Continues from chapter six
Chapter 7
It was a beautiful afternoon, the sun still high and the blue sky cloudless as my husband, Yusuf Barzigan, pulled the red Mercedes convertible into the driveway. The white house on Thistledown in the suburb of Smithtown was large, but not a mansion. I liked its appearance – classic, but not ostentatious.
“What interested you in this house?” I asked Yusuf.
“Oh, so many things. It just caught my eye – like you.”
“My recollection is, my expensive French silk hosiery first caught your eye,” I replied, recalling the first time we met. I was working as an executive assistant for Phillip Goldstein’s hedge fund. Part of my first day on the job was picking up Yusuf – the billionaire businessman originally from Iran – at the airport.
“No, that was third.” Yusuf knew how to do the dramatic pause.
“What first caught your eye?” I pressed.
“First was your beauty. Second was the shoe dangling.”
I laughed. I remembered dangling, but never had known he noticed.
“Like this?”
I shifted my right foot, freeing the heel from the black pump. With my toes, I slowly moved the pump up and down, revealing my arch and heel.
“New Louboutins?” he asked. I nodded, but didn’t stop my dangle. The pumps had a peep-toe.
“Do they have a name?”
“Are you trying to prolong the dangle?” I inquired.
“Yes, I’m about as subtle as you are.”
“Hey, watch it. Their name is New Very Prive.” I added, “120 mm heel.”
It was Yusuf’s turn to laugh.
“I love it when Americans like you use the metric system. You’re usually talking about inches,” he grunted.
“Yes, in your case, 12 inches. I prefer to call it 30.5 centimeters. I like big numbers and things.”
His cock was screaming to be freed from his jeans. I smiled, having seen him go from slack to erect in what seemed like a single dangle. I rotated my foot, so slowly.
“You’re more tempting than the devil, Patricia Vogel-Barzigan. Ready to go in and take a look at the house?” Yusuf asked me with a sly grin. He unlocked the front door. My first image of the interior was a bouquet of red roses set in a beautiful vase in the vestibule.
We looked at the living and dining rooms together. Yusuf headed upstairs and I checked out the large pantry. I called his name to explore the kitchen with me. He said he wanted to finish with the master bedroom. He said he’d see me after getting something out of the car.
About five minutes later, I was standing at the kitchen sink and window as Yusuf came up behind me. I was wearing the outfit he had chosen before we left the country club; a sleeveless latex dress in ruby with a miniskirt hem. I had picked the pumps. I turned my head to smile at him. He handed me a pair of opera-length latex gloves that matched the color of my dress.
“I thought if you’re going to do the dishes, you need latex gloves,” he said with a sly smile.
I playfully spanked him. We shared a laugh that turned into a lingering kiss. He watched closely as I put on the gloves, running his fingers over my elbow to feed his fetish. Yusuf turned me so my back faced him. I felt his right hand grip the pony tail that held my long, blonde hair.
“Yusuf, I want your cock in my ass,” I said.
“Here?”
“Right here.”
“Now?”
“Here and now. I want that pole of yours in my back door,” I implored, using my nickname for his dark brown penis.
“What has gotten into you, Mrs. Vogel-Barzigan?”
“Well, not your dick – yet,” I replied, my voice urgent.
The dress didn’t have a zipper. It opened with snap fasteners at the high-necked back. Yusuf expertly undressed me and began to lubricate my shapely but tight ass. I was under no misconception. I knew as an anal virgin, it was a tight channel. Yusuf had asked me a few times to try anal sex, but I had told him I wasn’t quite ready.
“Are you sure you’re ready now?” he asked.
“I am positive. I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t,” I said.
“What if the neighbors see us?” Yusuf asked with a broad smile. “Wouldn’t they be scandalized by backdoor lovemaking?”
“They can’t see us. I checked. And even if they did, I wouldn’t give a fuck.”
“True, I’d be the one giving the fuck,” Yusuf said. “And you’d the bad girl taking it up that sexy bottom.”
He lifted me onto a large marble countertop and spent about 10 minutes lubricating me. I let out a low moan as Yusuf eased his cock into my ass. He placed his left hand on my shoulder and his right hand on my upper thigh as he gradually moved more of his shaft inside.
I looked back at him and moaned louder as he began to fill me, the pain intense at first but then gradually giving way to pleasure as he expertly moved inside me deeper; the lubricant as important as how he entered me.
“Oh fuck, that’s so good,” I said as he accelerated his thrusts. I leaned back to take more of him.
“That’s my baby,” he said.
Yusuf kissed the back of my neck as I felt his entire length enter me. I gripped the sides of the counter as he sawed in and out. I used my left hand to touch my clit and we came together, Yusuf grunting loudly as he shot waves of semen into my ass.
I remained on the counter as we cooled down. I didn’t feel like moving.
“That was even better than I anticipated,” I said, putting my dress back on after coating the inside with silicone lubricant.
“I’m always determined to exceed expectations, Mrs. Vogel-Barzigan,” he said.
Yusuf opened the kitchen window and we felt the cool breeze. He asked me what I thought about the house.
“Well, I like what happens in the kitchen,” I said with a devilish smile. “I haven’t seen upstairs, so let me do that.”
Yusuf picked me up from the counter and set me down on the kitchen floor. We headed up the stairs to see the bedrooms. Most of the furniture and decorations had been removed to help potential buyers picture how they would decorate it. I was thinking about that when Yusuf called me over to the window to look at the back yard.
“Yusuf, the night of my M2F transformation and then the next morning, I dreamed about this house, about standing in the kitchen. I don’t want you to think I’m crazy. I think it’s an omen. I feel at home here.”
“So do I, Patricia. Tell me about the dream.”
“I saw a white picket fence. And then a lawn with dark green grass that reached a stream and the street sign with the word ‘Thistledown’ on it. I had dreamed of a woman standing there, looking outside at bright sunshine. I didn’t see her face.”
“It was you,” he said. We strolled through the garden and down a small hill to the stream. That night, we put in an offer to buy the house and the seller accepted it.
For the next year, Yusuf and I spent most of our time in Berlin, Paris, and a cottage we bought on Cayman Brac. As the CEO of YSB Kapital, the financial management firm Yusuf had founded, I was in charge of 108 employees and worked with senior management to increase profits.
He was the first to broach the topic of spending part of our time in the States. He reminded me he had always wanted to move there. Yusuf and I also discussed the idea of starting a charitable foundation. I told him it was something I’d like to manage. Yusuf sold Mr. Goldstein’s hedge fund for twice what he paid to purchase it -- and we used that $1 billion to start the foundation.
He was working on several deals in the U.S. and it seemed like a good time for us to move at least part-time into the white house on Thistledown. First, there needed to be some renovations. Yusuf said we needed a small structure built on the premises that would house our security team.
We agreed to redo the interior and hired Melanie to do the work, which enabled her to start her own design firm. After months of work to make the property suitable for our needs, Yusuf and I moved in on a sunny spring day.
My first rule in my relationship with Yusuf always had been to avoid discussing money. I had not hesitated to sign a prenuptial agreement, knowing that we’d never part. We kept our finances and investments separate, but we spent our money together. I occasionally would tease him about where he ranked on the world’s list of billionaires, though. I peaked at Forbes and saw his wealth was estimated at $69 billion and began to call him “69” after one of our favorite sex positions.
In return, he teased me about being a “suburban housewife.” He was well aware that the suburbs in the U.S. of A. had a vanilla reputation. We’d go to the country club and he’d point out the 30-something women with their preppy clothes, ice-cold faces, and conservative outfits. He had begun to play polo, a game which I didn’t understand. I’d sit on the sideline with the other wives and most of them were not particularly friendly.
Lauren was an exception. In many respects, she was a mirror image of me, except a brunette. She was 23 – three years younger than me -- and lived with her husband, Maxwell, on the block behind us. We had met at one of the polo games. She told me she originally was from Alabama and with her Southern drawl, I had problems at first understanding what she said. Lauren would drop a word like “Goddaddy” into one of our conversations and I’d have to look it up on the internet later to figure out that she was referring to her godfather.
A week after Yusuf and I moved part-time into the house on Thistledown, Maxwell and Lauren invited us to a cocktail party at their home. It was an occasion to meet our neighbors. There were about 40 people there. Among them was Tamara, whom I had met at the country club the day me and Yusuf had lunch and gone horseback riding. She rudely had asked me: “Are you the new blonde?”
Oddly, the women gathered in the dining room and the men congregated in the den, where a soccer game was playing on a big-screen television. Tamara approached me and introduced herself. I said we had met at the country club. She didn’t respond.
Perhaps she wants a clean slate.
I was wearing a neckholder latex top in black with a matching skirt. She asked me where I bought it. I told her Berlin and as I explained, she interrupted me.
“Don’t interrupt me, please,” I told her.
She looked surprised by what I said.
“I read that your husband is one of the wealthiest men in the world. Is that why there are five security people outside?”
“I’m sorry, Tamara. I can’t discuss that.”
Her black hair was shorter than when I had seen her first. Recalling she had been in a tennis dress, I asked her about the sport, anything to change the topic. She talked for a while and then asked me if I played. I said I didn’t.
“Not surprised. You look more like a swimmer, with those big tits,” she said, her eyes sweeping over my décolletage. “You look like the granddaughter of Jayne Mansfield, a blonde who also had huge boobs.”
I recalled when Mr. Goldstein had talked about me going from a redhead to a blonde after my M2F transformation, and I had told him that I loved being blonde. He had added: “You might get some flak from jealous, mean bitches at cocktail parties, though.”
The man’s name should have been Nostradamus.
I noticed Lauren walking toward us. I must have looked in need of rescue.
“Hi Lauren. I was just complimenting Patricia on her big tits,” Tamara said. Turning to me, she added: “I’m wondering if Lauren is jealous of you. She’s had the biggest rack in the neighborhood – until you moved in.”
“Tamara, you’re being a bitch,” I told her. She glared at me. I could tell Tamara had upset Lauren and I asked Tamara to apologize for being “so fucking rude.” She apologized to Lauren and me. I took Lauren’s hand and led her away. We walked to a room that her husband used as an office. Lauren closed the door and, I realized later, locked it.
Lauren began to cry. I placed my hands on her waist as the tears streamed down her face.
“Don’t let that bitch bother you,” I said. We stood there for a minute or two and soon Lauren stopped crying. We hugged and because we were both the same height, I felt our breasts touch. Lauren was wearing a little black dress with spaghetti straps.
“Tamara is right. I am a bit jealous,” Lauren said softly.
“Of my breasts?”
She nodded. “I think it’s the former beauty queen in me. I was Miss Alabama three years ago.”
I smiled. “I mean, mine aren’t a lot bigger than yours.”
“Can I see them? Oh, I can’t believe I said that. I’m so sorry.”
I was surprised by her request. I felt like we were in a sorority house, especially since Lauren frequently talked about being a Tri-Delt.
“Do you really want to see them?” I asked. She nodded. I unzipped my latex top.
“What’s your bra size?” she asked.
“42DD -- when I wear one.” We shared a laugh.
“They are bigger than mine. I’m a 38D.”
“That’s not much of a difference,” I said. “Why don’t you show me yours? It’s only fair, right?”
“Yes. Will you help me with the zipper?”
I didn’t know Lauren had lowered the straps when I unzipped the dress, and so it fell to the floor. She wasn’t wearing a bra – only thigh-high black hose and lace panties of the same color. She had a great body with long, perfectly-sculpted legs.
“Patricia?” she exclaimed, surprised that her dress was bunched at her ankles. We laughed.
“I didn’t know that was going to happen,” I said.
She turned toward me and stepped forward so our breasts touched, her nipples large like mine and very hard.
So much for the vanilla suburbs.
I was shocked by this turn of events. I didn’t want to go any further, but I also saw Lauren’s move as bold and sexy and not requiring my consent.
Our eyes met. I thought she was going to kiss me and so I hugged her first. We didn’t say a word as we both lightly pushed our breasts against each other.
“Do you like how that feels, Lauren?”
“Very much, Patricia,” she said.
When we stopped after two minutes or so, Lauren asked me: “I should get over it right? About being jealous that your breasts are larger than mine?”
“Absolutely. I don’t think any man could tell the difference. You’re very beautiful, Lauren.”
She thanked me. I kissed her lightly on the right cheek. I removed the small smudge from my dusty pink lipstick. I didn’t want her husband to find it.
“I feel like you’re my new best friend,” Lauren said.
“I am. I enjoy spending time with you. I wouldn’t rub tits with any girl,” I said with a smile as I re-zipped my top. Lauren pulled her dress up and I zipped it for her.
“I read an article about you in a German magazine,” Lauren said, flashing me a shy look. “I used Google Translation to read it. I hope you don’t mind me bringing it up.”
“Of course not,” I replied, having known this was inevitable.
The article had appeared a few months earlier. It was a profile of me. When I had received the interview request, I had consulted Yusuf, who told me to do it if I felt comfortable. The article detailed my work at YSB Kapital and included a picture of me at my desk, in my favorite Pearlsheen pewter and black latex dress.
“Why did you wear latex dresses to work? The article didn’t say. It just said it was your signature look as a modern businesswoman.”
I asked if she could keep a secret. She whispered yes.
“Yusuf dresses me. He picks out my outfit every day. He chose this top and skirt. I wore latex to work because he likes how it looks on me. It was my decision too. I was the boss at that firm and no one was going to question the decisions that I made, including my fashion style. When I work at home, I wear latex. He leaves the outfit for me in the morning.”
I mentioned that we should return to the party. I could tell there was a lot going on in that former beauty queen’s mind. When Yusuf and I returned home that night, I told him Lauren had asked me to show her my tits. He was amused. I didn’t mention how my BFF had initiated rubbing her breasts against mine.
“Do you often show them breasts to other women?” he asked with a smile.
“Only when they ask,” I replied.
From our lovely white house in the suburbs, I set up the charitable foundation that began to fund a wide variety of causes, from researching gender identity to preparing for the next pandemic. It was a consuming job and a complex one, making sure our money made a real difference in people’s lives.
Yusuf was working on a massive business deal, shuttling between New York City, Los Angeles and our home in Smithtown.
One day, Lauren knocked on the front door. The security detail, which monitored the front door and the other entrances, alerted me via text as I worked in my office on the third floor. I walked downstairs to greet her.
“Hi, Lauren. Come on in,” I said.
“Are you sure? If you’re busy, I don’t want to take up your time,” she said.
I felt like I had seen her outfit before, but I couldn’t place it. She wore a red halter top, “Daisy Dukes” jeans shorts, and red pumps. She walked inside and I asked if she’d like a cup of tea.
“Do you have anything stronger?” Lauren asked.
I chuckled with her. I had seen a little sign in Lauren’s kitchen that said “it’s wine o’clock.” I suggested wine. It was 2 p.m. She nodded and I opened a bottle of white wine from Chile and poured us two large glasses.
“I have a dumb question,” she declared. I told her there weren’t any dumb questions.
“Do you wear underwear under latex?”
I smiled. I was wearing a pink latex dress. It was a reasonable question; one that a young woman might not know.
“No, Lauren. The material really is like a second skin. It would look horrible. Trust me.”
She nodded. I could tell there was something bigger on her mind.
“Can I talk with you about my husband?” she asked me. I didn’t hesitate to say yes. I didn’t know much about Maxwell, but I did my best to recall what Yusuf had told me. He also was from Alabama and was 25 years old. Maxwell was a corporate attorney with a lot of potential and known at the country club as among the best golfers.
Lauren said he was from an “old money family.” She said they had started dating when they were freshmen in high school. I knew she needed to talk, but my mind began to wander. Her question about latex and underwear amused me. It was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra and I doubted if there was room for panties under those “Daisy Dukes.”
“Patricia, I’ve never had an orgasm.”
I wasn’t anticipating hearing this confession. At first, I felt guilty about not listening to what led up to this statement. Lauren’s voice choked with emotion. Moving over to the couch, I gave her my hand. She said she had been a virgin until her wedding night. She said Maxwell didn’t give her the attention that she needed. He always was working and when he wasn’t, he spent a big chunk of Saturday playing golf, which she referred to as the “devil’s game.”
She said she needed intimacy desperately.
“That’s why I wanted to rub my tits against yours. I hope you weren’t offended. I didn’t even ask first. I just felt so close to you in that moment.”
“Honey, I wasn’t offended at all. Grown girls play like that all of the time. I’ve done it with my college roommate several times,” I said.
“Really? So there’s nothing wrong with me?” Lauren asked.
“Of course not, sweetheart,” I assured her. As she began to cry, I held her. She also said Maxwell used cocaine and it had gotten out of control. He wanted oral sex, but her mama had taught her that was dirty. He tried to make love to her, but she didn’t get aroused and so they had stopped trying.
I suggested that a therapist could help. She said her husband had told her he wouldn’t do that.
“He wants us to see our pastor. The pastor gives me the creeps. I think he wants to diddle me,” she said.
“What about rehab for his coke habit?”
“He’s worried people will find out at work,” Lauren said.
There was a minute when she didn’t say anything. I stroked her raven-black hair and she stopped crying.
“I’m worried that I’m frigid,” she said softly. I asked her why she felt that way, knowing we were going down a sensitive path.
“I don’t know how to pleasure my husband,” she said. “I don’t know anything about sex. Do you think you can help me?”
“I can try,” I said not knowing what Lauren meant.
It would take two months and dozens of conversations before she asked if she could watch me and Yusuf have sex. I thought it very brave of her to ask, especially since many women would say no. When I asked her why, she said she felt it would “open a door” for her. She didn’t want to see a therapist or watch porn. She wanted to learn from her new best friend.
“I could help, but I can’t make any promises. Obviously, my husband would have to agree and demand absolute confidentiality,” I told her. Lauren said she understood.
I was reluctant to broach the topic with Yusuf. When I did, he said no. He asked if this was a ruse for Lauren to engage in voyeurism.
“How do you know she’s not trying to feed her kink?” he asked.
I told him I knew her well enough to rule that out.
“How would this help?” he asked.
“It might not,” I acknowledged. “But if it did, it would be a wonderful gift from us to her and her husband.”
Yusuf said he needed to know her better. I didn’t tell Lauren that I had confided in my husband. We had Lauren and Maxwell over to our house for dinner several times, and we went to their place for dinners and parties. Yusuf concluded that Maxwell was clueless, although he didn’t offer details. He said Lauren was sweet.
It was after one of those parties that Yusuf agreed to do it – but with one caveat. We both would wear masks to conceal our faces, to eliminate any privacy concerns. I asked him why he had changed his mind.
“I now know that she needs help. She’s a Southern gal who’s deeply repressed about sexuality. I feel like we can open her eyes.”
It was a Monday night in Smithtown – quiet, except for the sounds of crickets in the warm night air. The security detail alerted me that Lauren was walking toward our house. Like clockwork, I heard the doorbell.
Lauren’s husband, Maxwell, was playing softball at a tournament out of town. We held hands as we walked upstairs to the master bedroom. She wore a white blouse, a burgundy mini-skirt, silk stockings, and black pumps. Her hair was braided, which was not typical. I asked her if it was for a special occasion, and she nodded yes.
In the master bedroom, she sat on the couch I had moved so it was about five feet from the bed. I handed her a glass of white wine. She said she was nervous and I said I was too. I told her that was normal and said I needed to change my clothes.
Yusuf and I entered the bedroom half an hour later. A black latex mask concealed everything but his eyes, nostrils and mouth. I never had seen him in a mask and it inflamed my desire. He wore a black suit with a purple tie, a white button-down shirt and black shoes.
My latex mask matched the white latex dress he had selected for me. The expensive dress zipped up the front and I wore white calf-high boots with a stiletto heel.
Yusuf had told me he wanted to show Lauren what it looked like when a man has a slow hand. Perhaps she could get Maxwell to follow suit. Other than that, we had agreed there would not be a script. We would see where things went. We’d be aware of Lauren watching us, but not overly so.
I took off Yusuf’s suit jacket and loosened his tie, but didn’t take it off yet. Laying side by side on the large bed, I traced a line down his chest as he kissed me. I slowly unbuttoned his shirt, as I employed the art of foreplay. I glanced at how his cock had tented his suit pants. I slipped off his shoes and socks. I wanted him nude. Instead, he lowered the top of my dress and buried his face between my breasts.
“Another white-bread night in the suburbs?” he asked me.
“Sixty-nine?” I said. I made eye contact with Lauren for the first time and she smiled. I undressed Yusuf so he was nude.
Moving into the 69 position to suck his cock, I licked a line around his crest and felt his cockhead throb. My unstated question was a simple one. How long could he last? I knew the answer – a long time. I felt his right index finger on my slit and then his tongue for a few seconds.
“Baby, you’ve never done it like this,” he said.
I stopped licking his mushroom-shaped head.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Just sucking my tip and running your tongue over my dick slit.”
I resumed my light licking and played with his balls. I rarely missed an opportunity to put them in my mouth, knowing how he loved that sensation. As I did, I grasped his cock near the base and squeezed lightly. I then began Blowjob 101, taking his hard dick into my mouth and sucking him slowly, my head moving up and down as I concentrated on the first few inches.
Glancing at Lauren, I saw she had unbuttoned the top of her blouse and was moving her hands over her breasts, concealed by a violet lace bra.
I didn’t want Yusuf to come – not yet, especially since he had begun to lick my pussy. I moved out of the 69 and he followed, and we knelt on the bed as we kissed. As we did, I caressed his sexy butt.
“My best feature?” he asked,
“No, just one of many,” I said softly, biting my lower lip.
I lost myself in his kiss. Yusuf’s hazel eyes always darkened when he was aroused. As I looked deeply into them, he told me to “get on all fours” and doing so, I felt him enter my pussy with a thrust.
I faced Lauren, who had taken off her blouse and bra, and now moved her lace panties aside to touch herself.
Pleased that my friend was aroused, I smiled and our eyes met again. Yusuf entered me and the power of his cock overwhelmed me. As he fucked me hard, his body its usual powerful force of nature, I watched as Lauren began to masturbate wildly. Her left hand moved in circles around her clit as she touched her nipples with her right hand. Yusuf made me come and he released his semen deep inside me. We kissed and watched Lauren climax.
At the front door, Lauren told us: “I don’t know how to thank you. I know this will change my life.”
That night, as we returned to bed, I thanked Yusuf.
“I’ll do anything for you, precious,” he said.
I was confident that Lauren was right, that her life would change and it did over the next several months. Watching a loving couple have sex removed multiple psychological barriers for her. Maxwell went into rehab and when he returned to their home clean, their sex life began anew. Suddenly, he didn’t have time for golf or softball. They were too busy fucking.
I was savvy enough to know there were secrets in the suburbs, but I began to wonder if Smithtown had more than its share, especially after I heard about “Girl’s Night.”
Like most people I knew, I met Megan at the country club. She was considerably older than me, 45 to be precise and a platinum blonde from a bottle. Like me, however, she didn’t follow the dress code, eschewing the high-necked cotton blouses, long khaki skirts and flats that most of the housewives wore.
Yusuf and I saw her often because she and her husband often went horseback riding. In fact, it was in the locker room that she asked if I wanted to get coffee sometime and we did a few weeks later. That’s when Megan confided in me that she was bisexual.
I didn’t know the significance of this until Megan invited me to attend “Girl’s Night” a few weeks later.
“Once a month, six or eight of us get together and blow off some steam. No dicks are allowed. Except for toys. In your honor, we’re going to have latex night, so we’ll be in PVC. You don’t have to be bi or lesbian to come, although it helps. It’s just a lot of fun, and no one breathes a word about it,” Megan told me. “If you want to come, call me. And if not, we never talked, OK?”
A day later, Lauren said she had heard that Megan had invited me.
“I thought this was a big secret,” I said. I suddenly realized Megan had told her and that meant Lauren had been to “Girl’s Night.” She confirmed this. “We’d be the two token straight chicks. The other four are bi or lesbian. How can you not go? It’s being held in your honor.”
“Who else will be there?”
“It’s a secret. You’ll have to go to find out.”
“Does a secret mean a secret?” I asked. Lauren said she had attended several times while we were friends. She asked if I knew.
“I didn’t even know the event existed,” I replied.
“There’s your answer,” Lauren said.
I called Megan the next day and said I’d be there. She gave me the time and address and a color – black, for my outfit.
Megan was the host. She lived in a palatial home on the edge of the subdivision. Lauren and I arrived together and Megan greeted us at the door. She wore a turquoise latex halter top and a matching mini-skirt. As assigned, I wore a black latex dress with the shortest of hems – and Lauren wore a matching white one.
“You two are the cutest couple,” said Megan. “I intentionally gave you black and white.”
The party was in the basement. As Megan showed us the way, I felt like I truly was heading for the unknown. I could hear rock music beyond the door, AC/DC’s “Back in Black,” one of my favorite albums.
The first woman I saw was Tamara. “The guest of honor has arrived,” she announced. The other three women came over. I recognized them from the country club, but I didn’t know them. They introduced themselves as AC – Ava and Cathy.
Tamara took me aside. “Thank you for coming. I wanted to apologize for how bitchy I have been. I’m usually not that way.” I accepted her apology.
“You have two choices of drinks – tequila or tequila,” Megan said, walking over to us with two glasses. “We’re not trying to get you drunk, I promise,” she told me.
As the three of us chatted, I noticed Ava and Cathy walk to the middle of the windowless room. Ava fit a strap-on dildo around her waist. She lowered Cathy’s red latex bustier they began to kiss. There were two couches on the opposite sides of where they stood. Megan and Tamara sat on one as Lauren and I stood, sipping our tequilas.
With the strap-on, Ava clearly was the dominant. She had short red hair and wore an electric blue latex bra with matching panties, thigh-high black fishnet hose and black calf-high boots with a stiletto heel. In addition to the red latex bustier, Cathy wore matching panties and black pumps with a platform heel. As the submissive, Cathy followed Ava’s lead and wore a collar with a large D-ring.
“You can touch it,” Ava told Cathy, who used her left hand to grip Ava’s big black dildo.
Ava flicked her tongue over Cathy’s breasts, zeroing in on her erect nipples. As Cathy stroked Ava’s dildo, Ava sucked and licked Cathy’s tits, drawing a series of sighs from Cathy.
On the couch, Megan and Tamara were making out. I asked Lauren if she wanted to sit.
“Let’s go to the toy box first,” she said, leading me to a collection of sex toys on a table. I chose two as did Lauren and we sat on the couch, Ava and Cathy directly in front of us and Megan and Tamara on the other side.
For the first time since my sexual encounter with Mr. Takahashi at Melanie’s party, I was a voyeur.
And it was thrilling.
As Lauren and I sat on the couch, Cathy knelt in front of Ava and took the big dildo into her mouth.
“Take all of it now,” Ava told her.
Cathy moaned as she sucked. The look on Ava’s face was one of pure lust as she watched her girlfriend.
“Do you like my cock?” Ava asked.
“Yes, Mistress,” Cathy replied, grasping the shaft with her left hand, her stiletto nails painted red.
Tamara unzipped Megan’s mini-skirt and took it off. Kneeling in front of Megan, she spread her legs and began to kiss her way down from her breasts to Megan’s pussy, which included a retro bush of pubic hair.
I had chosen two items from the toy box. I decided to use the rabbit vibrator first. I watched Lauren spread her legs and started to use her small silver dildo to rub her clit. I was beyond turned on.
Ava held the base of her dildo while cradling the back of Cathy’s head as she guided it into and out of mouth. Cathy sucked and then licked the shaft, knowing it was going to be in her hot cunt soon. Ava played with her tits as Cathy sucked the dildo’s tip, Ava insisting that she “deep throat it.”
Behind them, Tamara was licking Megan’s pussy. I could hear Megan’s sighs of pure ecstasy.
Ava asked me if there was room for Cathy on the couch. Lauren and I said yes at the same moment. Cathy sat between us as Ava licked her nipples and then slid the dildo into her wet pussy. Cathy moaned, saying “fuck” over and over. Ava moved her hips slowly, getting Cathy adjusted to the dildo’s girth.
Ava knew how to fuck. She gave Cathy the ride of her life, alternating soft and fast thrusts as she used her right hand to caress Cathy’s clit. Lauren was sliding her silver dildo in and out of her pussy faster. I had given up my rabbit for a curved flesh-colored dildo that found my G Spot.
After half an hour of fucking, Cathy came first. Watching them, along with Tamara and Megan, put me over the edge and my orgasm exploded through my body. Lauren came right after me, and then we heard Megan’s shout of release.
It wouldn’t be the last “girl’s night” I would share with these women. I never was judgmental about them being married while satisfying their sapphic desires. I celebrated their sexuality and the six of us became very close friends.
But I never was unfaithful to my husband. Neither was Lauren.
Two years later
Yusuf and I talked, off and on, for a year about having children.
We were on the OBB-Nightjet from Berlin to Budapest in a snowstorm when a little girl sitting across from us told her mother: “Die Frau tragt ein sehr glanzendes Kleid.”
Fluent in German, I knew she said: “The woman is wearing a very shiny dress.”
I smiled at the little girl.
“Danke fur das Kompliment. Wie alt sind Sie?” (Thank you for the compliment. How old are you?)
“Funf.” (Five).
After dinner, Yusuf and I retired to our compartment.
“Yusuf, I feel like I’m ready to have a child with you. I hope you are ready and want the same.”
He kissed me. “This is a very special moment for us, one I treasure and will never forget,” Yusuf told me. His words told me he was ready too. We held each other, talking late into the night about our future as the snow swirled in the darkness.
We returned to the States two month later, to our white house on Thistledown in Smithtown.
Spring had begun. It was a beautiful afternoon, the sun still high and the blue sky cloudless as I sent Yusuf a text.
meet me in the garden, my love
He didn’t see me at first.
“Patricia?” he called out. There were two sections of the garden. I waited for him on a couch in the section surrounded by the pink roses I had grown that stood for admiration, elegance, innocence and gratitude.
“I’m here.”
He smiled as he saw me. He wore a white shirt and jeans. My latex dress was transparent as were my elbow-length gloves.
“It’s been six months,” I told Yusuf, referring to the period I had been off birth control. “I grew these roses to show my admiration for you and gratitude for our lives together. I want to carry your child.”
As I leaned back on the couch, he made love to me. I thought about the moment we met, our first date at the country club, working by his side in Dubai, writing in my journal on my first night in Berlin as he slept like a baby, his marriage proposal within sight of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, our wedding, and the day we moved into our suburban house large enough for children.
I felt his seed flow inside me and we stared into each other’s eyes as pink petals filled the sky.
I gave birth to a girl. We named her Melanie Katarina, her first name to honor my TG female friend and her middle name to honor Yusuf’s longtime chief of staff. And then 15 months later, I gave birth to a boy, Yusuf. We decided to remember Mr. Goldstein by choosing Phillip for our son’s middle name.
Phillip Goldstein’s final words to me were: “Qui facis mirabilia magna solus finis coronat opus,” or “You who act alone with great miracles, the end shall crown the work.”
By receiving the miracle of new life as a woman, my marriage to Yusuf and our two children crowned my work.
The End