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“Hold it, man. Just hold it,” Stacey said. “What you’re saying—no way. That kind of transformation—trust me on this, I know people who have done it—costs tens of thousands of dollars and takes many surgeries. Come on, Brian. Level with me.”
They had almost polished off a bottle of wine. It wasn’t until the second glass that Brian found the words and told her the reason he had to see her.
Sighing, he got up. “Okay if I slip into something more comfortable?”
Two minutes later, he was back. His flannel sleep shirt came mid-thigh.
“Shaving your legs? Really?”
Brian sat next to Stacey. “There’s no other way but to show you,” he said, and pulled the shirt up to his waist.
Stacey pushed his legs apart, her nose inches away from his genitals.
“This is just incredible,” she said under her breath. “I mean, uncanny.”
“I know. Bob asked me if I was taking hormones.”
“Not just that. I’ll have to show you.”
Stacey wiggled out of her jeans and pushed her thong down. Sliding away from Brian, she spread her legs.
“Look. Look at me.”
Brian had skinny dipped with Stacey a couple times. But, unlike in porn, he discovered that in real life women don’t lie around with their legs spread. Even with their one failed attempt at sex in his parent’s station wagon, he had no idea what Stacey looked like.
Stacey’s girl parts were the mirror image of Brian’s—a classic clamshell capped with a downy brown bush. Brian even had a mole on his left thigh just like hers.
“It’s real?” Stacey asked. “It works?”
“Stacey, I rub myself every day. Three, four times. It is insatiable. It’s a problem, but, jeez, not one that I’m in a big rush to fix. I had no idea chicks had it so good.”
“Did you show Bob?”
“No, please, no—tell me it isn’t so. He’s doing you?"
“Not strictly speaking. Bob’s not gay,” Brian said, blotting the shower incident out of his mind. “Hell, I’m not gay. It’s just, well…”
“At least twice a day.”
“What else? I mean, who else?”
“Hank, the new guy at the shop. He does me every night after we close.”
Stacey slapped her open palm on her forehead. “What if you get pregnant?” She was almost yelling.
“I guess if I get pregnant, I’ll get rich. Think about it. I’ll be on TV. I’d be the first man in history…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
She eyed him critically. “So, why are you here? Sounds like things are going just ducky. God knows, your sex life is better than mine.”
“God, Stacey, I’m still changing. You heard my voice on the phone. Look at my legs. I don’t shave them. Same with my underarms. My butt is round and tight. The more I use it, the more I feminize. And look at this.”
He unbuttoned the sleep shirt.
“Oh, baby,” Stacey cooed, her hands moving across his hairless chest. “Oh, they’re so cute! You’re ready for your first training bra!”
On the eve of the Civil War, Melanie’s love life sucks, what with her plantation-owning husband away to militia trainings and state’s rights conferences. The house servants are swooning over Big Jim, a black field hand who’s big in every sense. Soon, Melanie’s cornfield trysts are filling her needs—until the Master of Oglethorpe confronts the randy 19-year-old. She confesses, but causes more trouble. “Really, Beau, this ownin’ of other human beings is so…so distasteful. Why not pay them a paltry wage and rent them their hovels?” Outrage! Nearly as outrageous as the hot and humorous ending!
~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~
Following Kay up the walk to the house, I was captivated by her easy stride, her hips moving on their own, as she approached the door. Her sleeveless, red knit mini-dress was clingy, formfitting, a real show stopper. The fishnets were icing on a very hot cake. She’s a big woman—not big that way, just five-foot-eleven big, proportional, full breasts, a woman’s hips and curves.
Two hours into the party, Phil, one of the bassists in the orchestra, sidled up to me. “You’re a gorgeous couple. Cole and Kay. Kay and Cole. Gotta love the alliteration. And Cole and the ice princess, no less.”
What could I do but smile? A player of the lowly trombone, the descendent of the ancient sackbut, hitting it off with a cellist—instrumentalists not known for commingling with the hoi polloi. But not Kay. She had no pretensions of being a soloist. She was just another working stiff in a regional orchestra that almost paid a living salary.
“Can’t comment on her rep as being cool,” I replied. “Jesus, though, she’s hot tonight.”
We had been lovers for months, a known number in the orchestra for nearly that long, and we knew that soon it would be common knowledge that we were moving in together in the fall.
Throughout the evening, an obligatory late summer soiree hosted by the concertmaster, Kay stayed close to me. Her hand often found mine, whether we were together on the couch talking to one of the percussion players or standing in the kitchen with the hostess, admiring the new cabinets. When I glanced at Kay, she’d meet my eyes and show me the tip of her tongue and the hint of a smile.
Chatting with the conductor, wine glasses in hand, my arm went around her, hand resting lightly on her hip. Without missing a beat, her hand found mine and pushed it down to her butt.
Standing behind her as we said our goodbyes, Kay leaned back, her generous curves pressing into my crotch. I know that sounds sluttish, but she did it with discretion and aplomb, all the while complimenting the décor and the host’s hospitality as she induced my erection.
In the car, her face half-lighted by streetlamp, I leaned in to kiss her. As our lips touched, she guided my hand down her side, lifted a haunch and slid it under one of her round cheeks. Like a good writer, she had been showing, not telling: She wanted me to do her in the ass.
Kay was a cellist. Her pedigree included Pablo Casals, Jacqueline du Pré, Mstislav Rostropovich, and Yo-Yo Ma. Like those masters, she exuded class, style and refinement. Kay isn’t a goof like me who makes a living by buzzing his lips and blowing in a brass tube.
Breaking off the kiss, she moved her mouth along my cheek to my ear: “Cole, I want you to do me in the ass.”
Luckily, it was only a ten minute drive to my apartment.
~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~
A peal of ear-splitting thunder echoed throughout the room. The atmosphere felt charged as the sky opened up and heavy splats of rain fell on the stones of the patio outside the glass doors.
Our eyes locked. I moved toward Moriah and ran my finger down her cheek and on to her lips. Her mouth opened and she sucked my finger, twirling her tongue around it.
I slipped a cuff on each wrist and raised her arms. She was just short enough that her hands didn’t reach the ceiling. I ran the rope through the hook and pulled it taut. She stood almost in the middle of the room, her arms stretched high, standing almost on tiptoe.
“What are you going to do to me?” she whispered.
I stood behind her as I made a knot on the hook and lowered my mouth to her ear. “Give me a safe word. Give me a word that, when you say it, I’ll stop whatever I’m doing and let you go.”
“No, I want you to be able to say ‘stop’ without really meaning it. Something else.”
Her hands now secured above her head, I walked in front of her. Reaching down, I rolled her cotton ribbed sweater up above her breasts, revealing a pretty lace bra. Her eyes widened. The rain was coming down hard, and the room darkened from the storm clouds.
I undid the button on her jeans, slowly lowered the zipper, and pulled her pants down toward her knees. She shook one foot, then the other, sending her slip-ons across the room.
I pulled her jeans off her. All that was left were her bra, panties and socks. And her sweater scrunched up to her chin above her small breasts.
Moriah had a look of wild passion in her eyes as she watched my every move. I left her there and looked around the room for some inspiration.
In the corner were my walking sticks, high-tech poles make of carbon fiber, with rubber-coated tips and leather-wrapped handles with loops that secured them to your wrists while hiking. I picked one up and walked back to Moriah.
She licked her dry lips.
Lightning flashed, followed quickly by the crash of thunder. The fresh smell of ozone filled the air. The excitement was palpable. The atmosphere was charged with electricity, both literal and metaphorical.
After Alison posted to the internet a homemade porno of her girlfriend jilling-off to an orgasm, hundreds of women responded asking for help. Who knew so many women don’t know how their lady parts work? They draw up a business plan, and the name of their new enterprise is Come Again. These beautiful women fulfill the American dream: making house calls to teach women how to masturbate.
In ‘China Dragon,’ the team meets its most provocative client: a beautiful and wealthy Asian-American widow with a dark secret—and a smoldering desire for Moriah, the Come Again team’s youngest member.