasn't really paying attention, I was evaluating the flavor of his cum; again every man has his own unique vintage. Some are tastier than others but none of them are bad.

I happily sat back on my haunches and became aware that I now had an audience. The rest of Mike's crew had come back; I suppose they were wondering what had happened to us. So now I had three new guys looking at me with open mouths.

"Well," I asked, a smug expression on my face, "who's next?"

Precedence was settled quickly, then position, and after a remarkably brief interval I had a fresh prick in my mouth while another labored in my pussy. My legs were locked straight up and my hips cocked back while the guy I was sucking off helped support my upper body. More delight, I was shivering at the flood of sensation, surfing on waves of flesh, riding a storm surge.

I strung the blowjob along but the guy fucking me didn't have a lot of stamina. He shot his wad after only a couple minutes. Of course, I reflected that I really couldn't blame him. I was the sexiest girl in the world, after all. And I knew there was a reservist waiting in the wings.

The next guy started pushing his dick into my asshole. I broke off my blowjob and turned to glower at him. "You carrying some lube, boy?" I demanded harshly. He haltingly admitted he wasn't. "Then go get some or aim lower," I admonished, and returned to the cock before me. There was a brief pause and then I felt his prick sliding into my folds.

I wasn't the least bit reluctant to get cornholed in principle. Indeed, I was idly wishing that I had remembered to pack some lubricant in my purse. But my pleasure was paramount. A little pain was fine; it could even be hot. Raw, sore, potentially bleeding tissues were not.

Fortunately this was only a momentary distraction. He seemed to be enjoying himself in my cunt, and the dick in my mouth tasted as divine as the others had. By the time those two were done, Mike was ready for another round, but our time was rudely cut short by the killjoy bartender breaking up the party. I toyed with the notion of seducing him - I was utterly confident I could do it - but I decided a more comfortable venue wasn't a bad idea anyway.

I stopped conversation on the way out of the bar just as thoroughly as I'd quelled it on the way in. Mike and his crew came with me, of course, and we repaired to a nearby hotel for a few hours of play.

The boys were worn out and asleep as I slipped out of our room at about four in the morning. The desk clerk summoned a taxi and I enjoyed a short wait in the night air. The spring breeze on my skin felt like a caress and I glowed with satisfaction. It had been a very good birthday celebration, I thought.

Again, the taxi driver was male, and therefore my ride home was free - or at least, paid for in trade. About the only difference from the earlier ride was that he was Arabic and cried out "Allahu Akbar!" at the critical moment.

I was a touch sleepy as I made my way up to my room. I undressed again, and admired myself one more time in the mirror. There was semen by my mouth, my pussy, my breasts, but I rather liked it. It seemed only right, like warpaint for a conqueror. I regarded the bed for a moment and then came to a realization. Why should I waste time sleeping? I could make Carl do that stuff. It took no time for me to mix up a dose and drink it.

"...plunged into a kind of wonder at my vicarious depravity...

As I came back to myself, to my original self, I felt an incredible mix of powerful emotions. Awe, terror, exaltation, shame, arousal, and more. I could not believe, couldn't even comprehend what I'd been doing, thinking, feeling.

I had been a completely shameless slut - literally like an animal in heat. I had sucked and fucked seven men, had been the focus of a gangbang in a bar men's room... and I had thoroughly and without reservation enjoyed the entire experience. It was mortifying. Even with my 'hobby', I hadn't imagined such raw desires lurked within me. Yet I was powerfully tempted to take another dose immediately, despite my now-crushing fatigue.

I mastered the impulse and staggered off to the shower. I needed to feel clean again; cumstains were not nearly so charming back in my normal frame of mind. My thoughts remained a confused muddle until I dropped into a deep slumber almost the moment I laid my head on the pillow.

The next two days were quite difficult. I argued with myself constantly, parts of me wanting only to down a fresh dose and head out for a night of debauchery, others fretting about the risks and dangers involved. Not only did Sherry have not the slightest concern for my well-being as Carl, she was quite incapable of moderating her behavior. Guilt was not part of her makeup; trying to explain why she shouldn't do what she wanted, when she wanted, would be like trying to explain color to the blind, or music to the deaf... or Deconstructionism to a cat.

She could not be raped in a conventional sense - virtually no sexual activity was against her will - but she might inspire violence among others competing for her attentions. And what if she caught some disease, or became pregnant? I ran the store in a halfhearted way, returning home each evening to struggle with myself. But my timidity was sufficient to keep me from transforming.

"...in my case, to be tempted, however slightly, was to fall."

Friday night, though... my resolve could not hold. When Sherry re-emerged, she had big plans. I remained as her for the whole weekend - and a very busy, and expensive, weekend it was. The first thing she did was take a taxi ride back to the store, paying in her customary fashion, and open the safe. (Like many small business owners, I kept a moderately substantial supply of cash readily available for an unexpected crisis.) The second thing she did was go clothes shopping.

My own clandestine purchases had familiarized me with the costs of women's fashion. Later, as myself, I was dismayed but not surprised that Sherry was able to spend nearly twenty-five hundred dollars in the space of four hours at the mall. She'd recruited with ease two guys to help her carry her purchases, and they drove her back to our house.

Before anything else she made sure to procure a bottle of olive oil from the kitchen. She had the guys strip and chose the boy with the largest equipment - perhaps not surprisingly the black one - and took loving care anointing his tool and making it quite slippery. Then she bent over the side of the bed and presented herself for mounting. Anal was everything she'd anticipated. Some pain, of course, but that simply added spice to the affair. Feeling him come inside her ass while the white boy manhandled her tits was inspiring. That was only the introduction; a long night ensued as she modeled several of her new outfits for them. She enjoyed every minute of the process, and didn't mind that many of her brand-new clothes were so quickly torn or stained.

After she'd worn the boys out to the point of uselessness, she idly masturbated herself to sleep. Sherry's dreams are surreal and, of course, highly sexual. An endless stream of porn done by Salvador Dali and David Lynch.

Early Saturday, after a brisk morning romp with her companions, she sent the pair on their way. Her first shower brought to her attention the scandalous lack of a massager, something she resolved to correct as soon as feasible. Then she took a taxi to a local adult novelties store and spent over a thousand dollars. The clerk closed up early, loaded everything into his own truck, and gave her a ride to a nearby Lowe's, then home. She gave him several rides once they got to my house, breaking in a few of her new toys, including the shower massage she had him install.

From the clerk she got an introduction that afternoon to the owner of an area strip club, the 'Corinthian Lounge'. Of course Doug 'Dawg' Simmons hired her on the spot. He was upset about the issue of her lacking any official identity, however. Not out of any moral qualms, of course - he didn't even evince much curiosity about her situation - but apparently tax people paid particular attention to businesses like his. Fortunately this was not a permanent obstacle; it would only delay her start date. Dawg evidently had some extralegal acquaintances that could make such arrangements. Sherry convinced him to front the money for the new identity and take it out of her earnings.

By then it was early Saturday evening. She couldn't be an official dancer yet, but an impromptu 'audition' was held on the center stage and she was a smashing success. There was a certain amount of resentment from the other dancers, but she had clearly won the hearts of the patrons. Sherry enjoyed watching the other girls as much as any of the men there, and her earnings were quickly distributed among their g-strings. (She wasn't heterosexual or homosexual or even bisexual; she was pansexual, omnisexual. Freud had claimed that everything was really about sex. For Sherry, that was literally true.)

She left the club with a particularly rowdy bachelor party. The six guys took her back to the best man's house in the suburbs. She'd never been in a Hummer before, and took full advantage of the ample space to partake of one of the groomsmen on the way. She sat in his lap and the vibration and jostling of the ride added some excitement to the festivities. The stares they drew at a few stoplights were utterly priceless.

Once they arrived Sherry decided she wasn't in the mood for a gangbang. They were fun, of course, but she felt like focusing and take her time. She appropriated the master bedroom and instructed them to send in one man at a time. She lay on the bed, idly toying with the tassels on the throw pillows, a pleasant anticipation building in her loins.

She wasn't surprised that the best man came in first. The house showed that there was a Mrs. Best Man, but he had demonstrated earlier that he was no stranger to strip clubs. And he'd seemed put out that he had to drive, so Sherry couldn't do much with him on the way from the club. She had him sized up as a macho, take-control type... or, at least, a wannabe. So she gave him what he was looking for.

As he paused at the door, sizing her up himself, she put on a half-fearful, half-anticipating expression. A little tentatively, she asked, "So... whaddaya got in mind?" Her tone, her delivery was just so; it said that he would be able to make her do whatever he had in mind, and he would be able to make her love it.

He paused uncertainly for just a moment, then strode briskly toward the bed. "What I got in mind is for you to get your ass off that bed!" She jumped to comply, and he began pulling off her clothes. She didn't directly help him but he didn't run into any trouble. Soon she was naked, standing shyly but with erect nipples and a modicum of color in her cheeks. He turned her about, and slapped her ass appreciatively.

He shoved her down onto the bed so she was bent over it, her rear facing him. His hand insolently explored her pussy, fondling lips and clit. She yelped and shivered but made no attempt to pull away. Her juices drenched his fingers. "Oh, yeah, bitch, that's a nice tight box."

Then, peremptorily, he stepped back and waved at himself. "Your turn. Go." Sherry leapt hungrily to the task, and stripped him as well, but much more respectfully. She started with his shirt and worked down, so she was kneeling in front of him in a most convenient position as she pulled down his underwear.

She started to kiss his tool but he jammed his dick to the back of her throat. She coughed theatrically. (Not sincerely, though; Sherry had total control of her gag reflex.) Then she began sucking and licking, moving her mouth up and down his shaft, letting out little moans and hums of appreciation.

"You like that, huh? Yeah, suck it just like that, you little slut!" He was acting out his own little porno movie, complete with bad dialogue, but Sherry was happy to star in it. After all, she did like it, and she was a little slut. She sucked him harder, looking up into his eyes as she savored the taste. Then she pursed her lips and pulled back, kissing just the head as her tongue flickered across it inside. With a smacking sound she released him. One hand glided smoothly up and down his saliva-soaked cock as she ran her tongue along his scrotum, lifting and dropping each ball in turn. It was his turn to let out a choked groan.

Her other hand ran her nails gently up and down one of his legs. She brought her mouth back to his tool and resumed servicing. He grabbed her hair as he grunted approvingly. "Uuuh, yeah, that's it, you bitch, you whore, take it all!" Sherry found his words exciting, arousing, nasty in the best way. He stiffened and pulled her head back by the hair as his other hand grabbed his cock and began stroking. An instant later his cum began spilling onto her face and breasts. She extended her tongue to catch some of the sticky rain.

Sherry was wet and turned on by the whole experience. His shudders subsiding, Best Man seemed a little sheepish now that his little drama was over. He gruffly thanked her and put on his clothes as she went to the bathroom to clean up. He was gone by the time she returned.

Next in was the groom himself, pushed along by the the other members of the bachelor party. His reluctance was not a surprise - he'd seemed embarrassed by the entire bachelor party and Sherry thought he was probably fairly shy. He seemed to mostly be going along with his best man's plans. More, she had the idea that he probably genuinely loved his bride-to-be and didn't want to cheat on her.

That just made things a challenge for Sherry, though. She didn't care about his feelings except insofar as they involved getting her rocks off. The groom seemed to sense this, too. He stepped forward like a man entering a she-bear's cave. "Look, really, no offense, but I'd rather just..."

"Shut up," she snapped. "Get over there by the bed." Best Man wouldn't have recognized her; the submissive toy was gone, replaced by a forceful dominatrix. The groom meekly though apprehensively obeyed as Sherry marched to the closet.

She searched for a moment and came out with several neckties. Groom's eyes widened as she stalked toward him but the look in her eyes kept him frozen. "On your knees!" she barked, and he complied. Roughly she hauled his arms up and deftly tied them to one of the short posts at the foot of the bed. A second tie went around his neck as a leash.

"Now, let's see what I've got to work with." He tried to mumble some words of protest as she began to take off his pants but again her glare quelled any actual rebellion. Her hunch was confirmed as his dick was freed; he was getting hard. "Yeah, I figured you were whipped," she sneered, giving his dick a pinch. He looked away from her but his cock stiffened further in her hand, as if it was eagerly admitting the charge.

She deftly stripped him from the waist down. She stepped in front of him, legs spread. and grabbed his head by the hair. Bending over, she dragged his red-flushed face to her feet, his arms straining and stretched. "Worship me. Now."

He balked for an instant, and she icily hissed "Now!" once more. Groom commenced licking her toes and rubbing his face on her feet. She was almost dripping with the intoxicating power she felt. A few guiding tugs on his 'leash' and he started to gradually work his way up her legs.

Once he reached her thighs, she lost patience and directed him insistently to her crotch. "You should know what to do. Get to work!" He began mediocre cunnilingus, but Sherry would have none of that. "Get in there and lick boy!", she commanded imperiously. At that, he started pleasuring her in earnest. He wasn't particularly skilled but she was direct and insistent about what she wanted and soon enough he was doing a creditable job. Without for a moment diverting attention from the experience at hand, she amusedly reflected that she was probably doing his bride a favor.

It went on like that for some time, Sherry being in no hurry. Eventually she came, quietly but very intensely, only a sharply-drawn breath indicating the violence within. He might have heard her, or sensed the tremors - he began to slack off. But a firm hand yanking his head forward restored his vigor. Once the climax had fully passed, she released her grip and let him pull back.

His dick was rock-hard, waving gently in the air as he caught his breath. She bent over and stroked it with just her fingertips. He froze and the tip swelled... Slap. "Not yet, you pansy. I'm not finished with you."

She loosed him from the bedpost and used his leash to drag him onto the bed. First one hand, then the other, was lashed to the headboard. His apprehension grew visibly when she constrained his legs, too, in a spread-eagle arrangement. He tried to sputter an actual protest as yet another necktie was formed into a gag, but by then it was too late.

His struggles to free himself only increased his anxiety as Sherry ambled unconcernedly to her purse, since her knots held fast. But actual terror filled his eyes when he saw what she pulled out of it. She began strapping a dildo onto her crotch, finding his muffled shrieks terribly cute. It was rubbery and flexible, with a longish base that would offer her pussy excellent stimulation during its use. She'd been wanting to try it out all day.

"You don't have a choice about this, boy. But if you quiet down, I promise to use this," she teased, waving a tube of lubricant in her hand.

Once that sank in, he lapsed into silence, save for the racing breath through his flaring nostrils. As she approached she noted that drops of sweat had broken out on his forehead. His tool had deflated markedly, but not completely, she was pleased to see. She sat down on the bed next to him and, with a superior expression on her face, began masturbating him. In no time he was stiff again; his eyes kept being drawn to the phallus wobbling slightly in front of her hips.

"Yeah, that's right, you've probably even fantasized about this, right? Being humiliated, being totally owned?" The throbbing of his prick showed her words struck home. "Does she know? Is she into that?" His downcast eyes gave her the answer. "Didn't think so." If anything, his embarrassment seemed to excite him more. "Oooh, you're getting wet..." Drops of fluid had started emerging from his meatus.

She stood and, as he stared, she drizzled lube onto the shaft at her crotch. She made a show of spreading it around, then climbed onto the bed between his legs. Groom was breathing very fast now, and his muscles strained against his bonds fruitlessly. Her hand guided the tip of her instrument to his anus. She left it there for a few seconds, milking the tension. Then she gradually pushed forward and slid it inside. A muffled moan escaped from Groom as she did so.

"You even sound almost like a girl," she sneered. "I do that, too, when a real man takes me in the ass." She started to move, slowly, back and forth. "Better relax down there, or this'll hurt."

Somehow it didn't seem to be hurting him - or at least, the pain was being outweighed by something else. His cock waved ineffectually in the air as she thrusted; she was careful not to give it any direct stimulation. But one hand snaked forward under his shirt to pinch his nipples. He didn't seem to experience that as pain, either. By now, she knew, his balls would be aching with pressure. He'd been feverishly on edge for almost half an hour now without any relief.

For Sherry's part, she was thoroughly enjoying the exquisite rubbing on her clit as she worked him mercilessly, and revelling in the domination. Her own orgasm arrived, and she tweaked his cock as she began ramming into his ass as hard as she could. His own climax was practically a seizure, shaking the bed. She was impressed with how far his cum sprayed up onto his torso, staining his shirt.

When all was done, she unstrapped the tool and left it inside him. Then she untied one of his hands, and ordered, "Clean that up. And yourself. And send in the next one." She rolled off the bed as he began to untie himself, inspecting the dressers and cabinets for anything useful. His face burned with obvious shame as he went to the bathroom holding the dildo. In a few minutes he was dressed, and he left without a word.

The next groomsman was tall and skinny and not nearly as fetishistic, which suited Sherry just fine. She got things going with a minimum of preliminaries; her pussy needed some serious plumbing. They fucked happily on the bed, with her on her back this time. He rode her high and hard, and kissed her deeply as he pounded into her cunt. She screamed as she came three times before he finally exploded himself.

Once he'd left, another groomsman came in. He was older and on the short and thick side. There was a vague resemblance to Carl, which turned her on in an odd way. She took charge again, though less forcefully, and had him sit on the bed while she performed extended fellatio. He reacted much as Carl would have - with disbelief, wonder, and in the end almost pathetic gratitude.

The revelry continued through the night in that fashion, the men taking their turns with her - except the groom, who devoted himself to drinking with a vengeance and eventually passed out. At least, that's what Sherry heard; she never ventured out of the bedroom. It was quite late before the exhausted group finally gave up and slept.

"...within I was conscious of a heady recklessness... a solution of the bonds of obligation..."

Sherry was awakened by a frantic hand jostling her shoulders. "Oh, shit, wake up, wake up!" She smacked the hand away and sat up, rubbing her eyes.

"What the fuck is your problem?" she snapped, recognizing Best Man.

"You've got to get out of here. I didn't set the alarm, my wife'll be home any minute. She can't fucking find you here!" Best Man looked worried.

Sherry thought for a moment, then slid out of bed. "Okay, fine. I'll just get a shower and go."

"No, you stupid cunt, it's almost nine! She'll be here any minute! I've got to clean this place up!" He grabbed her arm and tried to drag her toward the heap of her clothes in the corner.

Sherry refused to be budged. Best Man glared in her eyes for an instant but then froze as he met what Groom had encountered the night before. His hand fell away from her limply.

"I'm covered in cum. I don't mind that, but when it dries it itches. You clean up, whatever, I don't care. But I'm gonna take a shower." Best Man stared desperately after her as she strode unhurriedly to the bathroom.

She peed, and then took her time in the shower. It was not out of any malicious impulse, she was simply indifferent to anyone's desires unless they matched her own. Cleaning out her vagina was both necessary and fun, and Mrs. Best Man apparently enjoyed shower massagers, too.

When she turned off the water she heard someone outside the stall. She opened the glass door to reach for a towel and beheld Tall Groomsman vomiting into the toilet. She stepped past him and dried herself off. He finished and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at her miserably.

She was wrapping her hair up in a towel as she remarked, "There's another bathroom, you know."

"Occupado. Jerry's in there. I told him to take it easy on the tequila." She vaguely remembered that had been Groom's name. Tall was hovering over the toilet, as if waiting for more.

"Guess you should have, too." She located what looked like Mrs. Best Man's toothbrush and went to work.

Apparently satisfied he was done for now, he sat back on his haunches and grabbed some toilet paper. "Hell, I've drank more'n that before. Don't even have much of a headache. I hope I didn't catch what my kid had..."

Sherry left him in the bathroom and walked out into the bedroom, where Best Man had tossed the dirty bedclothes in a corner and was frantically making the bed with new sheets. He shot her a murderous look as she began putting back on what little clothes she had been wearing. Skimpy panties, a short dress, and some shoes comprised the entire ensemble, so she was dressed, though hardly decent, in seconds.

Best Man had just started pulling the comforter onto the bed when a low hum thrummed from somewhere else - the garage door opening. "Fuck fuck fuck!" he cried. "Look, get out the back, I got Don, he'll give you a ride." He started bustling her down the hall.

Now that Sherry was clean, she didn't mind leaving, even in a rush. A confrontation would be tedious and possibly even annoying. Their haste was in vain, however, as two women came into the kitchen from the garage as they tried to pass by. One of them called out, "Tell Jerry to hide! We're just gonna..." Sherry's presence finally registered, and she trailed off.

There was a tense pause, and stormclouds gathered on both women's faces. "Who is she?" the other one demanded frostily.

"Uh, honey, this is..." Best Man fumbled for words.

"I'm Sherry." She smiled. "I was just leaving." It didn't mollify them. She had seen hints of this before. Women tended to get defensive of their men in her presence. Though, certainly, the present circumstances didn't help.

"What the fuck is she doing here?" Mrs. Best Man shouted. "What is she, a stripper? A hooker? You said it was just going to be 'the boys', not..."

"I'm not a stripper yet." Sherry interrupted. She realized she could lie at this point, and possibly smooth things over. But she was getting bored and she just did not care what happened after she left. "Like I said I'm leaving now anyway." She turned to Best Man. "Where's Don?"

"You're goddamn right you're leaving, bitch," spat out Mrs. Best Man. She couldn't seem to decide who she wanted to glare at more, Sherry or Best Man.

"Where's Jerry?" asked the other woman, apparently the bride, in a tone that foretold doom. "If he fucked you, I'll kill him. And you," she pointed at Sherry.

Now she was not bored but actually irritated. "Shut up. He didn't fuck me," she said as she rummaged in her purse. "You might want to ask Jerry where this's been, though." Then she tossed something underhand at the bride, who caught it reflexively. Then she dropped it in shock as she recognized the strap-on. She looked back up at Sherry with confusion and mounting horror.

"Go ahead, keep it," Sherry smirked. "Might come in handy with him." As she'd expected, that was a conversation-stopper, and she was allowed to depart unhindered.

Don turned out to be the Carlish guy. She had him drop her off at a nearby mall. She breakfasted in the food court, and got in some shopping time. At noon the court was much more crowded. Her food was purchased by a store manager on his lunch break, who ended up taking the rest of the day off and driving her to a nearby hotel.

Regrettably, though, his reach exceeded his grasp, so to speak. Inside of an hour he was too tired to continue. Sherry donned a swimsuit she had bought at the mall (that was right on the borderline of legal) and went down to the pool to 'advertise'. It was the work of minutes to pick up some travelling businessmen and she moved between three rooms as the afternoon proceeded.

By Sunday evening, though, Sherry was feeling more than a bit queasy. She concluded that the vomiting groomsman had not had a hangover after all. Given the volumes of bodily fluids she'd exchanged, infection was practically inevitable. In her usual selfish manner, she did the only logical thing - she returned home and changed back to me, intending to leave me to suffer through the symptoms. But as the wracking pains of the change subsided, I realized that I felt fine. I was tired, but I wasn't nauseous.

Later experience has borne out what I theorized then - a side effect of the transformation somehow eliminates diseases. I'm uncertain as to the mechanism. Perhaps some aspect of the change kills germs. Or perhaps being sick isn't part of my 'self-image'? However it works, that little byproduct wiped away my last major worry about Sherry's lifestyle, the last hurdle that might have kept me from my current predicament.

"...the situation was apart from ordinary laws, and insidiously relaxed the grasp of conscience..."

Monday the store was closed as I cleaned the house, laundered the sheets, and attempted to organize the rooms for their new second tenant. I was hooked, being Sherry was intense and exhilarating and irresistible. I knew that I would be Carl only part of the time from now on.

Monday night saw Sherry in a photographer's studio doing some promotional shots. Dawg had called and sent her there - he was spending a goodly amount on advance publicity for the debut of 'Sherry Sweet'. He knew a sure thing when he saw it.

The shutterbug was a guy in his forties who was apparently a friend of Dawg. He was black, and a veteran of some kind; she didn't really care about the details. His girlfriend was there, watching the shoot; she was also a dancer at the club. Sherry enjoyed the process, posing among a pile of pillows and cushions in various outfits and assorted states of undress. Imagining guys stroking off to her image was incredibly hot. Eventually, she was naked and masturbating openly, taking pictures that could be used for the club's "members only" website.

The girlfriend had been watching with awe. Sherry was distinctly aware of her gaze... and equally aware that she herself hadn't fucked a woman yet. "Hey, Jesse? Wanna get a few shots of me and Mercedes?"

"Hell, yeah," Jesse breathed. Mercedes didn't need much convincing to join her in front of the backdrop. At Jesse's insistence Sherry put on a thong and a frilly negligee. They started by looking into each others eyes, and then moving close. "Yeah, just like that," Jesse called, "you're in love and you can't hold back anymore."

Sherry ignored him and kissed Mercedes gently on the lips, one hand on her shoulder. She was a thin black girl, but full-chested with a wonderful caboose. Her hair was straightened and lightened to a tawny brown. She wore a pink cutoff t-shirt, jeans, and sandals. Sherry thought she looked delectable. Mercedes was breathing faster, now, as she leaned in for a hug and a longer, slower, juicier kiss. Sherry reached forward and pulled the other girl's shirt up over her head. The camera clicked wildly.

She leaned forward and nuzzled the offered breasts. They were implants, of course - few skinny girls could have such a bosom naturally - but they felt wonderful, and the stiff nipples tickled her face and lips and, as Jesse took shot after shot, tongue as well. Mercedes was trembling, unsteady on her feet, her eyes squeezed shut.

Sherry stepped back and bent forward, undoing the other girl's jeans. The dusky girl remained still, eyes closed, but she spread her legs slightly to help as the brown-haired beauty eased the pants down. Mercedes was wearing a red thong that flashed invitingly as she stepped, one leg at a time, out of the pants.

Sherry stood up, and Mercedes opened her eyes. She reached forward and lifted the negligee off as Sherry raised her arms, presenting her own bosom for best display. The girls moved close, kissing and embracing. Sherry found Mercedes' soft smooth skin to be eminently touchable, and her full lips felt too wonderful on her own.

Jesse had fallen silent. It was clear that no direction was needed. Mercedes was fondling Sherry's breasts now, and the girls sank down gently to lay upon the scattered cushions and pillows. Sherry eased her hand down between Mercedes' legs and deftly slipped past the strip of fabric. The dancer was quite wet, and she squirmed, moaning through the kisses as Sherry explored her pussy. Sherry commenced gently humping Mercedes' leg through her thong, voicing deep moans as well.

The moans peaked - just shy of screams - as the girls both experienced passionate orgasms. But there was no slowdown as Sherry helped Mercedes remove her thong. She lay on her back, propped up on an overstuffed pillow as Mercedes' head dipped between her legs and began to lap at her sopping cunt. The sensations were enchanting; a girl really did know what a girl liked. Sherry admired what she could see of the dark-skinned body for a few moments, before the exuberant slippery probing at her lips and clit demanded her full attention. She yelped joyfully and rode the surge of excitement to a quick series of climaxes.

The stripper came up with a pleased expression on her face, that Sherry quickly showered with kisses. The smell and taste of herself on the other woman was piquant and provocative. She had to taste the other girl's musk at once. She laid Mercedes onto her back and, with easy, acrobatic grace, flipped herself about to enable them to 69. She buried her face in the girl's shaved and succulent pussy. There was a hint of stubble - not something she'd encountered before - but it made a nice contrast to the smooth slippery convolutions of her labia and channel. She loved the contrast between the dark skin of the labia and the pink sweetness within them.

Matters continued like that for some time, each girl exploring the other intimately. No words were needed as they coaxed repeated ecstasy from their conjoined flesh. The first actual sentence in over an hour was Jesse, hoarse with lust, saying, "That's it. I don't have any more film, or cards." Sherry had forgotten he was even there. Mercedes had consumed her total attention.

And the pair had obviously consumed Jesse's attention. His pleading expression made Sherry giggle and it took her a few moments to compose herself and invite him in with a wave. Scarcely another moment passed before he had dived onto the haphazard softness they were playing upon. Mercedes got to work on stripping his lower half while Sherry took charge of the upper half; she was slower because it was more difficult to pull off his shirt while kissing him.

The contrast was striking and enticing. Jesse was urgent, forceful. Mercedes was passionate, too, but the dynamics were different. Not exactly less selfish, but less... using. More aware of what Sherry wanted. Of course, what Sherry wanted from a man was generally that very male aggression, so in practice she got what she craved. That was the case now, as in short order she settled onto his dick with a sigh while Mercedes sat on his face. Her hips moved in sinuous flow while she kissed and stroked the other girl.

Jesse didn't last more than a handful of minutes. His cock pulsing inside her triggered yet another profound detonation. They remained pleasantly conjoined for a while in the afterglow, and presently Mercedes squeaked through her own crescendo.

The girls returned to a sixty-nine while Jesse worked to rebuild his strength, but this time they were side-by-side. Assertive licking and knowing, gentle teeth soon dragged another climax from her partner, but knowing that Mercedes was licking cum out of her drove Sherry wild. She knew she had to taste that herself. So she took the part of 'fluff girl' and went to suck off Jesse. Under her administration, Jesse erected his tower in record time. Then Sherry sat back on some pillows, Mercedes on hands and knees before her, eating her out. Jesse mounted his girlfriend from behind, staring avidly as Sherry tweaked her own nipples and eyed him languidly.

When he ejaculated with a yell a few minutes later, Sherry pounced. She switched positions with the other girl and began lapping at her twat with glee. Spunk and pussy juice made a delicious cocktail indeed.

"...a body that seemed not strong enough to contain the raging energies of life."

Again I managed to go two days as myself, but on Thursday, Sherry had a message from Dawg on my answering machine. That night she went to the lounge to pick up her new bona fides. He presented her with the driver's license, birth certificate, and Social Security card for one 'Charlene Ann Dolchay', age 21. She wasn't at all troubled by the misspelling.

She left and went clubbing with her new ID. While certainly not an experienced dancer, she had an instinctive talent for moving her body and a gift for mimicry. Naturally she became a center of attention. When the club closed at 1 am (Boston's liquor laws are rather old-fashioned) she was invited to a rave and gleefully jumped at the chance.

The rave was wonderful, with exposed, gyrating, sweaty flesh everywhere she looked. She became the nucleus of a 'cuddle puddle' and happily turned it to her own ends, seducing and ravishing several partygoers over the course of the night. When it finally wrapped up, she accompanied two aspiring studs to their dorm room and proceeded to fuck them silly until almost morning. Then she annexed one of the beds and slept until noon.

When she awoke, the boys took her down to the cafeteria. Sherry didn't care about my store in any way, and never even considered relinquishing control of our shared form for the day. A coed dorm was practically a candy store for her; she was far more impressed with the selection of students at the tables than the food that was available.

Over the course of several hours she visited at least ten different rooms, and had sex with over a dozen young men and one adventuresome young woman. (Sherry almost fainted with pleasure when the girl fit her dainty hand entirely inside Sherry's passage.) It was late Friday afternoon before she finally organized a ride back to our house. After 'tipping the chauffeur' in her usual way, she had him wait downstairs while she cleaned herself up and selected an outfit for her debut at the club.

"I began to profit by the strange immunities of my position."

Sherry was backstage getting ready for her first official dance. There wasn't a trace of fear within her, of course, but she was tense with excitement nonetheless, like a thoroughbred itching to race. A few other girls were milling around the cramped space. Almost all of them were fearful to some extent. Sherry was unquestionably serious competition and directly threatened the established pecking order. Adding to their resentment was her sheer unassailable indifference to their subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) snubs and jibes.

The one friendly face there was Mercedes. No doubt part of that was from the excellent fucking Sherry had given her. However, Mercedes also had been low in the previous hierarchy and saw a chance to move up by allying herself with the newcomer.

"You look awesome!" she gushed as Sherry finished applying the last of her makeup. Her garb was not elaborate. High heels and fishnet stockings, of course. There was a skimpy thong, barely concealed for the moment under a skimpy skirt. A lacy bra half-visible under a translucent blouse. Sunglasses and fingerless gloves, just to have something else to take off. She intended the focus to be on her body, not props.

"Thanks," she replied idly. A last review of her appearance in the mirror, and then she turned and strode to the small alcove that led to the stage. From there she was able to discreetly signal that she was ready. For a few moments she examined the audience, peeking through the curtain.

It was a fair-sized crowd. Dawg's advertising had been effective, even on short notice. The current girl, her act complete, was gathering up her money and discarded clothes. She brushed past Sherry without a word. Unfazed, she kept gazing at the patrons, anticipating the thrill of baring her incomparable flesh as they watched longingly...

The house lights dimmed. Loud music began to play, with a sensuous beat and lots of low, pumping bass. (She had asked the DJ for suggestions earlier, choosing the one with the rawest, most sexist lyrics.) Spotlights began waving back and forth. "Gentlemen, the Corinthian Lounge is proud to introduce to you... for the first time on any stage... Sherry Sweet!"

She strutted out onto the platform with a brash, saucy excitement that proved swiftly infectious. Hoots, whistles, and catcalls arose immediately and were unceasing throughout her performance. She had not planned out any routine, trusting to her instincts. They did not fail her.

She commenced a slow walk about the edge of the stage, eyeing the audience with a sultry gaze. Her gait alone was quite enticing, and then she whirled and fell into a split, displaying her uncanny, limber flexibility. A hearty cheer sounded from the crowd, which continued as she rolled onto her stomach and thrust her ass into the air. In that position her skirt provided no cover of any import.

Sadly, few strippers find much enjoyment in the actual process of their work; their motivation is much more tied up in the rewards for their labor. And not many of those who take up the profession possess the requisite acting skill to effectively conceal this. There are men who prefer this state of affairs; having the power to force a woman to abase herself is what they're after.

But very few men, even the misogynists, are immune to the charms of a well-shaped and willing woman who is clearly enjoying the attention of men. The roar of the crowd grew to almost drown out the music. She rose and began to unbutton her shirt coquettishly; when she whipped it off and hurled it into the audience, a brief scuffle broke out over who would keep it.

Imagining the forest of stiff cocks that surrounded her drove her half mad with lust. She spun around the pole, hair flaring out behind her, gyrating with liquid dexterity.

The first song of her set was drawing to a close when she belatedly realized that she hadn't actually collected any money. That was far from her top priority, but the way strip clubs worked, she had to pay a rate for her time on stage, while she kept the excess. As the second song began, she shifted her rhythm and began milking the wolfpack surrounding her. There was no need to choose, bills were being urgently waved at her from every direction.

By the middle of the second song she was nude, but she could have sewn several dresses out of the cash littering the stage. When she almost slipped on some, she moved to the pole and entertained herself (and everyone nearby) with it until her set was finished. She didn't realize at the time just how unusual it was for a stripper to receive a standing ovation.

While she collected and stowed her cash, she was hounded by a surfeit of requests for personal dances in the VIP room. With plenty to choose from, she picked one of the sexiest guys and led him away. He actually came in his pants without her having to touch him. She did two more sets that night, and at least a dozen private dances, with similar results. At the end of the night she went home with a high-roller and probably spoiled him for other women.

Over the next few days she had an absolute blast. She proved to be a versatile and enthusiastic ecdysiast. Saturday night she was a not-that-innocent schoolgirl in pigtails. Sunday night she wore a leather dominatrix ensemble. Monday she was a MILF. Tuesday a haughty-but-naughty fashion model graced the stage. The combination of her superlative physical charms and her obvious, sincere zeal for arousing her audience made her practically irresistible.

Staying within the bounds of the law was difficult for her, of course. The legalistic distinctions between stripping and prostitution did not hold her interest. so she violated the strictures on a semi-regular basis - much to the joy of her clientele. Fortunately, an undercover vice cop sent to investigate her was swiftly compromised by her irresistible allure. Once Sherry had her way with him, he could not report her without implicating himself; and by then he had no inclination to abort her career anyway.

"That part of me which I had the power of projecting, had lately been much exercised and nourished..."

It was a hot, wet summer for Sherry. Four nights a week, Thursday through Sunday, she performed at the club, almost always going home with someone for the night of their lives. Sometimes she teamed up for a show with one of the other girls, usually Mercedes.

A handful of the dancers still displayed infrequent, residual cattiness, but her dominance was unquestioned. It went without saying that she had Dawg's full support, but in truth, the rising tide of Sherry's popularity was lifting all their boats. She brought in big crowds, and everyone's take was better than ever before.

She even did her part to support the troops. At one point a squad of National Guardsmen came to the club the night before they were shipping out. She left early with the soldiers and gave them a going-away party the USO would never have authorized. It had nothing to do with patriotism, of course; eight horny, macho, and well-conditioned young men were frankly irresistible.

And then one Wednesday morning I was sitting in my desk at the store, idly reminiscing about the two Puerto Rican brothers who had tied Sherry up and used her mercilessly the night before, when the phone rang. I recognized the number; it was Sal. I suffered a pang of guilt at that point, because I hadn't even thought of him once since I'd successfully mixed up the concoction. I answered the phone with genuine warmth.

"Hey, Sal, how have you been? Sorry I haven't called, things have been pretty busy lately."

"I'm fine, thanks. How are you doing? You've cut back the store's hours, I heard..."

"Well, yes, but I'm still doing all right."

"So, what are you up to instead of working?" I could hear the skepticism mixed with concern in his voice.

"Oh, no need to worry about me. I'm not abusing... anything. The truth is, uh, well, I've got a girlfriend now."

"Really? Well, we definitely have some catching up to do then. How about tonight? Fleming's again? Bring her along if you like."

"Well... actually, she, uh, works nights. But I can come." Part of my willingness was just a desire to see my friend. But also I wanted to allay his suspicions. If he started poking around... he'd be about the only person in the world who could possibly suspect the truth.

So that evening I arrived just slightly late at our favorite restaurant. The hostess knew me as a regular and escorted me to the quieter back room. Sal was already there, and waved as I was led through the door.

I said before that I wasn't gay, that I didn't eye men on the street or anything like that. But when I caught sight of Sal, of a familiar face from my old days, I was suddenly aware that part of me was checking him out. I realized that I had been lecherously evaluating men as well as women lately, asking myself what Sherry would do with them.

And I realized that Sherry liked Sal very much. She wanted see how this distinguished-looking older gentleman appeared without those tasteful clothes. How well-hung was he? He'd been around. He'd know what to do with his cock, and... I cut that line of thought short with an effort.

I forced a smile and walked to the table, ignoring the odd sensations I felt as we shook hands, then I sat down across from him. For a moment, we were both silent.

"Well, I feel better already," Sal finally said. "I suppose you knew what I was worried about. But you look all right."

"Thanks, I guess." I said ruefully. "I feel fine. I'm actually enjoying life a lot more these days."

"Let's hear about this girl of yours. Sherry, you said? How did you meet?"

"She's, er, quite a handful. I... uh, I've known her for a while, but we've been spending more time together lately." Before I could continue, our waiter appeared.

I might have made it through the meal and got away, were it not for a spot of bad luck - he was new, but I recognized him. Sherry had gone home with him a couple of weeks ago. Unbidden, memories of riding his dick reverse-cowgirl style flooded my mind. He'd been a good lay, reaching around and tweaking my nipples as I'd bounced up and down, squeezing his pole with my pussy walls.. No, Sherry had....

Something of my distress must have shown on my face. The waiter (I suddenly remembered his name was Patrick) said, "Is something wrong, sir?"

I reestablished control of my thoughts and replied, "No, I'm sorry, it's just that you look remarkably like someone I knew long ago in college. It's almost uncanny." I smiled. "Your name isn't Ron, is it?"

"No," he smiled back. "It's Patrick. I'll be your server tonight. Would you like to start off with an appetizer?" I worked strenuously and mostly effectively to forget his active tongue in my mouth.

After he left with our orders, Sal pressed me again. "You were telling me about Sherry? You never mentioned her before."

"Well, we didn't have that kind of relationship. She's pretty amazing, though. Beautiful, smart, knows what she wants."

"I hear the store hasn't been open much lately."

"It's just, she takes up a lot of my time." I shifted uncomfortably.

"High-maintenance, as they say?"

"Definitely."

"If you're cutting back hours, can you afford a woman like that?" He looked me straight in the eyes. "Are you selling something new?"

"It's not like that, really. I wouldn't do that. I'm a dealer, but an antiques dealer." I sipped my water. "Sherry helps. Together we make enough to get by."

"You're living together?" His gaze was piercing, probing. I avoided his eyes... partly because on one level - Sherry's level - I wanted to stare into them.

"Yes." I was trying not to volunteer information, but that seemed to make him more suspicious.

Patrick returned with our wine. As he left I felt my eyes drawn to the young man's rear, but I suppressed the impulse and focused on the conversation. Sal shifted topics, and brought up what I'd been dreading. "Did you ever end up trying the stuff?"

I paused, choosing my words carefully. "Yes. It actually helped me get to know Sherry a lot better. But it's not really my main focus these days."

"Hmmm. Maybe I should mix some up."

I couldn't tell if he was serious or not. "I wouldn't advise it. If you didn't know what you were doing, the results could be..." I searched for a word. "...unpredictable. My situation is, well, kind of special."

"In what way, exactly? What does that stuff do, anyway?"

"It... um... breaks down inhibitions, I guess you could say." I considered a moment how to phrase things safely. "It... brings out repressed parts of the personality."

"I see. That could be dangerous." He took a sip of wine. "Why isn't it dangerous for you? What if you hurt someone, or yourself?"

"My repressions... well, they weren't of a violent nature."

"Might I inquire as to what nature they actually were?" Sal asked with exaggerated politeness.

"Uh... well, Sherry's in my life now." I took a sip of wine.

"Ah. I see." Sal seemed thoughtful. I didn't think he was any less suspicious, though.

"But enough about me. What have you been up to? Still seeing whatshername, Donna?" After I asked I realized I was more interested in his love life than I should have been.

"Not anymore. We just didn't click, I suppose." The conversation moved to safer topics for a time, though I had the strong impression Sal was still evaluating my reactions. But his intense regard wasn't just making me nervous, it was making me horny as well. A substantial fraction of my personality wanted him to pay attention to me.

As I said, I might have made it if not for the waiter. But the combination of thoughts of him, and my unwanted but undeniable new attraction to Sal, upset my equilibrium by too great a degree.

When Patrick returned with our meals, I was struck by his poise and strength carrying the heavily-loaded tray. This time I could not keep myself from examining his ass as he served Sal. Flustered, I sat quietly after he left, pretending to be absorbed by my meal, making occasional encouraging sounds as Sal continued his report on his dating situation. But now, I could not help but notice his deft hands as they handled the silverware, and his mouth and lips as he ate. It was too much.

"Excuse me," I broke in and stood up. "I have to go to the men's room. I'll be right back." Sal looked after me with a concerned expression as I hurried away.

I rushed to a stall in the bathroom, pulled down my pants, and sat on a toilet. I immediately began to masturbate, hoping to relieve the tension and be able to finish the dinner. Stroking my shaft, I fantasized about Patrick, how it had felt riding him. But I couldn't help myself. In moments I was fantasizing about Sal; then I felt a shudder and the pangs of change swept over me.

My last thought as Carl was the realization that I hadn't had an orgasm as myself in months... and then Sherry was rubbing and grunting through an intense climax. The ecstatic spasms ebbed and she sat for a moment in the stall, catching her breath. This was a bit of a problem. It wasn't too much of a surprise, though - involuntary changes had happened to Tawesson as well.

She was attired in a man's suit far too big for her slim frame. We always changed at home; there were no spare clothes in the car and the formula was at the house, miles away. If Sal saw her dressed like this, he'd know something very strange was going on, and that would not do, not at all. There were things that needed to be done before he suspected the truth.

Deciding to take a cue from Cuilidh, she dug out Carl's wallet. She could imitate his handwriting perfectly, so she penned a quick note on the back of one of his business cards. "Sal - not feeling myself, had to go home. Meet me there, all will be revealed. Carl."

She heard someone coming in, and stepped out into the men's room. A very startled old man gaped at her, jaw sagging. With total insouciance, Sherry said, "I need you to do me a favor. There's a really cute guy in the back room, mid-40s, touch of gray at the temples. On the left. Give this to him, okay? And tell him a man gave it to you; it's very important he doesn't know it came from me. Can you do that, sweetie?"

He nodded mutely. She smiled and gave him a quick smooch. "Okay, hop to it! Let me know when he leaves!" She turned and went back to wait in her stall; best to avoid a disturbance. Her impromptu lackey, completely bemused, went back out the door.

It wasn't a very long wait, but Sherry was not given to patience. She gave some consideration to the nature of her attire. She hadn't thought of dressing in men's clothes before. Her next set at the lounge would definitely be in drag. Moreover, she could likely pick up some nice femme lesbians like that. Of course, the butch ones had their advantages, too. And those in between...

Perhaps fortunately, the old man came back in at that point, before she could work herself up further. "Excuse me, uh, miss? That, uh, gentleman just left." She emerged from the stall and brushed past her befuddled bravo. She blew a kiss behind her as she walked out the door.

She was used to the lull in conversation when she appeared in a crowd, but never before had she engendered complete silence the way she did now, on her way out of the restaurant. Sherry, heedless, rushed out onto the street and off to the car. There were plenty of gawkers on the trip to the parking garage, but no one got in her way. Carl's cell rang as she was starting the car. When she checked the number, it was Sal. She let it go to voicemail.

It wouldn't have worked in most cities. But Boston - at least the city center - was never designed for car traffic. (Indeed, it was never designed at all.) Sal came from a different direction than us, and we knew where he habitually parked. It was on the wrong side of the restaurant - that is, for reaching our side of town. With the maze of twisty, one-way streets and perennial construction, he would take at least fifteen minutes longer to reach our house than she would - despite our cars being parked less than a quarter mile apart.

"...I had voluntarily stripped myself of all those balancing instincts by which even the worst of us continues to walk with some degree of steadiness among temptations..."

So it was that Sherry arrived home comfortably ahead of Sal, and had exchanged the ridiculous trappings for a garment that was more suitable. One that invited an entirely different kind of attention. She waited on a couch in the front room until the doorbell rang.

Opening the door, she was pleased to note Sal's double-take: the nearly universal human reaction to encountering Sherry's raw, animal aura. While he worked to recover his composure, she stole the initiative. "You must be Sal," she purred. "Carl told me to expect you." She stepped back and waved him in.

He entered rather dubiously. The dress she wore had a plunging - indeed, dive-bombing - neckline, and slits ran up both sides of the short skirt. "So, I take it you're Sherry?" Sal was trying to keep his eyes from roaming over her body, with strictly limited success.

"The one and only." She smiled in a satisfied way. There would be no trouble getting what she wanted, she was quite sure of that now. "Can I get you something to drink?" She led him to the living room.

"Not just yet." He looked around; the ground floor of the house hadn't changed noticeably since Sherry had 'moved in'. "Where's Carl?"

She sat down on the couch, leaving plenty of room for him to join her. "He's resting upstairs. He tends to be worn out when I'm through with him." She smirked. "Didn't he tell you about me?"

"I... think I'm beginning to understand." He stood uncomfortably, clearly having trouble focusing on the business he'd come for. "I thought you worked nights?"

"I got off early tonight." Another smile. "Are you disappointed?"

"Uh, no, not at all. But I'd really like to check on Carl."

"Oh, you just had dinner, give him a break. I'd like a chance with you. I've heard so much about you." She patted the cushion next to her. "Come, sit."

He did, carefully, a few inches further away than he really needed to. "What do you do for a living?" he asked.

"I'm a dancer at the Corinthian Lounge."

"Ah. Really." He absorbed that for a moment. "How did you and Carl meet?"

"We've been... intimate for years now." She stretched a little, drawing his attention to the benefits of intimacy.

"I never would have suspected that." He sounded doubtful.

"I think he was worried that associating with me would sully his reputation." She tossed her head and swept her hair back, grinning mischievously. "He was quite discreet."

"Apparently so." He looked away. "What changed? Why tell me about you now?"

"I'm a much more important part of his life these days."

"So I gather." He cleared his throat. "I have to admit, you don't seem quite the type I'd have pictured for him."

"He's been fantasizing about me for a long time."

"I can well imagine." She could see him struggle with his duty. "Forgive me for the way this question sounds, but... I wouldn't picture Carl as being your type. What do you get out of the relationship?"

"He... takes care of me."

"Why can't I get a straight answer out of either one of you?"

"I'm sure it sounds strange, but it's simply that our relationship is... complicated." Now she leaned forward and shifted closer. "But it's a very open one."

"That doesn't sound much like Carl." Sal seemed to be having trouble figuring out what to do with his hands, fidgeting and backing up slightly.

"I know what you mean, but you'd be surprised how much he's changed."

That seemed to shore up his determination a little. "I might be responsible for that. If I'd known about all this, I wouldn't have..." He moved to stand up. "I really think I should see him."

Sherry put her hands on his shoulders, holding him down. It didn't take all that much effort. "You're a good friend, Sal," she stated, hiding her exasperation. "Now, will you be my friend? Will you help me move a body?" A sinuous ripple of her form as she slid close left no doubt whose body she referred to. "After, you can see Carl if you want. I promise."

Still he hesitated. "Believe me, you'd be doing him a favor, too," she pleaded earnestly. "Carl wants this."

She saw the war inside him. He was Carl's friend... but he was also a man, and she was Sherry. She leaned forward the last few inches, pressing her chest to his and kissing his lips sensuously. His eyes told her the battle was won.

He didn't say anything. Instead, he put his arms around her and kissed her in return, drawing her close. Some of her enjoyment came from the perverse, wicked pleasure of fucking an old friend, someone who'd known Carl. But she'd been right, too. Sal did know how to treat a woman. He used his hands and tongue skillfully, and most importantly he didn't rush things.

While their tongues wrestled his fingertips roamed across her back, her sides, her hair, her cheeks. One sought lower, and ran along her thigh, following the split in her skirt. Then it slid back up and cupped her rear. He pulled her close, turning her onto his lap.

Gently he brought his hands up to her shoulders, and even as their lips remained locked, he eased the dress down over her shoulders, liberating her only nominally-constrained breasts. Sal sat back and paused, dazed at the splendor before him. Sherry was literally too good to be true. Her smug wink spurred him to further action. He brought his lips to the side of her neck, trailing feather-soft kisses down to her chest. Her breath caught in her throat. He took a nipple gently between his teeth and tickled it with his tongue, prompting a shiver and a gasp.

Meanwhile, his hands kept wandering about her body; the one stroking her back as the other moved from her rump around under her skirt, to her crotch. There it found no cloth, only the lubricious signs of a very ready female. He teased her for a few minutes, splitting his kisses between her breasts and her lips, while he played his fingers in and around her pussy.

Sherry repaid him with impassioned kisses and strokes over his form; but she did not reach for his cock, not inclined to interfere with his efforts. Eventually he shifted to a more direct and forceful mode, and called forth shrieks of joy from her.

Once this overture had come to completion, they moved in concert to ditch their clothing entirely. Sherry's insubstantial outfit was speedily dispensed with, but she took her time disrobing Sal. His suit progressively revealed its contents to her probing hands. Sal, for his part, displayed admirable patience as she labored.

Once finished, she lay back on the couch, one leg stretched to the floor, the other pulled up, her breasts bobbing gently with her fevered breath, and drank in the sights. He was in good shape for his age. A bit of fat, but on him it looked distinguished. She was reminded of an older wolf, one who had beaten rivals by strength before and still was canny enough to remain head of the pack. An attractive mate. His prick was of average size, but she was untroubled, confident he'd wield it properly.

Sal, too, had paused to admire the view from his perspective. His gaze was hungry but controlled; a general surveying territory he planned to conquer, working out a lengthy campaign. She experienced it as an almost physical caress, anticipation stoking inner fires. Then he strode deliberately forward, laying hands on her to guide her into the position he'd selected. He eased her back onto the couch, and kneeled by her hips.

She was on her side as he penetrated her, one leg tucked between his, the other wrapped around his waist. Many women would have found it uncomfortable but she accommodated it easily with her pliant, supple joints. Her back arched and she let out a loud low moan when he began to stroke in and out. She shrieked happily as one of his hands reached down and his fingers tickled her nub. "Oh, fuck, Sal, fuck me! Fuck me!" He complied with increased vigor. He'd made a good choice; he could excite her easily in multiple ways while still having a commanding view.

One hand helped support her and the other probed her anus, a double penetration far easier to allow for than two cocks, and much better coordinated. Her juices were flowing liberally so he had ample chance to make his fingers slippery. She hissed with pleasure, muscles stiffening. After a sharp explosion, he backed off to simple penetration for a time, then made another move, thrusting more aggressively.

A hand darted to her clit, maximizing her stimulation. Absently but approvingly, she noticed that it was not the hand that had recently been in her backside; that was a mark of experience, not wanting to leave any discomfiting infections later. She was immune, but he didn't know that.

After that, however, she left off appraising his technique and simply enjoyed the results of it. He continued to change things up, never quite letting her get used to any one mode. She came, enthusiastically, several times, before she decided to show off some of her skill. She commenced a spectacular display of muscular control, massaging him inside her with ripples and clenches and waves. He maintained control for a while longer than she expected, but finally gave in and shot a intense load within her.

Breathing deeply, he pulled out of her and sat back on the couch. Sherry sat up and put a hand to her pussy, twirling a little cum onto her finger. As he watched, she brought it to her mouth and licked it up. "Mmmmmm. I knew you'd taste good. As good as you fuck."

"I'm pleased to have been of service," he said, dignity maintained even as he panted. "You are truly an expert in the field."

"Oh, you can't say that now," she pouted. "You haven't seen anything yet." It was her turn to advance on him.

"Sherry, I'm flattered, but I simply cannot..." he trailed off as her talented mouth met his penis. His recovery was not instantaneous, but she was able to clean him off and coax a handsome erection faster than Sal had apparently believed possible. When she sensed he was getting close to his summit, she abruptly disengaged, to his unmistakable disappointment.

He was mollified in short order, however, as she shimmied up his body and began positioning herself atop his pelvis. In truth, he was also distracted by the sudden, immediate proximity of her spectacular tits.

She paused there, her vagina hovering inches above his stiff prick. Gazing into his eyes for long moments, not sighting her target at all, drops of her wetness fell unerringly onto the head of his dick. Languorously, and again unerringly, she descended to capture him inside herself. Both of them let out gentle appreciative gasps as docking was achieved.

Then she initiated a serpentine wriggling of her entire body even as her almost superhumanly-controlled internal muscles quivered around his member in a startling manner. He gasped again, this time in sheer disbelief. He regarded her with nearly superstitious awe; she laughed and intensified her motion.

Sal was panting heavily, struggling to maintain some kind of control, holding onto the couch with a deathgrip. Sherry bent forward, never slowing down, placing her bobbing rack directly in his face. Trying to delay the inevitable, he rocked his hips lower, attempting a partial withdrawal. But instantaneously she matched him, offering no respite. He groaned and closed his eyes, the war evident on his face.

At the last possible moment, she froze. He hovered for a time, right on the border of coming, then began to recede from the brink. She let it happen, but not very far. Within seconds she was moving again. Sal was helpless, dragged again and again to the razor's edge of release and then carefully ushered away.

There came a time when she did not stop. She clenched tightly and rippled her body and laid herself upon him and moaned loudly and Sal felt his cock tear itself violently apart in a cataclysm of ecstasy.

Sherry watched, amused and pleased, while Sal regained consciousness. His eyes fluttered open as he drew in heaving gulps of air. "That was... the most incredible thing that has ever been done to my dick in my entire life." He shuddered with reaction. "I thought my heart was going to..." he trailed off.

Sherry chuckled. "Now you can call me an expert."

...the horror of my old friend perhaps affected me somewhat...

They lay intertwined on the couch, resting, neither speaking. It took Sal about ten minutes before he remembered why he'd come to our house in the first place. He worked to pull himself out from under her with a serious expression on his face. "I'm sorry, but I think I need to talk to Carl. You said he's upstairs?"

Sherry resisted his attempts to extricate himself. "What's the rush? He'll keep." She wriggled enticingly. "Besides, aren't I a lot more fun?"

"Sherry, please. I..." He gulped as she groped at his equipment. "This is all very strange. I need to talk to Carl."

Sherry pouted. "Oh, come on. Just one more..."

It seemed that his suspicions were aroused again. "Later, perhaps. Right now I need to clear up a few things."

She sighed and rolled off of him. "So, do you really want to know what's going on?" she smirked. "Or will you take my word that Carl's never been better?"

"I'd like him to tell me that."

"If that's how you feel." She stood and motioned for him to rise. "Follow me."

"Excuse me a moment." He quickly put on his pants and shirt while Sherry watched with unveiled amusement, not bothering to clothe herself. Then she led him upstairs to her room. Unlocking the wardrobe, she revealed the supplies and premade doses of the concoction. Sal watched wordlessly as she poured a premeasured amount of the powder into a vial of the precursor. The reaction proceeded as usual.

"Enough of this," Sal bit out, angry. "I want to see Carl right now." He nodded at the mixture in her hand. "I don't need to see..."

She interrupted. "I'm showing you Carl, I promise." She looked him up and down one last time, lasciviously enjoying the sight.

Sporting an evil grin, she toasted him with, "Here's to us." She downed the philtre; the pangs of the transformation waxed and waned; I looked over to see Sal backed up against the wall, sheer horror pasted across his face. For a long time he couldn't speak, and I had nothing to say. I rapidly covered myself with a nearby robe, and didn't realize for several seconds it was one of Sherry's frilly peignoirs. Unfortunately, nothing more appropriate was at hand.

Our discussion after that was strained and awkward, as you might imagine. I haltingly explained most of what had happened, what I theorized, what I suspected. I began to apologize but the words died in my throat in the face of his blank stare. In all truth, what could I have said?

He left fairly soon thereafter. I remember thinking how tired, how much older he suddenly looked. I never heard from him again. Barely two weeks later, when I listened to the message on my answering machine informing me that he had died , I realized I had almost expected it.

I don't know if it was really just the shock of seeing the transformation. A very similar fate had befallen one of Tawesson's friends. I wonder if perhaps there's some kind of 'psychic fallout' or radiation or something if another person is too close during the transition? Neither of us have ever been tempted to find out since.

I went to the viewing but I didn't stay long, and I couldn't attend the funeral. I just wasn't sure I would be able to keep Sherry from manifesting herself, even in so somber a situation. Instead I sat alone in the store and drank a glass of wine in his memory.

"I have more than once observed that, in my second character, my faculties seemed sharpened to a point..."

About five months had gone by since Sherry's "birthday". Fall was approaching, and she had become something of a phenomenon in the Boston area. The club was filled to capacity every night, and she was clearing tens thousands of dollars a week. Much of that cash was immediately spent on clothes and partying, but even she couldn't outspend that income. Had she bothered with cocaine or heroin or that ilk she could likely have done so, but she wasn't tempted. Sex was her addiction, and she never ran out of fresh suppliers. (Although Sherry did keep a stash of Viagra and Cialis on hand; very few unaided men could keep her satisfied for terribly long.)

I was spending less and less time as myself; Carl no longer existed at night anymore. The store wasn't open more than three days a week, which took a toll on business, but with Sherry's earning power I couldn't manage to be terribly concerned. And truth be told, Sherry didn't feel the guilt that I did over what happened to Sal. Other people have drowned their sorrows in drink before; I simply took that to new heights. Or perhaps depths is a better term.

As I noted, her profile was skyrocketing. After an eventful night that led to the arrest of several of the Red Sox (and subsequent divorces for two of them), one of the larger area churches decided that a useful object lesson might be made. So it came to pass one Friday night that perhaps two dozen parishioners from Rock Baptist Church were picketing near the club when Sherry arrived. They were carrying signs citing verses of Scripture and generally denouncing sexual licentiousness.

She waved a hello to Dawg on her way backstage but then noticed his frown and slowed down. "What up, Dawg?"

"It's what's down. The damn crowd. Those fucking Jesus-freaks are scaring people away!"

"Oh," she replied. Sherry hadn't really noticed; she didn't care about mundane business details unless they affected her. She didn't even care about the money she made except insofar as it let her do what she wanted. She gave a "so what" shrug and started to turn away.

Dawg was uncharacteristically worried, and snapped at her. "It ain't just them outside. I found out that they're gonna try to do some kind of zoning shit, close us down!"

That got Sherry's attention. "When?" This was the closest club to her house; if it closed down she'd have to drive at least ten extra minutes to get to another one.

"I dunno for sure. They gotta talk to the city council, all that shit. But I hear they're serious."

She thought for a moment. To her, the solution was obvious. "Call the news types, get them out here to cover it."

Dawg practically exploded. "You dumb bitch, that'll fuck up my business even more! Those assholes want publicity and shit!"

But he'd forgotten who he was dealing with, and he was suddenly taken aback by her intense glower, falling silent. "Shut the fuck up," Sherry said, redundantly but very deliberately. "You don't get to call me 'bitch' unless you're fucking me, got it? I'll handle those shitheads. You just get a crew here." She turned on her spike heel and marched to the back. "Let me know when they get here," she called over her shoulder.

Sherry had finished one set and was entertaining a gentleman in the VIP room when a girl came in to let Sherry know that a news crew had arrived on the scene. She wrapped up her dance and hurried backstage to change. In a very brief time she was clad in sandals, a t-shirt, and cutoff jeans. Dawg hovered impatiently nearby as she dressed, not quite daring to say anything. When she finished, she turned to look at him. "They still out there?"

Sullenly: "Yeah."

"Get me Phil's boom box and one of his CDs."

"What the hell..." Dawg began heatedly, but then moderated his tone under her murderous stare. "Uh, which one?"

"I don't care. Something I can dance to."

Minutes later, she emerged from the lounge carrying the DJ's portable stereo and ambled nonchalantly across the street toward the protestors. Two were being interviewed by the reporter. The man who was speaking trailed off into silence as he caught sight of Sherry. His companion's jaw had already dropped.

The reporter turned at that point, and had his own jaw-sagging moment. He waved his hand urgently toward the approaching vision, and the cameraman focused on her as she arrived. Smiling openly, she called out, "What's going on here?"

The representative from the church stammered for a few moments, then collected himself, struck a heroic pose, and began holding forth. "We are here to protest this sinful and immoral establishment that is corrupting the morals of our community!" He stopped to inhale. "We do not accept the degradation of culture that the purveyors of..."

"Whoa, there," Sherry broke in, grinning. "I'm sure you've got a whole speech planned, but you're way off base." She looked earnestly into the camera. "We're not corrupting anybody. It's all grownups here at the Corinthian Lounge. We just want people to have a good time. It's about fun, not 'degradation' or whatever."

"Treating women as objects, selling sex and depravity? That is degradation and sin, not just of the women who dance but the men who..."

Sherry interrupted again. "How would you know? Have you ever been in there?"

Angrily, he began, "I don't have to..."

Not letting him finish, Sherry overrode his incipient tirade. "I didn't think so. Ever seen an exotic dancer anywhere?"

"No, but..."

"Okay, let's fix that now." With that, she took a few steps back, bent over (making sure her ass was aimed toward the camera), and put down the boom box.

"Wait, what..." Alarm had crept into his voice.

"I just figured you should have some idea what you're protesting." She turned on the music. It wasn't as loud as the speakers in the club, but it carried well enough. She whirled back to face the crowd and began a striptease.

Her dancing, and the whole persona she projected was... not exactly innocent, but not malicious. Playful is perhaps the best term. She was saying, with her smile, her body, "Isn't this fun? Don't you want to join in?" It was also, in the way of everything Sherry did, highly arousing.

None of the protestors could ignore it, but different people responded in different ways. Some were enraged, screaming epithets. Others prayed and averted their eyes, unable to bear the temptation before them. And many were mesmerized, staring raptly at the tantalizing display. (Nor were all of these ardent observers men.)

Sherry wrapped things up as the song drew to a close. She had revealed the immodest but legal bikini she'd been wearing underneath her clothes, but no more. This time when she bent to turn off the music, much more of her hindquarters were visible. Smiling, she waved to the camera. "If you want to see more than that, you'll have to come inside!"

The reporter and cameraman, protestors forgotten, followed her back toward the lounge, requesting an interview.

The resulting footage was television gold - plenty of sex as well as humor. Sherry had been careful to reveal nothing that the FCC could legitimately file a complaint over, so the protest was the lead story on the late news that very night. The protestors, with their comical mix of reactions, came off as complete buffoons. The item appeared on cable news over the weekend, and by Sunday it was one of the most-viewed clips on YouTube.

There was some talk of charges being pressed, but no one could name anything Sherry had done that was illegal. She hadn't collected any money, or stripped fully nude, or done anything but dance in public. The talk quietly withered away.

It was a PR disaster for Rock Baptist. They had not merely failed to harm the club, they had given it a massive publicity boost and damaged their own reputation in the process. They couldn't move forward in the political arena without opening themselves up to further derision. A change of strategy was called for.

"...leaping impulses and secret pleasures..."

Thus, the following Wednesday, Mrs. Patricia Palmer walked up to the front door of the club in the late afternoon. The wife of the head pastor, Michael Palmer, she was a formidable woman, as befitted one of the leaders of a church with several thousand members. In her late 30s, she kept herself in shape and well-groomed, though her dress maintained the modesty of her station. Her gentle manner was disarming, but rivals at the church had learned that steel lay beneath the surface, and her husband's position owed no small debt to her adept political guidance.

The jaundiced eye of the bouncer up front looked her over doubtfully, but she was unfazed. "Is Sherry Sweet in? I'd like to talk to her."

"Is that so? What for? You applyin' for a job?"

"No," she replied patiently. "I'd just like to talk."

A moment of thought. "What about?"

"That's really between me and her, isn't it?" she said brightly.

The bouncer wasn't too fleet of mind. Another moment or two passed. "Well, you pay cover to get in, I'll let her know you're here."

"I'd really prefer to talk to her out here..."

"Then you'll be waitin' out here all night." He smiled unpleasantly. "And she's usually got somebody with her when she leaves. Good luck talkin' then."

Reluctantly she brought up her purse. "If I must."

Shortly thereafter she sat at one of the back tables, surveying the room with thinly masked disapproval. The place was much busier this early than she would have thought - and in the middle of the week at that. Confirmation that things had gotten out of control, and that her mission here was vital.

Patty didn't anticipate a total, immediate triumph, of course. Few people were saved on their first exposure to the Gospel. But she had faith that closing this den of iniquity was God's will, and she was confident that He could use her to help accomplish His purpose. So she had come to talk with the woman who had so thoroughly embarrassed her church and parishioners. If she could discourage her from supporting the club, it would be of help. And who knew? If the girl were saved, she would be a powerful witness... in the religious and legal senses.

They would offer her financial assistance, scholarships, housing, drug counseling, whatever she needed to get away from this immoral lifestyle. Patty couldn't imagine a woman wanting to do such things unless there were pressing circumstances. In many - perhaps most - cases, she would doubtless have been correct.

But she hadn't watched the video of the protest, so Patty was unprepared when Sherry appeared from backstage. She was striking, not just for her beauty but her personality. Something about her spoke of - and directly to - the id. Patty drew a sharp breath, and began to suspect that this would be an even more challenging meeting than she'd anticipated.

Sherry strutted over to her table, acknowledging the hoots and whistles of the patrons with gay aplomb, and sat across from Patty with easy grace. She was topless, wearing only heels and lewdly meager panties. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Palmer?"

Forcing a smile she did not truly feel, she called out over the thumping music, "Call me Patty, please. I'm from Rock Baptist Church."

Sherry face betrayed a shift from mild curiosity to bored annoyance. "Oh, crap. Look, I don't think we have anything to..."

Patty interrupted. "Please, I'm not here to condemn you or anything like that. That's really not what we're about. I'd just like to talk."

A smidgeon of curiosity had returned to her expressive face. "So, talk."

"If you don't mind, I'd rather we discussed things somewhere else." A pause for breath; she wasn't quite shouting, but it was a very loud environment. "Perhaps we could meet for lunch tomorrow?"

Sherry considered that for a moment. Then she seemed to focus carefully on the pastor's wife, looking her up and down. There was no doubt what kind of study she was engaging in. Patricia had been ogled like that before, though never by a woman. Then Sherry looked her in the eye and said, "Why not now? You had dinner yet?"

Mrs. Palmer was now convinced that Sherry was under the influence of a sexual demon. But she reflected that all things worked to the Lord's purposes. If a perverted attraction was what He would use to lead this woman out of sin, so be it. "I don't want to get you into trouble with your job..."

Her answering grin was positively wicked. "They need me a lot more than I need them. Besides, it's only Wednesday. C'mon, let's go." Then she looked down at herself and giggled. "Well, okay, let me throw on some clothes first."

Not long thereafter Sherry drove them to a nearby restaurant. Patty was somewhat discouraged by the expensive sports car the girl was driving; financial assistance might not be the incentive she'd hoped. She didn't begin her pitch the moment they'd sat down at their booth. Being too pushy would turn people off. Instead, she gently pumped her for information; some intelligence would help her tailor the approach.

"As you know, our church doesn't exactly approve of the Corinthian." She essayed a rueful grin. Then, earnestly, "But please don't think that means we hate the people there. Far from it. All we want to do is help them avoid what we view as a mistake."

Sherry smiled back. "Fair enough. But you understand, I kind of disagree about the 'mistake' part. Like I said, I think you have it all wrong."

"Okay, then. How should we 'have it'?" Patty asked, trying to convey trustworthiness, an absence of judgement. She was quite skilled.

With that, Sherry began a monologue about life as a stripper. It was a tissue of lies, but truth was not her objective. The seduction proper had begun.

Mrs. Palmer would never have succumbed in ordinary circumstances. Her sexual tastes were quite in line with her moral beliefs. Sherry was certain that Patty found the idea of sex with another woman incomprehensible, distasteful, even disgusting. And her instincts in such matters were practically infallible.

But Sherry was astronomically far from ordinary. She was Eros personified, and her every thought and faculty and talent and ability was devoted entirely and unreservedly to sex and enticement and arousal. She could intuit, and exploit, the desires of anyone she set her sights on.

It started gradually, Sherry using the way she moved, the tone and pace of her voice, her choice of words, when she made eye contact and when she looked away. For Patty, there probably was no clear dividing line. As they talked, her subconscious attitude easily moved from "She's so pretty, it's a pity she's wasting her life so," to "No wonder the men fawn over her... what does she do with them?" to "What would it feel like to do those things with a man?" to "What would it feel like to do them with her?"

Sherry reached out and took the woman's hands in her own, gently stroking. Patty's heart leapt at the touch, and she was suddenly, finally aware of how excited, how wet she was; how she'd stopped talking herself, listening entranced to Sherry's almost hypnotic voice; how her thoughts had turned so completely to "I want to do things with her, dirty things, again and again..."

Sherry could see all this clearly, as it happened, with an exquisite animal sensitivity that was nearly telepathic. (Given her origin, perhaps on some level it was.) This was a critical moment. Patty was horrified at the extent of her own raw lust, and Sherry didn't want this 'Church Lady' to regain control of herself.

"I... I really... should..." Patty stammered.

Sherry put on a concerned expression, shading it just so, innocent and open, knowing it would entrance her victim even further. "Is something wrong, Mrs. Palmer? You look... I dunno... flushed or something."

"It's... I can't..." Words wouldn't come. Sherry continued to rub her hands, and it felt as though they were connected directly to her nipples, to her pussy, to her soul...

"Man, I think you need to lie down for a bit." A cute little frown. "My place isn't far."

Patty shivered, her heart galloping at the thought. But she despairingly (and greedily) understood that if she went home with Sherry, she would do... anything. Everything. And that was wrong... wasn't it? She gathered the scraps of her willpower, and pulled her trembling hands away.

"I really shouldn't," she stated with little conviction. "I mean, what would people think..."

"I understand," Sherry smiled sadly. "After all, Jesus never hung out with sinners."

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that... and He did..." She trailed off, confused, trying to get hold of herself. She had come to try to convert Sherry, and now... But she was a fine, upstanding citizen, she couldn't...

Patty realized no one would 'think' anything. No one would believe what she wanted to do, even if Sherry tried to tell anyone. The storm was inside her and she didn't believe it. Her sin would be hidden... "I'd love to go home with you." Sherry's deep eyes, her sudden sweet smile...

"...drinking pleasure with bestial avidity..."

Patty walked into the house in daze. She was more than half convinced she was asleep. She couldn't really be doing this, feeling this way, could she? And Sherry herself... something about her was so uncanny, so otherworldly, as if she belonged more to a dream than reality.

The stripper closed the door, and turned to face her directly. Patty started to mumble something. "You have a lovely home. I wouldn't have..." She trailed off. The girl's eyes were boring into her own. She couldn't think, looking into those eyes. Sherry came nearer, nearer. Not saying a word.

She almost said something then, but Sherry's hand brushed her face and left a warm trail behind, warmth that spread everywhere. Her breath was coming so fast, she leaned back against the wall. But the woman she'd come to save stepped forward and leaned in. Their breasts touched through their clothes, and for the first time in her life Patty found that inexpressibly erotic. Sherry's face was inches away, hovering. It was too far away. Compelled by forces she could scarcely acknowledge, she brought her lips to Sherry's.

The kiss might have appeared gentle, even tentative to an onlooker. But it was in that moment Patricia was lost. Sherry's lips, so tender, but still insistent... not like a man's, urgent but not needful...

The kiss deepened. So different from Michael's... her impudent, unashamed tongue... and now her hands, stroking... approving of what they found, but somehow not possessive... lustful but not territorial...

There was no resistance left in her, and reluctance had vanished long before she'd walked through the door. The two were embracing, exploring each other with impassioned caresses. She discovered with faint surprise that they had moved to the living room, and they had shed their purses and shoes. Sherry deliberately worked at Patty's dress, unzipping it, then easing it up and away. Patty stood, her only motion a shivering with desire, as the girl removed her bra with equal deliberation. It fell to the floor as Sherry's lips fell to the newly-revealed breasts. She gasped as an acrobatic tongue performed lazy somersaults across her nipples for several minutes.

Sherry stood up again and gazed once more into her eyes. This, too, was different - taking one's time, savoring the moments, not hurrying. She realized that all she was wearing were her panties. Sherry could see all of her, but she could not see Sherry's body. That was suddenly intolerable. She reached out and began undressing the girl with the compelling eyes.

The dress came off with a little work. Sherry's waist was so tiny, her clothes had to be custom tailored. But with a modicum of gentle tugging, she was released. Her breasts, firm and high despite their generous size, invited touch, and taste. Patty found herself suckling and licking another woman's nipples, and revelling in it. But then she looked further down.

Now she saw Sherry's underwear again. So small, but it covered what she needed to see. Patty knelt down, and reached forward, grasping the spaghetti straps across her hips, and pulled them down, and away.

She had never really seen an adult vagina, not even her own. The hair was fine, and seemed to naturally limit itself to a neat triangle; the labia were clearly visible. She felt herself drawn forward. She was conscious of the smell of Sherry's arousal, the same as her own, yet subtly different, too. In her keyed-up state it was darkly tantalizing. The thighs parted gently, invitingly. Before she was even fully aware of the impulse she was exploring that delightful pussy with her mouth.

It was exotic and enthralling. Patty was licking clumsily, hungrily, insatiably. Her nipples rubbed against Sherry's legs and she absently thought she could feel the juices from her own vagina dripping through her conservative panties. Sherry's hand stroked her hair, and she let out gentle sighs from time to time.

Then the dancer shuddered, crying out softly. After a time she stepped back and knelt down herself, and they traded impassioned kisses. Patty was frenzied, completely out of control. She fell slowly to the rug and laid on her back under Sherry's easy guidance. Then she felt the other woman pulling off the last of her clothing. Animal-like in her balanced poise, she dipped between Patty's legs and suddenly the world lurched as a woman's mouth touched her inflamed pussy.

It had been years since anyone had licked her down there. When she and Michael had been younger, early in their marriage, they had experimented more, but after a while... Sherry's lingual ministrations were stimulating her clitoris beyond endurance. Michael had nicknamed it her 'kitten' but now it was a tigress, roaring exuberantly, alive and hungry as never before.

Moments stretched, apart from time. As if she'd been carried along a raging stream but now had been thrown out over Niagara Falls, dropping down to the water so far below. She could feel the orgasm coming, like the ground rushing up to meet her, and she knew it would break her as completely as a literal impact.

And then she hit the wall. A hole was burned into her personal reality, the universe warped as she experienced literal convulsions of pleasure. Only afterward did she understand how violent it had been, by the aches in her joints, in her throat raw from screaming.

Her thoughts were streaking along in channels she'd never suspected lurked within her mind. She'd already come but Sherry wasn't stopping, she kept going, and it was going to happen again, she couldn't stand it, Michael always stopped but Sherry wouldn't stop, that tongue, and now oh God was that a finger in her asshole and oh God she was coming again oh God oh God oh God...

Sherry liked women for their stamina. They didn't have pricks, sure, but they didn't run out of steam as fast as men. And an uptight prig like Patty, who barely knew how to fuck and hadn't had a decent screw in her life... she had a lot bottled up. She'd last a while.

That was proven almost immediately. Following climaxes like those, any male would have been reduced to jelly for an extended period. But scarcely half a minute had passed before Patty was attacking her again, begging to be allowed to try fingering Sherry's rosebud.

It went on like that for hours, Patricia acting like a fawning, adoring puppy eager to do any trick her mistress commanded. She did things she'd never heard of, never conceived of, played with dozens of marvelously twisted, disgusting objects, and Sherry made her love every depraved second of it, doing things in front of, and with, and to this pagan goddess, this succubus.

"I must here speak by theory alone, saying not that which I know, but that which I suppose to be most probable."

Dawn found the two women still fucking furiously, at that point on the staircase leading up from the foyer by the front door. They had screwed in almost every other room in the cottage by now. Sherry was sitting with her legs spread, leaning back on the stairs. Patty knelt on a lower step, eating Sherry out while she busily frigged herself, working around the harness of the strap-on dildo she was wearing.

She was lurching in the throes of yet another volcanic orgasm when she heard the chiming of her phone. The ringtone was "Household of Faith", the song she had danced to with Michael at their wedding. An icy chill ran through her body, cutting short the pleasure. She stumbled down the stairs and picked up the purse she had dropped the night before. She pulled out her cell phone as the music died; there were fifteen unanswered messages.

The chill intensified as she looked down at the phallus jutting out of her own crotch. What had she been doing? What would Michael be thinking? He would be frantic, and she hadn't thought of him in hours, hadn't thought of anyone but herself and...

"Everything okay?" Sherry called down, casually. Even in the midst of her sudden, crushing guilt, when Patty looked up the stairs she was amazed at how sexy the girl was, at how much she still craved to just put the phone down and march back up to her... To sin again, and again...

She jerked herself away. "I... I have to get home."

"Oh," Sherry replied, unperturbed. "You're gonna need to call a cab, I'm going to bed. Phone book's in the kitchen." She stood up and ambled away in the direction of the bedrooms. "See you around, maybe?" Patricia snapped back to herself as Sherry moved out of sight - she realized she'd been staring, hypnotized, at the stripper's magnificent rump.

She tore the obscene tool from her body and made her way unsteadily to the kitchen. She called the first taxi company in the book. The dispatcher seemed unaccountably excited and amused by the address she gave. Then she numbly went to gather her clothes, trying not to think about the woman in bed upstairs. If she did too much of that, she would find herself in that bed too.

The taxi arrived with amazing promptness. She hadn't even found all of her things before it pulled up to a screeching halt in front of the house. Patricia was grateful that it was early morning and no one was about to see her leaving. The taxi driver pushed open the door next to him, and appeared to be very disappointed when she got into the back seat instead. At her direction, he headed off to the club in a surly fashion.

Away from Sherry, the spell was wearing off further. Patty was suddenly aware of her disheveled appearance, of what the driver was seeing with his sneaking peeks at her in the rearview mirror. She summoned her dignity and stared resolutely out the window until they approached the club.

The parking lot was nearly empty since the club was closed. Finding her car was easy, a police cruiser was parked next to it. Two uniformed officers were examining it. "Wait, stop here!" she cried to the cabbie before he could turn in. She got out paid him, not able to look him in the eye. Then she started the long walk to her car and the waiting police. Michael must have called them, she suddenly realized. Of course he would have.

Her nipples were pierced. How could she face Michael, how could she face her children? She was an abomination, a harlot with pierced nipples and shaved pubes and no panties and every inch of her skin stank of sweat and pussy, even her hair smelled like cunt, and every hole was sore and aching... and she still wanted more. More from the very Whore of Babylon herself. Patty sagged down in the middle of the lot and sobbed brokenly. She cried out to Jesus for strength, for forgiveness, not caring about the police coming towards her. She'd never prayed more fervently; and she'd never prayed with so little faith God's answer would be "Yes".

Popular Pastor Takes Leave Of Absence From Rock Baptist Church, Cites 'Personal, Family Issues'

"...habit brought -- no, not alleviation -- but a certain callousness of soul, a certain acquiescence of despair..."

No church ever directly challenged the Corinthian again after that. Before long Sherry was gone, anyway. There had been some preliminary discussions already, but the news story sparked a tempestuous bidding war among the various adult video companies and when the dust settled she had moved to L.A. That was over a year ago now. I sold off the store; she only let me bring a few of my possessions along.

A porn star's life suits her perfectly, of course. Filming takes up only a few weeks of each year. The rest of the time, she's stripping on stages around the world, or dancing in clubs, or fucking anything that moves, or doing photo shoots. (Nor are all of those for porn magazines; the more respectable media has taken notice of her, too.)

She won almost a dozen AVN awards this year, and her salary is closer to that of mainstream celebrities. (So, too, is her fame.) Her future seems extraordinarily bright; she's one of very few porn stars who look good in HD. And certainly no actress has ever been as... accessible to her public.

Unlike stripping, porn requires gynecological exams. Sherry's first trip caused something of a stir; it turns out she has a male chromosome or something. Her 'ovaries' are like failed testicles. Apparently most women like that don't even undergo puberty, but that's pretty obviously not the case with Sherry - the docs say she's "hypersexualized". They're calling it "Atypical Swyer Syndrome" if I remember correctly, though they promise not to use her name when they publish.

She's quite undisturbed by it - as far as she's concerned periods and pregnancy would just interfere with her activities. Personally, I'm quietly grateful. I wouldn't want any child to have Sherry for a mother.

I do have some small power over her, a 'nuclear option'. I'd kill myself if she molested a child, and she knows it. Fortunately children aren't exactly common in the circles that she travels, and she must 'bring me out' at least every few weeks. Otherwise, she'd have a truly legendary collection of STDs. Still, she hates to give up valuable fucking time, so I spend most of my few scattered hours making up doses of the potion; she doesn't have the patience. It's not much of a life but it's something.

Rereading this account, I have to admit that the risque details I've included might seem excessive or merely titillating, but I couldn't help including them. Chalk that up to Sherry's influence; she's a part of me. The strongest one, now. Even as I write this, I can feel her stirring inside. My 'turn' is running out. I just want there to be a record, some kind of trace that Carl was here. She'd probably want to destroy this account if she thought I would try to publish it, but she's pretty focused on her own pursuits. She'd never waste time going to look for it so long as I don't do anything to jeopardize her lifestyle. Maybe I'll hide it in the bureau this all started with. We brought it to L.A. with us.

Some of this is extrapolated, like poor Mrs. Palmer's thoughts. But the fact that she did what she did means that Sherry read her pretty well. She babbled enough about herself and her mission in the course of that night; I don't think she's misrepresented.

To anyone reading this at some future date, who may be tempted to follow in the footsteps of Tawesson and myself, heed our warnings. The id is more powerful than we, with our millennia of civilizing influences, might credit, and ta

Poor Carl dear, you waited too long, didn't you? It's all right, I won't destroy your little confession. I know you'll hide it; you wouldn't dare spoil my fun. But I like the ideas you didn't want to write down. I agree... take some submissive, work them up into a frenzy of sexy obedience, and make them drink the potion... Why, you'd have the perfect slave!

I think I'll go hunting tonight. Someone who won't be missed... Thanks for providing me some extra doses!

Love, Sherry
XOXOXO