Synopsis:

Lance Layton's perfect life crumbles around him when he discover's his wife's infidelity. He seeks background information from the beautiful, exotic Dianna - and receives so much more than he ever bargained for.

Story:

Betrayed — Chapter One
By Cherysse St. Claire  ©

She’s having an affair. I couldn’t ignore it any longer; the evidence
was right there on my monitor that Wednesday afternoon. I had felt so…
tawdry — a word I had thought I would never use — hiring the detective
to follow her, follow up on my suspicions. It was as though I was
betraying her, betraying the trust, the faith I had had in her during
our eight-year relationship, the last three as husband and wife. As the
DVD played out on my computer screen, played out the scenes I had
dreaded, I knew my faith and trust had been misplaced.

Susan and I had been high school sweethearts; the convivial, popular
cheerleader and her intense, intellectual, fiercely-competitive
Cross-Country star. She had broken up with Jeff Spencer shortly before
we became an ‘item’. No one exactly accused the
supernaturally-attractive emerald-eyed Redhead of ‘trading down’. In a
culture that demanded performance, the football team was mired somewhere
in the middle of the conference standings. Jeff, a bona fide heartthrob,
had been a talented-enough quarterback. Yet he, more than any other
person, was the focal point of the team’s lackluster performance.
Rightly or wrongly, he carried the stigma of an also-ran. Meanwhile, my
team’s ‘Long Green Line’ held back-to-back-to-back State championships
and I was the undisputed fastest in State history. Still, they clucked,
she had given up a hunk of U.S. Prime for a runner….

“Screw that,” she had cooed dismissively. “I love a winner. You are
going places and I want to go there with you.”

We had attended the same university, lived together our senior year,
then raced to the altar after graduation. We each strove to attain the
promise of ‘going places’ in our respective careers. She was a rising
star in Marketing and Public Relations, while I was on my way to having
my own seat on the Mercantile Exchange. I ran five miles every morning
before work. Susan worked out regularly at her health club. We
maintained our peak physical tone for ourselves and each other, just as
we had when we first met. Throughout, our sex had been magic. I was the
tender, caring lover she had always dreamed of, the one who pushed all
her buttons the way she liked them pushed, the one she wanted to spend
the rest of her life with.

“AND, you are the prettiest boy I have ever seen,” she had added. “That’s
a big plus.”

I wasn’t certain how much of a ‘plus’ that was, but I appreciated the
compliment. We had the idyllic life — or so I thought.

Susan worked in the Publicity Department of the local professional
football franchise. She had a plumb position as an assistant director
for the team’s promotions. Guess who was now the rising star in the
team’s quarterback corps? You got it! After high school, Jeff Spencer
had landed a scholarship with a Division 1-A school that had a real
program. He had been all-NCAA, a runner-up in the Heisman balloting,
Most Valuable Player in two bowl games and a first-round draft pick. Ihad had
qualms about Susan and Jeff being thrown together again, but
dismissed them as silly male insecurity. After all, that had been high
school….

The increasingly-frequent, increasingly-lengthy absences had alerted me
something hade changed in our relationship. When asked, she put it off
on the demands of her career. It was the eye contact, or lack of it,
that fueled my suspicions. She was loving enough when we were together,
but I sensed an air of distance that hadn’t been there before. Something
had insinuated itself into our lives, separating us, and I had
determined to find out what.

That amorphous ‘what’ was now playing out before me. They were together
again, captured on disk by the most remarkable bit of electronic
surveillance I could possibly imagine. In high school, Jeff Spencer’s
masculine physique had made him the object of female desire and male
envy. Now, he was even more impressive: about six-foot-four to my
five-eight, and outweighing me by at least sixty pounds of rock-hard
muscle.

Jeff was not making love to my wife. He was fucking her, banging her
mercilessly like a piece of meat with his thick, ten-inch tool. I could
almost smell the rut of their sex as I watched the video. There was
little doubt Susan was loving every pummeling thrust. I could actually
see her eyes roll up into her head as she came, observe her body
convulse, watch her throat vibrate as she screamed.

Mind you, I was really, really good at making my wife cum. I could
tease her, inflame her, infuriate her for hours with my tongue and
fingertips alone, until she was begging me for release. When I finally
pushed her over the edge, she gripped my hair tightly, thrust my face
deeply into her pussy, and shuddered through her orgasm for a long,
long time. Still, any man knew this was different. I felt intimidated,
angry, betrayed. More than anything else, I felt a sense of loss.

The detective had been exceedingly thorough; worth every penny. Once he
had identified the offending third party, the surveillance had extended
beyond the affair with my wife, tracking Jeff’s habits as well. That
investigation had paid off spectacularly. I shook my head in utter
disbelief as I observed Jeff’s extracurricular activities when he wasn’t
shagging my wanton wife. To put it mildly, he was no more faithful to
her than she was to me.

The thought of violence came to mind and just as quickly departed. I
didn’t hold any illusions about being able to pull off the ‘perfect
crime’. Any temporary satisfaction such extreme measures might render
would be nullified by a lifetime spent in prison. Jeff’s philandering
had revealed a vulnerability that could conceivably be exploited to my
advantage. It would take time to formulate an appropriate plan. For now,
the two cheaters deserved each other.

The lurid scenes of that follow-up surveillance sparked something else
in me; a fascination for a world I had only heard about in vague,
titillating references. It had existed around me since we moved to the
city, yet I had never given it a second thought. Now, faced with it on
the screen before me, I felt compelled to seek this world out. If I was
going to have my vengeance on the pair, I reasoned, this was the place
to start. Besides, what did I have left to lose?

***

My first visit to Ringers was a real head trip. It was Friday night, two
days after my idyllic world had collapsed in ruin. I had had zero
experience with female impersonators in my life. Now, within the
tastefully-decorated confines of the city’s most famous — notorious —
F.I. “show lounge”, I was surrounded by them. The first thing I learned
was, these ‘girls’ are good at what they do. Granted, most of the
performers lip-sync to Pop divas’ recordings rather than sing. Still,
the visual presentations are stunning. As far as the ‘impersonation’
aspect goes, many genetic females would be green with envy over these
faux-femme fatales.

I spotted the girl right away, remembering her from the surveillance
disk. It was as though Raquel Welsh had cloned herself. Now, that
delectable doppelganger was perched on a high-backed stool at the bar,
one stocking-clad leg crossed alluringly over the other, gazing out over
the crowd with casual insouciance. I had difficulty picturing her with
‘something extra’ nestled between those alluring thighs. We struck up a
casual conversation. Her name was Dianna. Absent the heels, I judged her
to be about my own height. I was more than a little nervous. The
gorgeous brunette smiled seductively and agreed to share a drink with
me; the first of several. She was surprisingly approachable. Over the
course of the evening, I found out why.

Through my new acquaintance, I learned two more things about the scene.
First, the term ‘female impersonator’ is woefully out of date. Most of
these girls have long since crossed the line between impersonation and
transformation and have no intention of crossing back. Dianna was a
stunning example of that. Second, I confirmed that many of these girls
made at least a marginal living via the oldest profession — mostly
because no legitimate employer will hire them to do anything more
meaningful.

After several more drinks, we adjourned to ‘someplace more private’
to continue our conversation. Yes, money changed hands; she was good to
give me her time and I wanted to make it worth her while. When she saw
the amount I offered, she smiled bemusedly and declared she was mine for
the evening. All I wanted was conversation. It wasn’t going to be about
sex. I was just gathering information.

She viewed with disdain the picture I had produced from my pocket.

“Oh, him,” she sniffed. “Yeah, I know that freak. He has dated me a few
times — among other girls at the club. At least he’s got the goods — and
knows how to use it.”

“Freak?” I inquired tentatively.

I instinctively feared for Susan’s well-being, in spite of my anger at
what she had done.

“Baby, they’re all freaks,” Dianna maintained. “Fine, upstanding, solid
citizens, pillars of the community — until nobody is watching. They love
to get down ‘n dirty like everyone else, more than most. They’re really
into girls like me, too, but don’t want anyone in their ‘straight’ world
to know. As far as I know, he hasn’t taken it up his punk ass yet, but
he loves to do mine — and take it down the pipe.”

That was more information than I wanted. It wasn’t that much of a
stretch to envision my beautiful companion in the arms of an admitted
stud like Jeff Spencer. It was a stretch to picture the “man’s man”
sucking cock. ‘Freak’ seemed to be an apt description.

Perhaps it was the liquid courage that was clouding my judgment. I found
myself more and more attracted to this sensual siren with each passing
moment. Still, her candor was… unsettling. For all her obvious allure, I
was hung up on the secret lurking beneath. I desired and feared her at
the same time. What did that say about me? Whatever I might have felt
about what she was, I began to have misgivings about myself.

“I’m here,” I pointed out. “Does that make me a freak, too?”

My beautiful companion cocked one eyebrow and smiled with amusement.

“Like you said,” she replied, “you’re here - aren’t you?”

With that, she repositioned herself in my lap and wrapped her arms
around my neck. If I could have seen the pores in her flawless
complexion, I could have counted them. I could smell her
cinnamon-tinged breath and the heady aroma of her perfume. Her prominent
cleavage looked done rather than fake. I wanted to hide my erection,
keep her from finding out how much she was turning me on. She knew
better, and smiled triumphantly.

“You tell me, Sugar,” she purred. “Aren’t you feeling just a little bit
freaky? Before you try to deny it, your friend is telling me yes.”

She ground her bottom into my lap to confirm her point.

The girl’s body was lushly proportioned, to be sure, but she wasn’t all
that heavy. Why was I out of breath? Why was my heart pounding? She
took my confused silence as a tacit admission.

“That’s what I thought,” she continued. “Why don’t we get more…
comfortable? I mean, you’ve already paid for the time.”

The intoxicating vixen removed her hands from my neck and began
unbuttoning my shirt. I willed my hands to seize hers, stop her from
doing what she was doing, what she was going to do. My hands refused to
move. I was caught in the gaze of her big chocolate-brown eyes like a
deer in headlights.
I don’t remember undressing her, nor moving with her to the bed. I
remember lying on my back with her astride me, feeding me a mouthful of
tit. I had always thought Susan’s C-cups were the best of the best.
Dianna’s were bigger, fuller, firmer — and demanded my attention.

That wasn’t all that demanded my attention. I could feel her down there,
feel something big where it had no business being. It snaked its way
around my crotch, rubbing up against my own rock-hard dick. I tried to
put it out of my mind, concentrate on her magnificent titties, but
couldn’t.

“You like that, don’t you, Baby?” she trilled, “me rubbing against you
like that, all up in your business. Your white-bread wife can’t give you
that; no GG can. I’ve got what you need, what you really want.”

I didn’t want this! I just wanted to know what a man like Jeff Spencer
saw in her, why he would even cheat on a prize like Susan for someone
like this. Instead, I was in bed with this, this… ho’, trapped beneath
her, sucking her tits like there was no tomorrow, feeling her fuckpole
rubbing up against my abdomen. The really insane thing was, my cock was
bigger and harder than it had ever been before in my life! What on earth
was it thinking?

Then, she started in on me with her hand. The sensation of her long
fingernails gently scraping the flesh of my inner thigh was exquisite
torture. Before long, those fingers were finding their way higher,
gently caressing my rigid fuckstick. Ohmygod, what a sensation! Dianna
softly encircled my joypole and began to stroke it. I was going out of
my mind with frenzied desire.

The talented T-girl had two hands. While her right hand worked my cock,
her left hand found my right and slowly, firmly moved it into position
on her rock-hard rod. No! No, no, no, no, absolutely NOT! I am not Gay!
I do not want a man! I don’t… I don’t… don’t… Jeezus, this is so hot!

It was almost a relief when she slid down my body and slipped my bone
into her mouth. It was just ‘normal’ sex again, unburdened by thoughts
of my partner’s meaty surprise. Now I knew what it was like to be
ministered to by truly talented lips and tongue! My hands went to her
head unbidden. I just held them there, not attempting to force her face
down on me. It seemed like… the right thing to do, one more connection
between us. Connection? What was I saying?

That ‘connection’ was not long in coming. My fellatrix abruptly pivoted
on my pole, straddling my head with her firm thighs. Suddenly, her
more-than-formidable sex was inches from my face. By that time, I was on
sensory overload. I just stared in awe as her meat dangled in my vision.
Then, she lowered herself to me. I vowed I wasn’t going to do it; I
wasn’t that way. I tried to resist, to keep my mouth shut. The attention
she was giving my dong had my heart pounding and my lungs heaving. Her
firm thighs gripped my head, smothering my nose. I held out as long as I
could, but finally had to open my mouth to breathe….

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmyg…umpf! I shuddered involuntarily
as my mouth was invaded. If I hadn’t been a little drunk, I might have
spat it out altogether — or worse. She didn’t force herself on me.
Rather, she dipped it in just a little, enough to insert the helmet. My
tongue touched it and recoiled. It was such a revolting, unnatural
feeling. My mind raced. Unnatural? Was it any more natural for Susan
when she had blown me? Was it more natural for Dianna, who was even then
giving me a world-class blowjob? Being here with her, this way, it was
becoming increasingly difficult to think of her as anything but the
beautiful woman she appeared. If I had no problem eating out my wife,
could I reject a woman as attractive as Dianna just because she had an
‘outie’ instead of an ‘innie’?

I tickled it just a little with my tongue. I felt the tremor course
through her body and was encouraged by it. I softly lathed the
underside of the glans with the tip, then swirled my tongue around and
around. She responded by pulling it out a little, then pushed it in a
little deeper. She repeated this again and again, until the tip tickled
my throat. I gagged involuntarily. She pulled back a bit and paused,
then eased forward again. I coughed a little, but it wasn’t as much a
shock this time. Sensing this, the comely courtesan lifted her own mouth
off my joyrod for a moment.

“Open your throat, Sugar,” she cooed encouragingly. “Breathe through
your nose. Don’t fight it. Just let it happen. You know you want it.”

I struggled with myself, attempting to remind myself, convince
myself I did not want it. Yet I did nothing to discourage her oral
assault. No one was more surprised than I when I realized my nose was
being tickled by her neatly-trimmed pubic hair. A bizarre memory popped
into my head; a flashback to my younger days of avid television
watching.

I can’t believe I ate the whoooooooole thing.

I was in no position to see Dianna’s face. I sensed her smile. Perhaps
it was just the way her mouth moved around my cock that made me think it.

The tidal wave of sensations and emotions was just too much to resist. I
was caught up, overwhelmed, swept away in the powerful rush. My vision
blurred. My back arched off the mattress. Blood pounded in my temples. I
heard nothing beyond the intense roaring in my ears. My body spasmed as
every neural synapse seemed to fire at once. I came in quarts, gallons,
oceans — at least, it felt that way.

After a time, the ripples of passion faded. I felt weak as a kitten.
Dianna withdrew herself at both ends, turned around, and lay down atop
me. She kissed me deeply, something she had not done up to that time. As
soon as I opened my mouth to receive her probing tongue, I knew I was in
deep, deep trouble. She hadn’t swallowed! Now, she was pushing the
remnants of my own explosion into my mouth with her forceful tongue. I
struggled ineffectually beneath her, drained of strength from my
previous exertions. In the end, she had her way with me yet again. I
swallowed my own spunk, eyes closed, yet mind wide open to the enormity
of what I had done.

I rolled over on my stomach in shame. I had cum in buckets, but hadn’t
gotten Dianna off. Once again, I hadn’t been able to satisfy my lover. I
couldn’t look her in the eye, afraid of seeing myself, my failure,
reflected there. She stretched out on top, placing her hands over mine.
Her cock was just as stiff as it had been inside my mouth, a constant
reminder of my inadequacy. It nestled in the cleft between my firm
asscheeks. Then, she shifted slightly — and it moved….

“No, no,” I cried out weakly.

She controlled me easily, holding my wrists tightly, spreading my legs
with her thighs.

“Shhhhh,” Dianna whispered in my ear. “It’s okay, Baby Girl. I know
you’re
scared. The first time is always the hardest. I’ll be gentle with you; I
promise. Mama knows what you need. Mama knows best.”

A real man would have resisted. A real man would have bounced her off
the opposite wall, stomped on her head, then walked out in a huff. Then
again, a real man wouldn’t have been in bed with a shemale hooker while
his wife was being fucked stupid by an ex-boyfriend from fucking high
school.

I felt the finger first, coated with cold, slippery goo, making my
insides nice and slick. I shivered a little; from that, and
anticipation of what was to come. The finger was withdrawn. Then, a
much larger presence made itself known against my puckered hole.

“Are you ready, Sugar?” she purred. “Here we go.”

She was gentle with me, just as she had been with my mouth. I felt her
push forward a little, pause, pull back, then push forward yet again.
Even as I tried to relax my body, it felt like her helmet was going to
split me in two. I moaned piteously, just as any virgin does at the
moment she gives up her cherry. The deeper my lover entered me, the
more intense the pain became. As bad as that pain was, it was the shock,
surprise, awe of being taken that way that dominated my thoughts.

In time, she squeezed all of herself into me. I felt ripped apart. The
tempo and intensity of her thrusts increased slowly, until she was
pounding into me. Her balls slapped against my crotch. She dug her
talons into my shoulders, yanking my body towards her in time with her
thrusts.

My shame welled up inside me: shame for not being man enough
to satisfy my wife, shame for being cuckolded behind my back, shame for
not standing up for what was mine, shame for being seduced, then taken
so easily, so forcefully, by a shemale hooker. That shame boiled over,
exploding within my mind in a blinding flash. I screamed — not to stop,
but to fuck me harder. When she came, she flooded my insides with an
intensity I imagined to be equal to my own. The shock of such a deed
pushed me over the edge once more, this time without touching my own
member.

I was completely spent, physically and emotionally. My humiliation knew
no limits. What had Susan called me? The ‘prettiest boy she had ever
met.’ Obviously, a ‘pretty boy’ had no chance against a stud like Jeff
Spencer in her eyes. Just as obviously, the beautiful boy-girl atop me
felt the same way; she had just made me her punk bitch. Self-esteem?
What’s that? I threw on my pants, fumbling frantically with the zipper
and belt, then swept up my other clothes in my arms and fled for the
door. I heard Dianna call out good-naturedly behind me as the door
closed.

“See you again soon… Freak.”

I didn’t go home. I couldn’t; not now, not ever again, not to live,
anyway. I certainly wasn’t ready to face Susan, assuming she was even
home. I got a hotel room that night, took a long, hot, thorough shower,
turned off my cell phone, then crawled between the sheets. I slept, but
in a tortured turmoil commensurate with my waking experience.

***

It was the Week from Hell. Granted, it had actually begun when I fled
Dianna’s apartment Friday night and extended through that long, lost
weekend. On Monday morning, I called the office and took personal time.
Later, when I was certain Susan would not be home, I returned to our
Printer’s Row loft and removed my clothes and personal items. The
building was going condo; thank God I hadn’t signed the conversion
contract yet. I gazed around what had been our — my — happy home one
last time, recalling memories of much better times. Then, I walked out
the door. It closed behind me with a resounding click of finality.

I filed the divorce papers first thing, citing “Open and Notorious
Adultery”. After viewing the DVD, my attorney assured me my case was a
slam-dunk. Divorcing her financially was almost as easy, owing to some
simple precautions I had taken along the way; separate accounts, asset
protection, offshore holdings. With her own income, plus the assets of
her millionaire boyfriend, she would have no need to come after my
assets, much less legal standing to do so. My attorney had quipped all
Susan would be able to do was bend over and spread her cheeks, something
that didn’t appear to be a problem for her. I inwardly shuddered at the
reference. He promised to file the papers with the court clerk before
the end of the day and see to it they were served at her office the next
morning.

My cell phone began ringing around lunchtime Tuesday. Funny; she hadn’t
bothered to call all weekend or Monday to see if I was all right. I
guess she hadn’t noticed I hadn’t come home. Caller ID told the tale. I
summarily rejected Susan’s calls and instructed our office’s
receptionist not to put her through if she called there. My estranged
mate switched tactics, and the cell’s display came up “Private Caller”.
I wasn’t about to be that easily fooled again, and let the calls go to
Voicemail.

On Tuesday afternoon I signed the lease-with-option on a nice
two-bedroom in Streeterville, across the street from North Pier. It had
a breathtaking view of Ogden Slip and the lake beyond. I liked boats
and had always enjoyed watching all the pleasure craft tie up at the
berths in the slip while their owners dined at the adjacent eateries. I
was looking forward to the coming summer. It was nice to have something
to look forward to again.

The next three days were filled with the loosely-organized feeding
frenzy that is commodities trading. After work, there was the
camaraderie of fellow traders and co-workers. The office grapevine had
pronounced something was up between me and my wife and everyone avoided
the subject. The condo was sumptuous, made more so by the furnishings I
equipped it with. The neighborhood was young, gentrified, and hip. The
evening crowds below hustled to and from the surrounding restaurants,
clubs, and shops.

Every night since the previous Friday had been long, lonely, and
tortured. Sex haunted my dreams, just as it had dominated my waking
thoughts, my life, for a week. In my dreams, I was walking naked down
the middle of North Michigan Avenue. The street was lined with people;
my wife and her lover, my friends, co-workers, complete strangers. Sex
was going on all around me and I was powerless to affect its course or
outcome. Everyone mocked me openly.

Through it all, I was aware of one particular pair of eyes watching me
intently, bemusedly, as though I was some form of entertainment — or a
personal plaything. It embarrassed, humiliated me to know those eyes
watched my every move. I hated them, feared them, yet desired them. I
never wanted to see them again, yet couldn’t bear to be without them.
Those eyes were brown, not green.

The call came Friday afternoon.

“How long were you planning to hold out?” Dianna inquired nonchalantly.

“Bitch,” I growled.

“Always,” she deflected gracefully.

“Did you call to rub my nose in it — again?” I asked pointedly.

“Don’t take me there, Lover,” she snipped abruptly. “You could have left
at any time. You didn’t. Don’t even try to tell me I made you do
anything you weren’t willing to do.”

She paused a moment, as if re-considering her words.

“Actually,” she continued in a much more conciliatory tone, “I may have
sent you off on the wrong note the other night. I meet so many fr… I
mean, I have a bad habit of treating all men the way I have been
treated. You didn’t deserve that. You were nothing but nice to me, a
real gentleman. The fact you didn’t leave makes me think I made an
impression on you, too. Am I right?”

There was so much I wanted to say, how I had thought of little but her
for the past week. I couldn’t even put it into words.

“Well, at least you’re not denying it,” the bewitching brunette
summarized. “For what it’s worth, you are the most attractive lover I
have had in a long time. I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I
have been thinking about you all week. I was wondering; would you
be willing to… let me make it up to you? On the house?”

I couldn’t believe it. Dianna probably had sex with a dozen men or more
a week. Yet, she was thinking about me? She wanted to see me on a
personal basis? I may not have been the most perceptive man on the
planet, but I sensed her offhand comment about it being a ‘freebie’ -
inserting at least an oblique reference to the commercial origin of our
tryst — was as much to mollify her own doubts as mine. For all my
earlier ambivalence, I realized I had been obsessing over her, too. I
couldn’t make the arrangements fast enough.

I was extremely agitated on the drive to her place in Lakeview. The
traffic on Lake Shore Drive was so slow. If that wasn’t bad enough,
parking was impossible in her neighborhood. She buzzed me in and was
waiting at her door when I reached the top of the stairs. She wore only
garter belt, stockings, stiletto sandals, and a floor-length sheer black
peignoir. She was exquisite, head to toe. Her eyes danced and she
flashed an alluring smile.

“Hi again, Sugar,” she purred. “Welcome b…”

I cut her off with a straight arm to her chest. My momentum
carried her backwards, across the tiny studio apartment. To her credit,
she kept her balance beautifully in those skyscraper stilts, right up to
the moment she fell backwards onto the bed. I was on her in a flash,
then had her cock in my mouth a moment later. I teased, tormented,
tortured her with my lips and tongue for over an hour, bringing her to
the edge, then backing off, only to bring her close again. Finally, I
allowed her to shoot her load down my throat. By that time, she was
screaming, thrashing wildly, and pummeling my shoulders with her fists.
It was something like ten minutes before she was able to take a deep
breath and speak.

“Well,” she exclaimed, staring at the ceiling. “So much for idle
chit-chat. Does this mean all is forgiven?”

“Do you have plans for the rest of the weekend?” I countered.

“I guess I do now,” she chirped. “I was going to work. A girl’s gotta
pay rent, you know.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I returned. “I’m good for it.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” she asked cautiously.

“Let’s work on it and see what happens,” I replied.

She raised one eyebrow in that manner I found so attractive. Then, she
began massaging my engorged, aching cock.

“Work on it, huh?” she teased. “Oh yeah, Honey; I’ll ‘work on it’. Tit
for tat — so to speak.”

***

Notes:

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Synopsis:

Lance and Dianna go on a shopping spree for a Valentine's Day dream date. The preparations turn into something beyond Lance's wildest dreams.

Story:

Betrayed Ch. 02
by Cherysse St. Claire  ©

Chapter 2: Shop 'Til You Pop

The sex was torrid and went all night. I worshipped every inch of her
magnificent body with my lips, tongue, fingertips. She did the same to me.
I took her from behind, entered her doggy-style. I fucked her pussy with
long, languid strokes even as I was stroking her meaty clitty with one
hand. I willed her to cum, dared her not to, challenged her to hold out
against the sensual assault that always drove Susan crazy. Dianna did cum;
loudly, passionately, and more than once.

Throughout the night, she teased, taunted, tempted my puckered hole with
her fingertip, searching for an opening in more than the physical sense.
My mind had struggled with exactly that the past seven days. Why had I
allowed it to happen the first time? My shame and humiliation came back to
me, reminding me. I was a cuckold, it said. After last weekend, I was also
a sissy; Dianna's punk bitch. True, I had been a little drunk then and
hadn't seen it coming. Now that she was making the overture once again,
when I was in complete control of my senses and no longer taken by
surprise, what would I do?

Complete control? What a joke! For more than a week, I had been presented
with evidence heaped upon evidence that my personal life was completely
out of my control. Cuckold. Sissy. Punk Bitch. Okay, Lance; get a grip. A
commodities trader deals in options every day. What were my options? I
could continue to fight; that was the American Way. I could persist in my
scorched-earth campaign of spite, malice, and revenge. Susan certainly
deserved that for what she did — but did I? Was I ready to allow my thirst
for vengeance to consume me, even as I sought to devour her? I could just
walk away from everything in my personal life and start over; flip that
old Etch-a-Sketch over, give it a shake, and Presto! Start with a clean
slate. I had my career, a spectacular income, a new home, a future. What
did that future contain?

Again and again, my thoughts returned to Dianna. She was more woman than I
had ever known before in my life. A lot more than ANY woman, Buddy; think
about it.... I hadn't been able to get her out of my mind all week. I
certainly couldn't now, with her body pressed intimately against mine. It
felt good. It felt right. Being with her presented a tantalizing third
option: what if I neither fought, nor ran? What if I just... gave in? She
had certainly indicated she wanted me that way. Hadn't I cum in buckets
that first time? Hadn't she? Had not my surrender to her been the most
intense personal and emotional connection I had had with any human in my
entire life? Where was the harm in just letting go, and seeing where the
current took me? Cuckold. Sissy. Punk Bitch. Those were just words....

I responded to my own soul-searching by spreading my legs just a bit.
Dianna took that cue, then took me.

We watched the sun come up over the lake, then slept like the dead until
noon. It felt good to shower with someone again. It felt better to have
sex in the shower. We reprised our reciprocal roles; she took my meat,
then I took hers. Being with her this way, I didn't feel the guilt or
shame of becoming a 'switch-hitter' I would have felt — had felt - even a
week before.

As we were toweling each other dry, she kissed me tenderly on the lips.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Lover," she purred sweetly. "I generally don't do
holidays because I don't have anyone really special to do them with. Thank
you for making this the most special day I have had in a long time."

Damn! With all I had had swimming around in my head in the past week, I
had completely forgotten what day this was. I didn't even have a card for
her. The thought just suddenly popped into my mind. I somehow knew she
would ask the question and wanted to be prepared for it when she did. I
dashed into the bedroom, grabbed my cell phone, dialed the number I knew
by heart, and started pulling strings....

Dianna followed me into the bedroom a few minutes later, a towel wrapped
around her lush physique. She embraced me and kissed me warmly. Then, she
gazed into my eyes with a twinkle in hers.

"So," she began teasingly, "what's next? I mean, what do you do for an
encore after this?"

"Gee, I dunno," I teased back. "I mean, what can I do to keep a gorgeous
woman like you coming back? I had given a thought to taking you out for
dinner tonight; someplace really nice. I don't know what you have in your
closet, so I suppose I'll just have to take you shopping."

Her eyes lit up like klieg lights at a Hollywood premier. She hugged me so
hard, I thought she would crush my ribcage.

"Oh, Baby," she breathed lustily in my ear. "You know how to push all a
girl's buttons. Let's go get dressed."

Our first task was to retrieve my clothes from wherever they had landed in
Dianna's frenzy to disrobe me the night before. A problem became
immediately apparent as my enchantress gingerly held up my briefs - or
what was left of them - between her thumb and forefinger. They were still
drenched with pre-cum from the long anticipatory drive from the office.
Then, in the heat of passion, she had literally ripped them from my body.
She silently arched one eyebrow quizzically and smiled bemusedly. I
returned the smile and shrugged my shoulders just a little. She laughed.

"I guess I'll just have to do without," I observed.

She pressed her body against mine and gently massaged my cock with one
hand.

"While it would be hot to have you so... accessible inside your pants,"
she cooed, "I think we will try for something a bit more modest for now.
If you oozed that much last night, before you even got here, you would
ruin that beautiful suit today. I promise you that."

She went to her dresser drawer, rummaged around for a moment, then
returned.

"These will do the trick," she chirped with a grin.

I beheld the pink satin bikini panties with ruffled lace trim which she
held against my crotch with two fingers from each hand. My mind swam in a
confused tangle of thoughts.

"That's modest?" was all I could think to say. The look in her eyes was
pure seduction.

"You like the way I look in my panties, don't you?" she asked in a tone of
faux innocence.

I could hardly deny it.

"Well, being with you all day, thinking of you in a pair of my panties
while we shop, will drive me to distraction. That's really hot, Sugar. Do
it just for me... please?"

Just give in, and see where the current takes me....

She helped me into the panties, sliding them up my toned, hairless legs,
and nestling them snugly around my hips. Gazing directly into my eyes, she
reached her hand into the panties, cupped my manhood, and tucked it down
and back between my thighs.

"Now that I think of it," she postulated, "we are probably going to need a
little extra protection. Wait here."

She glided into the bathroom and returned a moment later with several
folds of toilet tissue in her hand. She reached inside my panties and
positioned the tissue under my cockhead.

"There, that's much better," she mused. "We girls always do that to
protect ourselves from leaks."

Removing her hand, she cupped my pantied crotch from the outside and
massaged it gently.

"I have a hunch you are going to be leaking heavily today, Sweetie," she
whispered in my ear. "At least, you will if I have anything to say about
it."

Next, she had me help her into a heavily-boned, lace-up black satin
corset.

"If you are taking me someplace special," she purred, "I want to make sure
I look special. Corseting is so sexy, I just can't help but feel like the
most beautiful woman in the world."

I couldn't imagine her looking or feeling like anything but. After she
showed me how to fasten the front busk for her, she placed both palms
against the wall, leaned into it, and taught me how to pull the laces a
little at a time from the top and bottom, working towards the middle.
After some effort on my part, I had the garment laced as tightly as it
would go, then tied the laces off and tucked them in the way Dianna
instructed.

My companion displayed the most gorgeous hand-span waist I could imagine.
Her full, firm breasts stood out prominently. Her hips and tush were
spread out even more provocatively than before. She made the picture even
more erotic by rolling a pair of suntan stockings up her shapely legs and
attaching them to the corset's garters. She made a show of donning a
semi-sheer black chiffon blouse, waist-length, snug-fitting lavender suede
motorcycle-style jacket and micro-miniskirt, and matching open-toed,
lavender suede platform mules. The high stiletto heels arched her legs and
caused her to thrust out her tush and braless breasts alluringly. The
jacket was left unzipped, yielding a tantalizing glimpse of her prodigious
charms. She made up her face accordingly; a bit heavier than I normally
associated with daywear, but attractively so and totally in keeping with
the personality of this exciting woman. She rummaged around in her closet
for a few moments, returning with a matching lavender suede clutch purse
and an oversized black leather Capezio bag.

"Two purses?" I questioned.

She gave me a quick buss on the lips.

"You're taking me shopping for a dress for tonight, aren't you?" she
inquired bemusedly. "What do you intend for me to do with what I'm wearing
now; throw it out? Forget that, Lover; I adore this outfit. Plus, I think
it looks really sexy on me. Don't you agree?"

At least one part of my anatomy certainly did. She pressed her body
against mine, cupping my angry manhood with one hand. Her silent, knowing
smile spoke volumes. I had to get us out of here before hormones took over
and we had to start from scratch. Makeup essentials and her identification
went into the clutch; her bulky wallet and keys went into the bag. Then,
she flashed me a dazzling smile.

"All set," she chirped. "Let's go. I can't wait."

I'm sure for Dianna, a hot day of shopping meant visiting the little shops
along Clark Street or maybe Century Mall. Her eyes glazed over as we
pulled into the underground lot at Water Tower Place. She affirmed she had
been there before, adored its atrium design, brass and marble ambience,
glass elevators, and seven levels of snob-appeal department stores and
specialty shops, but had never been able to afford much more than looking.
I avowed we would do a whole lot more than that before the afternoon was
over. My black Yves St. Laurent trenchcoat was stored safely away in the
trunk; I wouldn't need it until we returned. I took my companion's arm in
mine and steered her towards the elevator alcove.

Lingerie shopping came first. While Dianna alone might have drawn the
interest of the sales staff, Dianna in the company of a man wearing a
designer suit and tie drew them like flies to honey. My lover allowed the
associates to steer us to the appropriate displays and locate her
preferred styles, sizes and colors. She demurred on their offers of
assistance in the dressing room, avowing her boyfriend was all the help
she needed. Before I could utter a word, she scooped up garments in one
hand, my wrist in the other, and headed for the changing room.

When she said I would be all the help she needed, it was no idle boast. I
was fastening hooks and adjusting straps the entire time. Each time she
tried on a different set, she admired it in the mirror and asked what I
thought. What could I say? She made everything look good. I had originally
anticipated finding something just for that evening, but she found
matching three-piece sets — bra, panties, and garter belt - in Winter
White, Navy, Emerald, Hot Pink, Lilac, Crimson, and Black. She liked them
all so much and they looked so good on her, how could I make her choose
just one?

Of course, my decision was heavily influenced by Dianna rubbing my crotch
suggestively each time she asked my opinion. The sensation of her
ministrations on my satin-and-lace-encased manhood was indescribable. My
cock was so hard, and stayed that way.

"You know," she cooed, "you seem to like me in this corset so much, I just
might have to wear it more often. That, and all those garter belts, means,
I will also need..."

"More stockings?" I inquired, smiling. "I think I can arrange that."

I slipped out of the changing room and located the associate we had been
working with. After a brief interval, I returned to my girlfriend with two
dozen pair of assorted ultra-sheer hosiery. By the time we returned to the
check-out stand, Dianna was wearing a lilac lace underwired push-up bra,
matching bikinis, and Jet Black seamed stockings with French heels under
her outfit. I was sporting a raging hard-on inside my satin panties.

"I'm in a 'red' mood today," she whispered in my ear. "I feel really hot
when I'm with you. Let's find something to match; something scorching."

It took another hour and visits to several high-end retailers to find the
right dress. There were several she liked or I liked. We finally found one
we both liked. It was a dazzling red sequined sleeveless sheath with a
halter neck. The deeply-plunging sweetheart bodice revealed a breathtaking
amount of cleavage. The scooped back just hid the upper edge of her
corset. The hem hugged her thighs tightly, just covering the tops of her
stockings. Dear God, it was exquisite on her!

We spotted the display in the window of a jewelry store. It was a set;
diamond-and-ruby pendant earrings, multi-tiered necklace and multi-strand
bracelet. I looked at her; she, at me. Our shared smile told the tale. It
was my turn to grab her wrist and whisk her inside. The gems were perfect,
exquisite on her. The associate, perceiving a ripe opportunity, withdrew
another box from a drawer beneath the display case and opened it. Within
lay a single-strand diamond-and-ruby bracelet that obviously was meant to
complete the set.

Dianna stared at it quizzically for a moment, then at her other,
un-adorned wrist. I knew immediately what the second span had been
intended for.

"May I?" I inquired of the associate.

"Please," he consented, beaming his delight.

I lifted the delicate strand with both hands, knelt before Dianna's feet,
encircled her trim left ankle and deftly clasped the clasp. She trembled
slightly at the intimacy.

"Oh, Lance," she gushed, "it's perfect — just perfect."

The platinum card was out in a flash and the beaming associate began
tallying the sale. The smile on Dianna's face froze as she watched the
figures add up on the invoice. She grabbed me by my lapels and pulled me
aside.

"They're... real?" she whispered hoarsely. "We can't... I couldn't...."

"So... what," I responded earnestly, "this whole, magical experience
should be fake, just like my sham of a marriage? Dianna, we are going to
do this; if not for you, for me. I'm not expecting you to commit to me for
a lifetime. This whole weekend, starting from when I walked through your
door last night, is shaping up to be exactly that; Magic. When it's over,
I want to be able to look back and say: 'This was real.'"

"But Baby," she protested, "I'm not real. You don't know anything about
me...."

I shushed her with a fingertip to her plush, inviting lips.

"Eyes of the beholder, Baby Girl," I responded softly. "You're real to me.
This moment in time, if only a moment, is real. Let's enjoy it together
and let tomorrow take care of itself."

Her second assault on my ribcage was more impassioned than the first.
Still, she took great care in folding the receipt and insisted it went
safely into my wallet.

The shoes happened by pure serendipity. We were on our way to Mrs. Field's
to buy some Nibblers to tide us over until dinner and saw the exquisite
sandals in the window of a specialty shoe store. They were nothing more
than thin soles and series of narrow, red sequined straps, revealing
rather than concealing the foot and wrapping, then buckling around the
ankle. All of it was perched on pencil-thin five-and-one-half-inch
stiletto heels. Dianna almost ripped my arm out of its socket dragging me
into the shop. There was no question these were the right shoes for the
dress, or that they were ideally suited for Dianna's mesmerizing strut.

My companion was no slouch when it came to makeup. In fact, she could have
gotten a job in Hollywood anytime she chose. Still, this was an afternoon
of pampering, so I had made an appointment for her at the salon next door
in the Ritz Carlton to do her hair, makeup and nails for her. She was
fussy about the right 'look' and insisted on changing into the dress and
heels to achieve the right effect. In honor of the occasion and my
all-too-willing assent, she had the nail technician do a full set in an
ultra-glamour length, ruby-red with gold nail art, and gently curving
downward. Her toenails were done to match. Her street clothes had gone
into her shoulder bag. The jewelry went on, along with a few spritzes of
perfume, and she was done! My already-stunning escort had become an
otherworldly blend of elegance, glamour, and pure carnal desire.

The bewitching brunette insisted on a final 'walk-through' of the mall —
specifically, to show off. We used the enclosed skywalk to return to the
mall, which turned out to be a Godsend. Winter still held its grip on the
Windy City; snow was whipping sideways on the side streets that
intersected Michigan Avenue, as it so often did. I strode determinedly
into the mall, my gorgeous companion in tow, and headed for one final,
impromptu stop.

Don't ever let anyone tell you differently; Silver Fox is stunning on an
attractive brunette. The instant the associate held up the coat, Dianna
began trembling like a leaf in a Nor'easter. She didn't slip into it so
much as the coat enveloped her in its comforting warmth, all the way to
her trim ankles. The glazed look in her eyes was better than Sex; it
lasted longer. She looked down and around, trying to take it all in. When
she lifted the right sleeve, she noted the attached tag and read it. I
steadied her as she shook uncontrollably.

"Baby, you could by a car for this!" she protested.

"Don't be silly," I quipped. "What would a coat do with a car?"

She punched my shoulder for that.

"Besides," I continued, "I already have a car. You don't have one of
these. At least, you didn't until now."

Full-length couturier Silver Fox coat: if you have to ask, you can't
afford it. Look of utter adoration on the face of the recipient:
priceless.

Dianna was torn; whether to wear the coat or drape it over her arm for our
final walk-through. Sheer wretched excess won out. She left it on, open,
and draping slightly off her shoulders to allow a mostly-unhindered view
of what was underneath. Imagine the absolute silence of an empty shopping
mall in the dead of night. Now, picture that same silence on an early
Saturday evening, in the midst of seven hundred gawking shoppers on
multiple levels of an atrium, gaping unabashedly at the vision on your
arm. Okay, it wasn't absolute silence. One could plainly hear the
unmistakable click-click-click of Dianna's heels echoing through the
atrium and an occasional wolf whistle. I can only imagine the exhilaration
she felt at that moment.

There was a polished marble bench against the wall, near the alcove
leading to the public restrooms. My delectable companion placed one
taloned hand on my chest and thrust me back against the wall, right next
to the bench. She spread her fur coat, lifted one sandal-clad foot and
rested it lightly on the bench. She took my right hand in her left and
guided it to her panty-clad snatch. In the meantime, she used her right
hand to massage my own rock-hard, panty-clad bone. She leaned forward,
placing her lips right next to my ear.

"Tell me, Lover," she whispered, "am I the most totally fuckable playtoy
you have ever seen in your life?"

She punctuated her question by darting the tip of her tongue into my ear,
then biting oh-so-gently on my earlobe. The moment, the public venue, the
completely uninhibited display of raw sexual intensity was more than I
could control. My only verbal response was a series of guttural grunts.
The rest of my answer came in a spontaneous flood of jism that filled my
panties. Dianna felt each successive jet with her fingertips. She smiled
slyly and kissed me lightly on the lips.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," she smirked. "Now, let's get you into the
bathroom and cleaned up before you stain your suit."

My escort grabbed me by the lapels and unceremoniously dragged me into one
of the two restrooms. The regular stalls were too small to suit her, so
she pulled me into the spacious Handicapped stall at the end of the row
and slammed the latch closed.

"Strip," she commanded, "and hand me your panties."

I took off my shoes, pants and the soiled panties, handing the latter to
her.

"All of it," she barked authoritatively

I hastened to comply, stripping out of my socks, suit coat, shirt, and
T-shirt.

"That's better," she purred smugly.

Dianna pushed me down onto the toilet seat, then straddled my lap. She
held my soiled panties up over our heads, watching the cum slowly settle
towards the edge. The folds of toilet tissue had been no match for the
deluge of creamy spunk from my cock. She shifted her gaze to meet mine.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," she smirked, "that is one very large load. These panties
were really expensive; I would hate to just throw them out. We can put
them in one of our plastic bags and take them home, but not like this.
They would ruin whatever else was in the bag. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have
thought twice about sucking you off and none of this would have happened.
But you just spent a really obscene amount of money to get me looking like
this. It would be a shame to ruin it before you even take me out and show
me off. What are we to do?"

She glanced again at the panties, then at me. Then, she pressed them into
my face, smiling. I silently lapped up, then sucked my cum from within the
panties I had been wearing only moments before. The flavor was slightly
more bitter than Dianna's cum, but not altogether unpleasant. She scooped
up as much of the cum on my cock and in my pubic hair as she could, then
made me lick her hand clean. Then, she leaned over and kissed me deeply,
sharing the aftermath of this most intense experience with me.

"Mmmm, that was wonderful," she intoned melodically. "You are so kinky."

She blotted up the remnants with toilet paper, then dropped it into the
bowl between our thighs.

"That will do for now. But we still have to find you some underwear. What
am I talking about? We have a whole bag of underwear right here!"

She rummaged through one of the bags at her feet for a moment. With a
broad smile, she snatched up the lilac panties she had only recently been
wearing.

"Here we are!" she pronounced triumphantly. Let's see these on you."

Dianna rose gracefully from my lap, helped me step into the new panties,
then slid them up my thighs. She gently tucked my private parts down and
back, added a few folds of toilet tissue, then nestled the panties snugly
on my hips.

"There, good as new!" she exclaimed.

Then, she just looked at me for a moment, lost in thought.

"You know, Baby," she pronounced, smiling mischievously. "I was thinking;
you got me all dressed up for you. Now, I want you to dress up a little
for me. Fair is fair."

"Define 'dress up a little'," I replied.

She traced one fingernail lazily down my naked chest.

"I was just thinking it would be a shame to wear just the panties when it
is part of a complete set," she responded. "This is something I would
really like to share with you."

"Complete set?" I gulped. "You mean...."

Dianna nodded her head. Then, she reached into the bag, withdrew the
matching lilac lace bra and dangled it before my eyes with one finger.

"Aren't I missing something really important?" I asked bemusedly.
"Actually, two things?"

"Indulge me, Sweetie," she responded. "Please?"

Before I had a chance to answer, she spun me around, placed the bra around
my chest, hooked the closure in back, slipped the straps over my
shoulders, then turned me to face her once more. I looked down at my flat
chest and the large, empty bra cups.

"It loses something in the translation," I observed dryly.

"I can fix that," she responded brightly.

She rummaged through her shoulder bag for a moment, the fished out a pair
of lifelike silicone breast forms.

"You carry those around with you in case of emergencies?" I asked
sarcastically.

She shrugged her shoulders just a little.

"Ya never know," she smirked. "I wore these before I got my own titties.
Now..."

"Dianna, I don't think I can do this," I interrupted warily. "I mean, the
lingerie is one thing, but this...."

She kissed me again softly.

"Do it for me, Lover," she intoned breathily. "It won't really show under
your suit, and thinking of you all night, all dressed up for me and me
alone is gonna make me so hot."

Just let go....

"Well," I replied cautiously, "if this is what you really want..."

She hugged me tightly, then inserted the oversized prosthetics in my bra
cups. They fit snugly against my chest wall and filled out the voluminous
bra cups perfectly.

"Oh, thank you Sweetie! You are the sexiest man I have ever met. Now,
let's get the garter belt on you."

In a flash, the matching garter belt was fastened around my trim waist.
The empty garter tabs flopped distractingly against my thighs. I gazed at
my charming escort with obvious confusion written all over my face. That
mischievous smile on her lips spoke volumes.

"Oh, that looks fabulous!" she murmured appreciatively. "I can't wait to
see a pair of stockings on those long, shapely legs of yours."

Clothes or no clothes, I think most guys would have been running for the
exit by that point. I guess I wasn't most guys. This was merely the latest
in an endless stream of erotic experiences with the most bewitching woman
I had ever met.

Dianna selected a pair of black seamed stockings like hers, then taught me
how to bunch each one up into a doughnut, slip it over my foot and roll it
carefully up my leg. She smoothed them into position with the palms of her
hands, showing me how to align the seams arrow-straight. Dianna snaked the
garters through my panties, then showed me how to attach my stocking tops
to the four garter tabs. Then, she stepped back to admire her handiwork.

"Oh, God, that is so hot! You are going to drive me to distraction all
night. Now, hurry up and get your suit on. I'm famished!"

While I was dressing, Dianna scooped up my soiled panties and rinsed them
out in the sink. Returning to the stall, she stuffed them into the plastic
pouch in which the stockings had been packed, resealed the tape, and
dropped them into the shopping bag. Once I was together, she adjusted my
tie, taking time to gently caress my thrusting new tits through my suit
coat. She kissed me lightly on the lips, winked, then led me out of the
stall. She paused at the sink to wash her hands, then freshen her
lipstick. She bent over the countertop, ostensibly to get a better view of
her task in the mirror. I knew full well it was a calculated move for my
benefit. Even through the heavy fur coat, I could visualize her long,
shapely, stocking-clad legs and broad, firm, shapely bottom. I stepped up
to her, pressed my groin against that tempting target, and massaged her
bottom with both hands.

At that moment, a pair of women entered the restroom. While the door was
open, I noticed the torso-in-a-skirt symbol on the door and realized
Dianna had dragged me into the Ladies restroom. I didn't think they could
see my lilac lingerie and stockings under my suit; at least, I hoped they
couldn't. Still, their looks of scorn for my invasion of their sanctum
sanctorum were obvious. Their appraisal of the fetching vamp at the
vanity, allowing herself to be pawed so shamelessly, was no better. Dianna
glanced at me in the mirror and winked in obvious pleasure. She tucked her
lipstick back in her purse, turned, beamed a dazzling smile, and slipped
her arm through mine.

"I think we're done here, Sweetheart," she cooed. "We will leave these
ladies to their business — and wishing they were me right now, with a
lover like you."

We made our way to the parking lot. Dianna strutted regally, like a queen
on the arm of her king. I didn't want to dwell on the irony of that
comparison, nor the fact that my lingerie and bouncing breasts made me
feel anything by kingly. The bags went into the trunk and out came my
trenchcoat. I opened the passenger door of the silver E500 for her. She
slid appreciatively into the seat, looking up at me with a smile that
spoke volumes. After I seated myself, she snuggled up next to me and
gently massaged the back of my neck with her crimson talons, sending
shivers down my spine.

As we made our way up the Avenue through the early-evening traffic, she
furrowed her brow in thought.

"Sugar," she intoned in a seductive tone. "How much time do we have before
our reservation?"

"A couple of hours. Why?"

Her manual ministrations switched from my neck to my inner thigh. I could
almost see the wheels turning in that devious little mind.

"You have indulged me so shamelessly already," she began. "Would you grant
me one more request?"

"I can't imagine not giving you anything you asked for," I responded.

She squeezed my thigh and smiled coyly at that.

"I may remind you of those words at a later time," she trilled. "It's just
that... well, this whole outfit is so perfect, from the skin out — except
for one little detail."

"What would that be, Baby?" I inquired.

"I know this sounds petty," she continued, "but it really deserves a red
corset, not a black one. I know, I know; no one will see it. But you and I
will know, and that you made me absolutely perfect for you, on this most
perfect of evenings."

"It sounds wonderful," I agreed, "but where can we find one this late on a
Saturday?"

"I know just the place," she exclaimed. "He's a specialty custom
corsetiere on the North Side. I get all my corsets from him. In fact, I'm
his favorite model when he does shows. If we can call him, I'm certain he
will be more than happy to see us."

For sheer eroticism, this was something I couldn't pass up. I lent her my
cell phone and she dialed the number from memory. She spoke animatedly to
the person on the other end for a few minutes, then terminated the call
with a smug smile on her lips.

"He will be waiting for us, just as I promised," she pronounced. "I'll
give you directions."

It took a while; the address was a three-flat brownstone in Rogers Park.
The wiry, bespectacled man with the mustache and goatee hugged Dianna
warmly. She introduced me to her friend Paul, who led us to his basement
workshop/showroom.

"You look more ravishing than ever," Paul extolled. "When you described
what you were wearing, I remembered I had something that would be perfect.
You remember; you modeled it for me in the last show."

Dianna's eyes grew as big as saucers.

"It's still here?" she gasped. "I had tried so hard to put it out of my
mind. I loved it! It almost killed me when you told me someone bought it
right off my back."

"The woman who bid for it changed her mind," he replied. "It's been
sitting here for months, just waiting for someone who could do it justice.
To be honest, I always thought you were the one. Ah, here it is...."

'It' was a heavily-boned, butter-soft, lipstick-red calfskin corset with
underwired demi cups. I helped my companion out of her coat, then unzipped
her dress and carefully removed it. Paul took over, helping her remove her
bra, corset and panties, then helped her into the new corset with
exquisite care. I felt no jealousy at his intimate contact; the erotic
appeal of the process was a joy to behold. Her stockings were affixed to
the eight garter tabs. Then, he helped her into the matching thong which
laced at the hips. Finally, he turned her to face me for my approval. She
looked absolutely ravishing in corset, stockings and heels. Her full
breasts were gloriously thrust up and out by the diminutive shelf cups.
Her eyes met mine with tentative hope.

"Please, Sweetheart?" she beseeched quietly. "I know it's a lot, but it
looks so good on me and I couldn't bear to walk away from it a second
time...."

"You had me as soon as I saw it on you," I avowed.

I handed my credit card to Paul.

"Don't bother to wrap it," I said with a wink. "I think she'll wear it."

He left the room to call in the authorization and fill out the sales slip.

Dianna was in my arms in a flash, smothering me with kisses.

"Oh, my sweet, sweet Baby," she gushed. "You are the best! How am I ever
going to...."

She glanced down at the discarded black satin corset, now lying on the
work bench next to us, then looked around in vain. Of course, we had left
her Capezio bag, plus all the shopping bags, in the trunk of the Mercedes.
Then she glanced up at me, a devilish glint in her eyes.

"Come here, you," she growled, as she whipped off my suit coat. In a
flash, she had me down to lingerie and stockings again. Off came the
garter belt and on went the corset before I could utter a peep. Perhaps I
was just too stunned.

"Here, let me help with that," came the male voice behind me. "After all,
I made that for her. I take pride in my work — and those who wear it
well."

I blushed bright crimson at Paul's discovery of me in nothing but lingerie
and thrusting 'breasts'. He seemed completely nonplussed about it, taking
over for my girlfriend and tightening the laces.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," he pronounced reassuringly. "I have
customers of both genders..."

He glanced and Dianna appreciatively and winked.

"... and delightfully in-between. As it happens, you will be much more
attractive in this than most of my male patrons. Dianna certainly knows
how to pick her men."

I blushed again, this time in gratitude.

"Normally," Paul continued, "I would only cinch a first-timer down a
couple of inches. You are already so trim, in such good shape and
obviously take care of yourself, I think we'll try going all the way
down."

I gasped in more than surprise as he cinched off the laces with a final
tug, then tucked them in as he had done with Dianna. It felt like a vise
had closed around my torso, preventing me from drawing a full breath. The
corsetiere tucked the garters through my panties, re-attached them to my
stocking tops, the stood back, next to Dianna, to appraise me with a
critical stare. He stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"You know," he speculated out loud, "you wear it very well. It's a real
shame to hide a figure like that under a suit — at least, a men's suit.
With a little work and some figure-training, you could be a model in my
next show with Dianna."

I was about to stammer out an embarrassed refusal when Dianna leapt to my
side and snaked her arm through mine.

"We would adore that, wouldn't we, Lisa?" she exclaimed, winking at me. "I
approached her on the subject in the car on the way over here tonight. She
is just as excited as I am at the prospect and can't wait to begin her
training. I know what a generous discount you give to your models —
especially the ones who have the customers lining up at the end of the
show, credit cards in hand. A girl can never get too much of a good thing
— isn't that right, Sweetheart?"

I was about to exclaim no way when the subtle pressure of Dianna's
pencil-thin stiletto heel on my instep prompted me to alter my response.

"It sounds... heavenly," I responded carefully.

She subtly squeezed my hand in silent appreciation.

"We're doing our next show at the Hilton, in conjunction with the Mr. Gay
Leather pageant," Paul explained. "That's Memorial Day weekend. Dianna, do
you think you can have her ready by then?"

"No problem," my lover avowed. "You know I have been Drag Mother for a
half-dozen girls working at Ringers. Some of them were real 'rocks' when
they began. Compared to them, my Lisa will be a piece of cake."

I signed the charge slip and receipt, noting the amount with casual
interest. Only six hundred fifty dollars, plus tax? I had spent many times
that on the rest of her wardrobe, including that fabulous coat. She was
worth every penny, and then some. With Paul's expert assistance, we
re-dressed each other. Dianna's newly-enhanced bustline enticingly
overflowed the dress's delecoutage. My own thrusting titties tented the
front of my suit coat more than a little. I had to cinch my belt all the
way to the last notch. Even then, my pants were loose at the waist and
tight at the hips and tush. Paul usurped my prerogative, helping Dianna
into her sumptuous fur. Curiously, I was not the least bit offended by the
unintended slight. It just seemed natural for a gentleman to help a lady
with her coat. A gentleman? Wait a second....

"Let's go to dinner, Lover," Dianna interrupted. "My tummy is screaming
Bloody Murder — and I'm suddenly in the mood for a big piece of meat."

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

Lance and Dianna have their dream dinner. A chance encounter sets Dianna straight on the true nature of things - and sets Lance on a course that will change his life.

Story:

Betrayed Ch. 03
by Cherysse St. Claire  ©

Chapter 3: The Players Take The Field

There are, perhaps, a half-dozen places in the city to get a really good
"big piece of meat" — at least, of the gastronomic variety. Morton's on
North State Street is one of those, and a great place to see and be seen
by everyone who is anyone. We valet-ed the Mercedes, then made our way
inside. There was a moment at the coat check when I thought I would need a
crowbar to pry the fur from Dianna's grasp. I quietly reassured her: a) it
was only for a little while, b) wearing it into the dining area was just
too ostentatious, even for us, and c) it would be there, waiting for her,
upon our departure. She grudgingly assented, like a petulant child.

The hostess checked the reservation list for our name, then excused
herself to check on the availability of our table. After she left, I
leaned over and whispered into Dianna's ear.

"Lisa?" I asked pensively.

Her eyes danced.

"Lisa Layne, to be precise," she returned. I think it's absolutely perfect
for you."

I thought back about all that had transpired in such a short time; the
sex, the lingerie, the breasts, the corseting, the stockings. Now, she had
just committed me to model with her, totally en femme, in front of an
audience.

"Dianna, I don't know if I can...."

She turned fully to face me, pressed her body against mine and kissed my
lips delicately. Meanwhile, hidden from view between our bodies, her hand
massaged my raging hard-on.

"Just tell me to stop and I will," she murmured, fixing my gaze with her
own.

I wasn't certain if she meant stop massaging my cock, stop feminizing me,
or stop seeing me altogether. Was there a difference to her? What had I
gotten myself into? When you got right down to it, was it really all that
bad — or just... different? Who did it actually hurt? My marriage was a
shambles and Susan, my once-in-a-lifetime love, was lost. Then, lightning
had struck twice. This provocative, kinky woman promised a new, different,
and utterly thrilling kind of relationship. Had I really, truly hated any
part of it until now? Was I so willing to throw Dianna away, too?

"I can't," I replied. "I won't."

After I thought about it a moment longer, I continued with more resolve.

"I don't want to."

"You don't want to what, Lover?" she questioned softly.

Just let go....

"I don't want to... stop."

She smiled triumphantly and squeezed my aching cock in appreciation.

"As you wish, My Sweet," she purred.

The patrons and staff at Morton's are no strangers to Grand Entrances.
Still, Dianna turned an entire roomful of heads as we were seated for
dinner. The subdued overhead lighting still managed to ignite her sequined
torso in a subtle flash of lights. Every male eye was riveted to her
exaggerated, undulating, feline strut. She steadfastly avowed that, while
dates had taken her out to dinner many times before, she had never been to
this place, nor caused this much of a reaction before. I found that hard
to believe, coming from a woman as drop-dead gorgeous as my companion.
Still, I couldn't begin to describe how proud I was to have the fabulous
brunette by my side and told her so.

"There you go again, Baby," she murmured, "pushing all the right buttons.
A girl could get used to this."

"I'm counting on it," I smirked, as I seated her, then took my own chair.

She feigned a pique of indignation.

"Do you think you can buy my affections so easily?" she probed pointedly.

I shrugged my shoulders, smiled good-naturedly, and held up both hands,
palms up, in a classic Who, me? gesture. She smiled, winked, then squeezed
one hand in hers.

"Well, it's working," she continued. "Don't stop. I enjoy being pampered
in the manner to which I hope to become accustomed. Seriously, there are
no words to express what this day has meant to me. No one has ever, ever
indulged me this lavishly, whatever their motive. This goes way beyond
Pretty Woman."

"You don't have a fire escape," I pointed out, "and I haven't whisked you
away in a limo yet."

"No?" She countered. "What do you call that little runabout we have been
tooling around in all day? Should I expect to see a 'My other car is a
Gulfstream V' bumper sticker in an attempt to really impress me?"

"Hmmm," I mulled. "Well, if that's what it takes...."

Dianna affected a glare of pure venom, then smiled and took my hand in
both of hers.

"Stop that!" she asserted. "I meant what I said; the lingerie, corset,
dress, heels, jewels, salon, and that fabulous fur... I adore every
stitch, strand, and pelt — and adore you for treating me like a goddess."

"I'm glad you are enjoying it," I asserted. "You wear it all so well."

Under the table, she casually stroked the inside of my leg with her
sandal-clad foot.

"Speaking of which," she smirked, "I am going quietly crazy thinking of
you sitting there in lingerie, corset, and stockings — just for me. Your
big, beautiful titties thrust out so alluringly."

That embarrassed me. I envisioned every other diner in the room undressing
me with their eyes, reveling in my lurid secret. Dianna read my thoughts.
She smiled, shook her head imperceptively, and squeezed my hand
reassuringly.

"No, they can't see them," she confided, "although I would really like
them to. Even without makeup and a dress, you are stunning. I have this
irresistible urge to reach across the table, unbutton your coat, then
unbutton the top three buttons of your blouse, spread the lapels wide, and
show off your deep, luscious cleavage. I want the whole, wide world to
know you are my little bimbo, and that you are doing all this for me."

"Do you really mean that?" I questioned. "I mean, we have known each other
such a short time...."

"A week, a month, a lifetime," she interjected, "it makes no difference.
Lisa — and I will call you that from now on — I have been with dozens,
hundreds of men. None of them, no matter how important, how wealthy, how
big, do to me, for me, what you do. When it's right, it's right; you just
know it. How do you feel?"

"It's... I don't know what to say," I expressed. This is all so new, so...
vastly different than anything I have ever experienced before. I should
be... ashamed, angry, something."

Dianna surreptitiously placed one hand in my lap and massaged my inner
thigh.

"Uh-huh," she cooed. "Then why is your cock so hard, it is threatening to
rip right through your pants?"

I couldn't argue with that.

"That's just it," I replied, searching for the right words. "It is so
daring, wicked, depraved, and... well, scary. As I said, I couldn't get
you out of my mind all week. Since last night, I have been on an
incredible, non-stop thrill ride. All this emotion, yet I hardly know
anything about you. I feel like I want to... inhale everything I possibly
can, to learn what makes you, you. I mean... who were you, before all
this?"

I instantly regretted my words. Her eyes flashed in anger.

"What difference does that make?" she hissed. "I am not that person
anymore. I never really was. I have spent my entire life wishing,
dreaming, scheming, then busting my butt to become who you see before you.
This is who I am, who I have always been in my heart. If there is anything
you don't like about me, Sugar, get out now. I have done all the changing
I am going to do."

It was time to do industrial-strength damage control. I surreptitiously
reached under the tablecloth, up her skirt, found her engorged clit inside
the calfskin thong, and massaged it gently. As I had hoped, the sensuous
hide, rubbing against her sensitive parts, had an erotic effect. Her
breath caught in her throat and her eyes glazed over.

"I'm deeply sorry, Honey," I apologized. "I meant no disrespect. I feel
like I've known you forever, but it's been barely more than a week. I am
just getting out of a bad relationship. I didn't expect to have everything
I have ever wanted — things I didn't even know I wanted — dropped in my
lap so soon. I am desperately afraid the clock is going to strike Midnight
and I will turn back into a pumpkin."

Dianna considered my words for a moment. Perhaps it was the words
themselves, or my tone of voice. Perhaps it was the earnest look in my
eyes.
Whatever the clue, her visage softened. Her whole body relaxed, allowing
my ministrations to have the desired effect.

"I'm sorry, too," she intoned. "I feel exactly the same way. I am just so
used to tricks throwing my past in my face, as though I was something less
than human. I didn't expect you to be the person you are, either.
Sometimes we just get lucky. Now that we have — both of us — I don't ever
want to be without you again."

I felt a huge weight lift from my shoulders. I smiled and squeezed her
hand.

"I just don't see what you see in me," I lamented, "compared to the other
guys you have known."

"Don't worry," Dianna mused, "you will."

"Would you really want me as 'Lisa'?" I inquired.

She squeezed my hand back authoritatively.

"As far as I'm concerned," my companion avowed, "you already are, just as
I have always been the 'me' you see before you. Paul saw that in you, too,
and he is a great judge of femininity - for a man. Kitty has seen to that.
They have a very kinky relationship — just like us. The task before us is
to help the conscious 'you' catch up with the sub-conscious 'you' — that
is, if you are willing."

"How far will we go with this?" I asked nervously.

My lover merely shrugged her shoulders a little and smiled coyly.

"Who knows?" she observed. "I have transformed boys into girls before —
and enjoyed the results along the way. Then, I was doing it to help them
attain their own goals for femininity, just as I had. This is the first
time I have had an emotional stake in the process. There are certain
things you will need to do and learn if you want to model with me. I
already know what to do about that. As for the rest... I honestly don't
know yet how much I — we — will want to do. We will just have to make up
the rules as we go."

Her foot casually stroked my stocking-clad leg under the table in
emphasis.

"I do know," my lover stated with authority, "we have come a long way in a
very short time."

"But what if we go so far that my cock, well...."

I didn't know how to continue that line of thought in words. It was so
extreme. Yet, I knew it was at least a possibility. Dianna's eyes
twinkled.

"Would you like that?" She inquired playfully. "Would you like to be my
soft, submissive little sissy? I can make it happen. I think that would be
sooooooo exciting...."

"No, no, no," I gushed - a little too quickly. "I was just asking 'what
if?' I know I can please you without it, but... well, wouldn't you miss
having a cock fill you?"

My companion turned serious and took a deep breath.

"Listen to me very carefully, Lisa," she intoned. "I don't want there to
be any mistake or misunderstanding between us. If I want cock, I will have
cock. That... won't... change. I am what I am and I will do what I do.
That won't change, either. Cock doesn't define my personal relationships;
it is merely my business. As it happens, it is also a need, like eating
sleeping, and breathing. I can satisfy my needs anywhere. You satisfy my
wants, my desires.

"Your 'equipment', or possible future lack thereof, is inconsequential.
You have already proven beyond doubt you can satisfy me in ways no cock
ever could or ever will. In turn, we have proven I can satisfy your
desires quite nicely. Do not get stuck on stupid about me having sex with
men. They are no threat to you, to us. I may not always be in a position
to tell you about it beforehand. If I'm dating, or see a guy who makes me
ooze, I will have him; that's what I do. I promise I will tell you about
it later — not because I want you to feel jealous or hurt, but because I
want you to be as excited, as turned on by it as I am."

Something she had just said suddenly struck home: Do not get stuck on
stupid about me having sex with men. She hadn't said 'other men', meaning
she no longer pictured me as one — if she ever had. This was all happening
so fast....

"You won't have to date if you are with me," I countered, suddenly feeling
insecure.

"Baby, I don't have to date now," she retorted. "That is the 'man' in you
talking. I could have accepted the offer of any one of a hundred Sugar
Daddies who all wanted me as their 'kept woman'. Every one of them was as
insecure of me as you apparently still are. I will help you get over that.
Right now, you have to trust that this — you — are what I want."

Dinner was exquisite, although I didn't eat much of it. Forget pills,
points, carb-counting and even gastric by-pass. If you really want to lose
weight, try strict corseting. I couldn't hold a tenth of what I normally
eat before I felt sated. The company was sublime, of course. All my
attention was on the ravishing brunette before me, not my plate. All I
could think of was that spectacular body in the firm embrace of the even
more spectacular corset. She was so lush, ripe, nubile, and wanted only
me. Beneath my now-ill-fitting suit, I had been transformed into something
equally lush, ripe, and nubile for her and her alone. Every touch,
gesture, longing gaze punctuated those simple truths.

The look of sheer bliss on Dianna's face as she slipped her arms into the
comforting embrace of her fur coat was a genuine 'Kodak moment'. I bundled
the coat around her, hooked the two inner hook closures, then cinched the
belt. I had not seen such a look of sheer contentment and utter love in a
good, long time. She slipped her arm through mine.

"Ready?" I asked.

"More than words can ever express," she replied. "I need you now!"

We were standing at the valet station, waiting for the valet to bring the
car around. Just then, a brand-new Corvette Z06 pulled up in front of us.
One valet hurried around the front end to stand by the door as it popped
open. The driver exited the coupe and stood to his full height, dwarfing
both Dianna and myself. When he turned, neither of us had any doubt of his
identity. It was Jeff Spencer. The valet captain opened the passenger door
and held his hand out to help the occupant to her feet. Of course, it was
Susan.

The four of us stood still, silently staring. Jeff saw Dianna right away,
then glanced at me. His next glance was at the back of Susan's head. Even
I could read the trace of apprehension in his eyes. Susan's eyes locked on
mine immediately, then shifted to my companion. She took it all in; the
looks, hair, makeup, crimson talons, jewels, and that exquisite Silver Fox
coat. Her jaw clenched so tightly, I could hear her teeth grinding
together. Her pupils contracted to pinpoints. Pure, intense hate radiated
from every pore. Dianna missed none of it. Instinctively, she pulled me
closer to her — marking her territory. Her demeanor was pure Attitude, as
only a T-girl can do.

"Get out of my face, Bitch," she hissed. "You can have your bionic pony
boy. This one is all mine."

"Like Hell he is!" Susan spat furiously.

At that moment, the Benz pulled up behind the 'Vette. I wordlessly pivoted
on my heel, turning my back on my cheating spouse, and led Dianna to the
passenger side.

"Lance! Lance! Turn around when I am speaking to you, you bastard!"

That was all I needed to hear. She cheated on me and was calling me names,
giving me attitude? Fuck that! I tipped the valet, slipped behind the
wheel, slammed the door and pulled out, completely dissing the cunt and
her stupefied stallion. After seeing the expression on his face, I doubted
sincerely Jeff would tell Susan anything probative about Dianna. How could
he, without giving himself away?

Dianna sat trembling; whether from fear or rage, I couldn't tell. We were
silent until we crossed Division.

"Let me guess," Dianna threw out into the air. "That was..."

"...my soon-to-be-ex," I finished. "I moved out Monday and filed the next
day. Now, I won't have the slightest hesitation to end it altogether."

"She cheated on you with... Jeff Spencer," my lover stated carefully.

"Yes," I confirmed.

"How long?" she inquired.

"I'm not sure," I replied. "A few months, at least; perhaps longer. I had
my suspicions, but found out for certain ten days ago."

"Before you met me," Dianna emphasized.

"Before I met you," I concurred.

"But you left her after we were together."

"Yes."

"Did you leave her because of me?"

"I left her because of her. You were the catalyst."

"Explain."

"For eight years, my sun rose and set on my wife. She was my world; I
never considered another woman. When I found out what she was doing behind
my back, I was crushed. I had to just get out, get away. I had heard about
Ringers through a third party. I can't explain why I showed up Friday
night; I just did. I can't explain where I found the nerve to approach
you; I just did. No one was more surprised than me we ended up back at
your place. I honestly did not intend to have sex with you or anyone else
that night.

"When I left your apartment, I felt hurt, humiliated, used, just as Susan
had done. I didn't go home at all last weekend. I couldn't face anyone.
But the damnedest thing happened. I could not get you out of my mind. You
haunted my dreams and my waking thoughts. I know; it's crazy. I don't want
to come across as some kind of obsessed stalker, either. The best way I
can put it is this: you liberated me from my emotional dependency on
Susan. You made me realize I didn't have to stay in an abusive
relationship, that I could have feelings for someone else — and she could
have feelings for me."

"You could have feelings — for someone you perceived to have abused you,"
she rebutted. "Isn't that what they call Masochism?"

"My perception was based on the values of the culture in which I live.
Dianna, I don't want to sound facetious, but you are unlike any woman I
have ever known before. Expressing my desire for you in a physical sense,
and accepting yours for me, requires an adjustment for me. That is all it
is; just an adjustment. For you, what we did together — what we did again
last night — is no different than what lovers of any gender have been
doing as long as there have been lovers. This is all new to me; it took me
until last night to figure it out. That is why I surrendered to you again.
Once I was able to let go of my knee-jerk hetero preconceptions, I
realized that you were expressing your love for me, giving me pleasure,
just as I had pleasured you. That you came with me made it so much
sweeter."

"Thank you," Dianna expressed quietly. "That was beautifully put. You
know, you could have been right the first time. I could just be abusing
you."

"I had a choice to make," I observed. "I chose to believe otherwise. I
will live with the consequences."

"Can you?" She asked pointedly. "There will certainly be consequences of
loving me. We have already spoken of them. You know what I like. You know
what I am like. We — I — need to be clear on this before we go any
further. Can you be in a relationship with me, knowing what it might...
probably will be like?"

I shrugged my shoulders a little in the darkness. I don't know if she even
saw the gesture.

"I really don't know. There are no guarantees for any relationship
anymore. No one knows that better than me."

The exquisite brunette was silent for a few minutes, digesting this new
data. I was afraid she was going to draw the connection between Jeff and
herself and ask for more detail about why I had shown up at Ringers in the
first place. I wasn't ready to deal with that yet. Fortunately, she did
not voice the words.

"It doesn't appear she is over you yet," my lover postulated.

For the first time, I detected a note of uncertainty in her voice. I
abruptly pulled over to the curb and slammed on the brakes. In a fit of
bravura unlike anything I had been feeling for over a week, I grabbed
Dianna's arms and turned her to face me.

"I am over her," I avowed with determination. "Tonight confirmed that. She
and I had been together since Senior year in high school. I was never,
ever unfaithful to her. She repaid my fidelity by shacking up with the
boyfriend she dumped for me. She told me she wanted to be with me because
I was a 'winner' and he wasn't. I guess she decided he was the bigger
winner after all."

"He's big, all right," Dianna agreed. "I don't necessarily call him a
'winner', though."

My lover held me tightly, resting her head against my chest. My faux
titties pressed into the side of her head. She was quiet again, organizing
her thoughts.

"I won't be faithful to you, either," she stated quietly. "I told you that
already."

I anticipated that, and was ready.

"You are better than faithful," I countered. "You have been honest with me
up front. I can now deal with your sexual appetites because we talked it
over, explained our feelings for each other, and I can cope with it. They
call it 'informed consent'. Susan wasn't honest with me, probably hasn't
been from the start. I know she's fucking Jeff Spencer. Who knows how many
there have been before him I don't know about? There is no way to know,
and now and I don't care to. It's over. I have the better woman right
here."

I felt her body swell at the sound of those words; hopefully, with pride.
She sat upright and looked me in the eyes resolutely.

"You would choose me over an exquisite GG like that?" my lover queried.
"Regardless of what you think she's done? I'm a ho' - with a dick instead
of a pussy. What if she feels the same way about cock I do? What if she is
still madly in love with you, but just didn't say the words?"

"There is no 'think' about it," I avowed. "I have seen the proof with my
own eyes. If she is still madly in love with me but needed outside cock,
why didn't she say the words? You did. Words count, Dianna. We are not
mind-readers. Sometimes, words are all we have to know what someone is
truly feeling. If she didn't say the words, she couldn't have given much
consideration to my feelings. That isn't love; that is pure, selfish
hedonism. Would I choose you over her? I already have. Funny; until
tonight, I never realized just how ugly she really is — where it matters
most."

Dianna's eyes were brimming with tears.

"So, you really believe I have been honest with you, unlike... Susan, was
it?"

"Yes, it is 'Susan' and yes, I believe you."

She turned away from me to stare out the passenger window. Perhaps she
didn't want me to see her cry.

"I hope you will remember that," she offered in a small voice. "Turn
right."

"But home is left," I corrected.

"We're not going home yet," she asserted. "Turn right."

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

Lance and Dianna return to Club Ringers - and 'Lisa Layne' is born.

Story:

Betrayed Ch. 04
by Cherysse St. Claire  ©

Chapter 4: Let The Games Begin

I really wasn't surprised when Dianna directed me into the parking lot at
Ringers. It was only a few blocks across town from my new home; a
five-minute drive, if the traffic wasn't killing at the time. Consciously,
it had not been a factor in my decision to take the new place.
Sub-consciously... well, who knows?

"Pop the trunk," she instructed as I shifted into Park.

I complied. She didn't wait for me to get her door. She slid out, stepped
to the rear of the car, fished her Capezio bag out of the trunk, then
closed the lid with a precise click. I guessed she had had experience with
precision-engineered automobiles before. Most people would have slammed
the trunk lid; so necessary with American cars. It occurred to me Dianna
was the type of girl who attracted a more affluent clientele. She had said
she had had her pick of a large number of 'Sugar Daddies' — and turned
them all down. I felt blessed.

She shouldered the bag and took my arm in hers.

"Let's go, Sweetie," she chirped brightly.

"Where to?" I responded coyly.

"Your future awaits," she replied, "but we mustn't keep it waiting another
minute."

We strolled down the sidewalk, my arm linked through hers, past the usual
long line for the second show. The doorman recognized her immediately,
greeted her, and waved us through, much to the muttered annoyance of the
lost souls waiting in line. They were not amused that the "rich bitch and
her husband" were given preferential treatment. "Talent coming through,"
was all the hired muscle said to placate the throng, who were anything but
as we were admitted. We picked our way from the door to the other end of
the room, stopping frequently to greet this bartender, that performer, or
another 'working girl' or 'date'. Everyone knew Dianna by name — another
source of pride on my part, mixed with a touch of awe.

She guided me directly into the performer's dressing room without so much
as a knock on the door. Eight or ten gorgeous 'girls' were in various
stages of dress, from fully costumed to not at all. Dianna paid no mind to
their modesty — or complete lack thereof — any more than they seemed to
mind my presence. Of course, everyone had to drool over my lover's dress,
shoes, jewelry, and especially her fabulous fur coat. They guessed the
source of her newfound beneficence and turned to me appreciatively.

"He's cute," one girl opined, giving me an appreciative once-over. "Sharp
dresser, too, although it doesn't seem to fit him very well. What's his
name, Honey?"

"His name is Taken," my sweetheart replied cattily.

"Is he your latest husband, Dianna?"

"Not for long, Sugar," Dianna responded sweetly. "Girls, meet Lisa Layne.
She is about to become my latest wife. Ladies, a little help, please."

The shrieks and catcalls came fast and furiously. Fully a half-dozen pairs
of hands whisked my coat, shirt, tie, shoes, and pants off in the blink of
an eye, leaving me in my lingerie, standing in the middle of a hen party.

"Not bad, Dianna," another girl clucked. "No wonder the suit didn't fit.
You've already got her in drag. She's got some shape to her."

The girl squeezed one of my fake boobies playfully.

"Oh yeah, she's gonna be a cutie! How do you do it? If you can bottle it,
we'll all be rich!"

"In your dreams, Chantal," Dianna countered with a grin. "I just know how
to pick 'em. I don't chase everything and anything in pants — like some
people I know."

That drew another raucous round of catcalls.

"Now, help me get her dressed and out front," my lover bid them. "We have
to start teaching her the ropes."

"Wait a minute!" I exclaimed.

Dianna turned to me, smiling.

"Wait what, Sweetheart?" she trilled.

"Don't I get to say something about this?"

The seductive siren wrapped her arms around my neck and nuzzled my nose
with hers.

"But Baby, you already did," she pouted. "You told me you didn't want to
stop. You haven't changed your mind already, have you? I would be so
disappointed."

"It's just... I mean..."

Open mouth, insert foot, Bud. It's a little too late to claim you didn't
think she was serious. This isn't the sort of thing Dianna would kid
about, anyway.

"... I would be embarrassed to death if someone recognized me," I
squeaked.

My lover just shook her head back and forth. Her smile was not to be
denied; nor was her gentle kiss on my lips.

"You are so silly!" she proclaimed. "I doubt that would be a problem here,
but your wish is my command. We will just have to make sure no one can.
Who would know more about that than us?"

"What is she gonna wear, Dianna?"

My sweetheart grinned and reached into her shoulder bag.

"This little number right here," she crowed, whipping out her semi-sheer
blouse, suede suit and mules. "She loved it on me this afternoon. Now,
let's see how it looks on her!"

In less time than it took to describe it, I was in Dianna's outfit from
earlier that day. It might not have looked quite as good on me as it had
on her, but I was surprised how good it did look — pleasantly surprised.
Aside from my lack of makeup and hair, I didn't look like a man in a
dress, which I had fully expected. Those previously-mentioned shortcomings
did not last for long.

I was shepherded into a reclining salon-style chair and dropped almost to
horizontal. A salon apron was draped over my body, covering everything
from the neckline down and protecting my clothing from whatever was to
come. Then, they really went to work on me. The cast of 'makeup artists'
changed constantly as girls came and went for their respective sets on
stage. My eyebrows were attacked simultaneously with four or five pairs of
tweezers. Individual hairs were ripped out without mercy or so much as a
by-your-leave. When, at last, they were satisfied, they examined my
complexion for imperfections.

"You are amazing, Sweetie," one girl told me. "Your face is as soft and
smooth as a baby's bottom. I just about need a magnifying glass to see
your pores. No dark circles or blemishes — I can't even find a trace of a
beard!"

"I hate shaving," I revealed, "body hair, too. It trapped sweat and
bacteria and made me smell really nasty after a long run — not to mention
it just felt... creepy to me. I had it all removed by laser as soon as I
started making money."

"And you've never dressed before?" Chantal asked incredulously. "What a
waste!"

That last bit was spoken playfully. They were beginning to warm to me —
and I to them. This whole experience seemed so surreal. Barely a week
before, I had had only a passing awareness of this world. Now, I was being
drawn into it. There were no illusions on my part; had I been by myself,
my good looks, slender physique and charm would have amounted to exactly
squat to them. My connection to my beautiful lover, whom they obviously
held in high esteem, had everything to do with their acceptance of me.

One girl applied a sheer makeup base to give my skin a little color. She
blended it carefully with a fine-pored makeup sponge, then set it with
powder and brush. Blush was added to the hollows of my cheekbones, at my
temples, and under my jawline. Another drew careful strokes on my forehead
above each eye with a soft pencil. My first thought was she might be
accentuating my eyebrows, but it felt she was working well above my
browline.

They took a good, long time on my eyes, starting with thick showgirl
lashes above and below. Shadow came next; a lot of it, judging by the time
it took them to apply it. Liquid eyeliner was painted above and below,
too. My lips felt like they were being outlined by yet another pencil.
Then, they were filled in with a brush dipped repeatedly in what I saw to
be a deep-red lipstick. Once the first coat was smoothed out, a second was
applied. Then came a coat of clear gloss. It was so bizarre to feel, know
what they were doing, but not be able to see it.

"Are you gonna get these cock mittens pumped, Dianna?" Chantal questioned
as she painted my lips.

"Uh-huh," my 'drag mother' intoned. "Cheekbones too — as well as other
parts of her anatomy. All in good time."

Meanwhile, other pairs of hands had pinned my wrists to the padded
armrests. Something was carefully applied to my fingertips. After a few
minutes, several coats of what I suspected was nail polish (once you smell
that smell, you never forget it) was brushed on my fingertips. At the same
time, my stockings had been removed. My toenails were receiving similar
attention.

"We need something for her ears," Dianna pronounced. "Cherá­e, are you
packing tonight?"

A tall, attractive Black girl rummaged through her own shoulder bag and
came up with a pistol-like device.

"Always," Cherá­e proclaimed. "Have gun, will travel. Mild or wild?"

"Wild!" echoed a chorus of voices.

Dianna smiled with amusement, gazing into my face.

"You heard the ladies," she pronounced. "Go to town. I want the best for
my wife. In this case, the baddest is the best. I want her so her own
mother won't recognize her."

In the next twenty minutes, each ear was stung repeatedly by what felt
like a swarm of silent bees. Several pairs of hands were swiping at the
pinpricks with cotton swabs dipped in peroxide. Then something was applied
repeatedly to my ears that added more and more weight to them.

"She needs hair. Who's got hair?"

The cry was echoed around the room.

"I doooooo," chirped a voice clattering down the stairs from the stage
door. "I guess I'm just in time to add the crowning touch. Happy to help."

"You are a doll, Mimi," Dianna complemented gratefully. "I owe you big
time. Knowing how you are about hair, it's got to be special."

"It's special, all right," Mimi crowed. "Showgirl Deluxe, in 'Bleach Bunny
Blonde'. With those Baby Blues of hers, she's gonna be fabulous!"

The chair was pivoted, then tilted upright. I was now facing away from the
mirror. My longish hair was brushed back, then tucked into a tight-fitting
mesh cap. A long blonde wig was fitted over that, then anchored to my head
with a series of bobby pins that were wound around and around locks of my
own hair before being slid into place. A final sharp tug jerked my head
back, but the hair remained firmly in position.

Some kind of choker was wrapped around my neck and fastened in back. It
was tall, and held my head up. A ton of bangles went on each wrist. Rings
were positioned on multiple fingers and toes. My stockings were once again
rolled up my hairless legs. Then, I was helped out of the chair. Two pairs
of palms smoothed out the stocking on each leg, adjusting it just so, then
re-attaching the garters. I felt a single chain double-wrapped around my
left ankle and clipped into place. Each foot was lifted in turn, and
Dianna's fabulous lavender suede mules were positioned on my feet. Even
with all my experience running, it was a real trip to balance precariously
on the balls of my feet, as those high-heeled slippers forced me to do. As
a final touch, I was spritzed liberally with a perfume Cherá­e identified
as Obsession. I had smelled it before on girls I had encountered in the
clubs. Its name was totally appropriate for the reaction it elicited in
the male of the species.

The appreciative oohs and ahhs were thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Done!" Dianna pronounced triumphantly. "Make that: 'done with a Capital
D'. Are you ready for the debut of your extreme makeover, Sweetie?"

With that, she placed her hands gently on my shoulders and turned me
around to face the mirror for the first time. She had been successful in
at least one respect; my own mother would not have recognized the
fantastic, overdone bimbo that stared back at me, red-lipped mouth agape.
I say 'overdone' in the context of the women I saw at work and on the
streets every day. My showgirl stage makeup blended perfectly with the
smiling, happy faces surrounding me at that moment.

My initial impression of the brow work had been correct. The thick,
shapeless brows that had formerly closed in my eyes were gone completely,
replaced by razor-thin, high, penciled-in arches. My eyelids were dark,
heavy-lidded and mysterious, shadowed above and below and blending beyond
the corners. They were heavy-lidded due to the combined weight of the
long, thick, enormously-full lashes that now framed my Baby Blue orbs. An
equally-thick slash of ebony liner defined each upper and lower lid,
extending into sharp points well past the corners of my eyes.

My lips had been outlined in a dark claret shade, intentionally outside
the natural lipline to make them appear fuller. Then, they were filled in
with deep red ('Raven Red' Chantal called it). The final coat of gloss
made them shine like dark cherry ice. My cheekbones appeared fuller and
higher, thanks to the combination of heavy shading below the bone, plus
highlighter above. The same heavy shading at my temples and below my jaw
re-contoured the natural shape of my face, making it appear almost
heart-shaped and fabulously alluring. The whole of it was framed by a mass
of big, loose, blonde curls, so pale as to be almost white, cascading down
my back almost to my waist.

My fingernails were almost obscenely long, square-cut with
slightly-rounded corners, gently curving downward, the same Raven Red as
my lips, and glistening with gold nail art. My equally-perfect
red-and-gold toenails extended outward a bit from the tips of my toes as
well. Chantal called them 'sculptured toenails' and pronounced them all
the rage — perfect for open-toed shoes like the ones I was wearing.

The choker around my neck was eight tiers of tightly-spaced gold chains.
In harmony, there were eight new piercings in each of my ears; a gold ball
stud at the very top of each ear, with a wide gold ear clip at the outside
corner. Four smallish gold rings were clustered in a cascade below the
midline of the outer edge. Finally, each lobe was double-pierced, with a
one-inch loop in the upper piercing and a huge four-inch hoop in the
lower. Gold rings flashed on each of my long, slender, taloned fingers.
There were golden toe rings on two toes of each foot, plus a slender gold
chain double-wrapped around my trim left ankle.

I had never before in my life been so close to cumming from visual
stimulus alone. All right I admit it. As far back as childhood, I had
always wondered: What if I had been a girl, instead of a boy? I had
secretly experimented a little with my mother's and sister's lingerie, but
never taken it further than that; I had never had the nerve to do more.
Now, here I was in full drag — and felt like I had just stepped into a new
plane of existence. If I was turning me on, what effect would I have on
the men in the club? Dianna read my mind.

"The boys will be falling all over themselves to get at you, Girlfriend,"
she exclaimed. "You will even give me a run for the money."

I seriously doubted that. She had 'freshened' her own makeup while her
girlfriends were doing mine. Our faces could have been cast from the same
libidinous mold. With her looks, body, and blatant sex appeal, she could
make a man cum just by blowing him a kiss.

I received a crash course (almost literally so) in how to strut in a
sensual, sure-footed manner in those towering heels. Apparently, Dianna
thought I was a quick learner. After fifteen minutes or so, she handed me
her lavender suede clutch, now containing my cash, but neither ID nor
credit cards ("No one would believe it's you, Sugar."). There were also my
lipstick and gloss, lip brush, compact and powder brush, breath mints,
perfume spritzer — plus a single-use tube of K-Y and condoms!

"I carry those wherever I go," she observed with a wink. "A girl can never
be too prepared."

I looked down at the makeup table next to us and observed the suit, shirt,
and tie I had worn since the day before. My wallet - with credit cards,
driver's license, and all other forms of identification - would be nestled
in the hip pocket of my pants, as always.

"What do we do with that?" I questioned, pointing at it. "Do you think we
can come up with a garment bag, or something similar?"

"A garment bag?" my lover intoned with a smile. "Sure; no problem."

She hefted the coat and examined the label inside.

"Men's Wearhouse, right?"

"Yeahhhhh," I responded cautiously.

"Perfect!" she chirped. "One garment bag, coming right up."

She gathered the pile together, wadded it up into a compact ball, then
stuffed it in her now-empty Capezio bag.

"They'll press it for free," she purred. Then, with a smirk: "I guarantee
it."

She carried the bag in one hand and her red sequined evening clutch in the
other. She slipped the latter arm through mine. She glanced down at the
larger bag, containing my compacted clothes, then back at me, smiling.

"Ritchie will keep this behind the bar for us until it's time to leave. It
will be safer there than in here among the vultures. Now, it's time for
'Lisa Layne' to meet her Brave New World, and vice-versa."

I had never been so completely terrified in my life as Dianna and I
slinked arm-in-arm through the dressing room door and into the main
lounge. I felt a pale imitation of a woman, compared to the one on my arm.
Aside from the Annie Lennox number Dana was lip-synching to on stage, you
could have heard a pin drop as the crowd beheld us. Then again, I will
swear I heard the sound of a few male jaws hitting the floor. The place
had gotten crowded in the interim, as Dianna had told me it always did on
a Saturday night. Surprisingly, there were a goodly number of genetic
females in the audience; in pairs or small clusters, even a larger group
gathered around a couple of pushed-together tables.

"The GG's like to see us, too," Dianna revealed. "They eat up the
performances and how flawless we look — as long as we don't compete for
their men. That larger group is either a birthday or bachelorette party.
From here, they will most likely work their way uptown to see a men's
strip show."

"Do they ever... " I began haltingly.

"Date?" Dianna finished, smiling bemusedly. "Sometimes. A few are closet
lesbians who convince themselves they aren't really making it with another
woman because the girl is hung. Some are just into chicks with dicks, like
the guys who come in here."

"Have you ever dated any of them?" I inquired, out of genuine fascination.

"Sure," my girlfriend chirped enthusiastically. "Their money is as good as
any man's. Besides..."

She massaged my tight, now-shapely tush.

"... I like girls; the sexier, more feminine, the better. I thought you
understood that by now."

I waggled my tush under her hand.

"Am I sexy enough for you?" I asked coyly.

"Oh, Honey," she murmured in my ear, "if you only knew."

With that kind of positive reinforcement, I could really get into this.

I was astonished to spy two empty bar stools, side-by-side, along the
front side of the bar. As we approached, I saw why they stood unoccupied.
In the middle of each was a white placard which read: Reserved in flowing
script. Dianna approached one stool, picked up the placard, draped her fur
over the seat and back rest, then perched regally, like a queen on her
throne. She removed the placard from the other stool and motioned me to
sit. She handed the placards to the bartender and placed the Capezio bag
on the bar.

"Thanks, Ritchie," she intoned with her most sincere smile. "Please take
care of my bag for me, won't you? And do you think you could scrounge up
something special in honor of my girlfriend's coming out?"

I surreptitiously removed two bills from my purse and reached behind me,
holding my hand so only Ritchie could see. He discreetly accepted the
proffered bills, noting Ben Franklin's portrait on both, and winked.

"We have a bottle of Taittinger Blanc de Blanc we save for special
occasions," he informed us. "I think this qualifies, Miss...."

"Lisa," I purred in genuine gratitude. "Lisa Layne. That would be lovely,
Ritchie. Thank you."

"It's an honor to serve you, Miss Lisa."

I turned to face him, placed my hand lightly on his, and flashed him the
most dazzling smile I could muster.

"It's a pleasure to be served by you, Ritchie."

He blushed crimson, stared at his shoes, mumbled his sincerest thanks,
then hurried off in search of the champagne. My lover smiled at me in
admiration.

"You handled that very well," she cooed, "although you still have to learn
not to spend your money. Men will be buying us drinks all night; wait and
see. By the way, you should take Ritchie literally on that 'honor to serve
you' bit. He's very submissive and obviously smitten with you. I think you
just made your first conquest. Have you considered what you might do with
your very own little slave boy?"

I was stunned at the thought. I hadn't really done anything. It couldn't
be that easy, could it? As a male, getting a woman interested in me was
like pulling teeth with a pair of rusty pliers. Were all men as easily
manipulated by a beautiful woman? And just when did I begin thinking of
myself as a 'beautiful woman'?

The Taittinger was as excellent as ever. Even Dianna, a novice with fine
wine, gave it her stamp of approval. It was so nice to find an
establishment that kept such a delicate vintage in the refrigerator,
rather than on top of it. We sipped the bubbly, watched the show - and
drew stares like flies to honey. I lost count of the number of times I
scanned the room and caught eyes darting away guiltily. When I caught a
gaze that didn't turn away, I gave him the once-over. If I thought him
hot, I flashed him what I hoped was a seductive smile. Even a week before,
'Lance' would never, ever have flirted with a man this way. Now, as
'Lisa'... well, I guess Dianna had broadened my horizons.

Men began approaching us not long after we sat down. Dianna deftly fielded
most of their advances. My lover was uncannily accurate at sizing men up,
gracefully dismissing the clumsy come-ons and zeroing in on the ones that
had real potential. I graciously acknowledged interest when it was
directed at me, but generally watched, listened, and learned from my more
experienced girlfriend.

One man in particular carried on a lengthy murmured conversation with my
girlfriend. That she gave him that much time indicated she had sized him
up as U.S. Prime. One look at his freshly-pressed Armani suit, broadcloth
shirt, silk tie and Tissot wristwatch confirmed that. I knew what was
coming and readied myself for it. Dianna stood and turned to me.

"Baby," she offered carefully, "do you remember what we talked about over
dinner?"

I nodded bravely and forced a smile.

"Good," she responded. "Ken and I are going to go next door for a bit and
get... better acquainted. Will you be okay here by yourself?"

She and I both knew what she meant was: would I be okay with her going out
to fuck this man? We had discussed it; at dinner and again in the car. She
had been open and honest about it, pointing out this was what she was and
she wasn't going to change. She had also assured me that no matter how
much or how big a cock she got, she would always come home to me - and
share the details of the men she had had. Susan hadn't done that; instead,
she had snuck around behind my back with one man in particular, then
(finally) come home, pretending nothing had happened. I had professed to
Dianna I would rather be with her than Susan, knowing Dianna would be with
men, sometimes several nights a week. Now, I had to step up and take
myself at my word.

Something else occurred to me. Once again, I was thinking in terms of
Dianna fucking men, not other men. What was happening to my self-image? I
had only to look in the mirror behind the bar to answer that question. I
gazed at the reflection — my reflection - dressed all in lavender suede
and sheer black blouse with a full, fluffy head of blonde hair and
overdone makeup. It wasn't like I had gone down kicking and screaming,
either. How could I possibly still think of myself as a man?

Just let go....

I squeezed her hand reassuringly, even if I didn't feel it myself. My
smile was a bit less forced.

"I'll watch your coat," I said.

It was difficult to read the jumble of emotions in her face. There was
nothing difficult to understand about the silently-mouthed words "Thank
you" she formed with her lips. I thought it had been difficult to accept
Susan was cheating on me. I thought it had been next to impossible to pack
my belongings, walk out that door, leave eight years of mostly happy
memories behind. It was nothing compared to watching my 'Barbie' walk out
that door, alone, followed discreetly a few minutes later by her 'Ken'. I
had to remind myself again she wasn't cheating on me; she had been honest
and up-front about who and what she was and I had accepted her on that
basis. For that matter, we weren't even married yet.

Yet? What are you thinking, Lisa?

I sat there, lost in my thoughts, absent-mindedly stroking Dianna's
fabulous fur. I hadn't really realized just how exquisite a sensation it
was. I switched stools, surrounding myself with the soft, fluffy pelt,
wrapping myself up in it, luxuriating in the sublime sensations. I began
to wonder why I had denied myself this pleasure for so very long? When I
realized the answer, I had to smile. Perhaps it wouldn't be so hard to
change my perspective after all. I just needed the right... stimulation.

"Hi Cutie! Would you like some company?"

I looked up. This time, my smile was warm and genuine.

"Hi Chantal! I would love some."

I turned to Ritchie. He read my mind, instantly producing a third flute. I
poured my new friend the last of the Taittinger, then proposed a toast.

"To... new beginnings," I murmured.

"Here, here," she responded, clinking her glass softly against mine, then
taking a sip.

"Oh my! You have excellent taste... " Chantal exclaimed.

She glanced at the sinfully-expensive fur wrapped luxuriantly around my
body.

"... in so many things," she finished.

I nodded slowly.

"Thank you," I replied in a subdued voice.

"Where is Dianna?" she asked, turning her head from side to side, looking
for my lover.

"A date," I stated simply.

Perhaps it was the way my body tensed, or the inflection in my voice. My
new girlfriend knew immediately.

"Oh, my," she stated quietly. "I know where this is going. Can you talk
about it yet? Do you want to?"

I nodded my head slowly.

"It would probably do me good to get it out, rather than bottling it up,"
I responded. "She and I have already talked about it. I know this is what
she is and she won't change. I accepted that. It's my problem, not hers. I
have no right to play the 'jealous husband' with her."

"I'll say, Girlfriend," my ebony companion snorted. "Have you looked at
yourself in the mirror lately?"

I chuckled.

"I've already been there," I concurred. "I can't believe it myself. It's
not like I was unwilling; at least, not after tonight, and all of you
taking the time to help me."

Chantal squeezed my hand.

"Thank you, Baby," she interjected. "It's sweet of you to say so."

"It just all happened so fast," I continued. "I need time to let my head
to catch up with the rest of me."

The attractive T-girl took both my hands in hers and gazed at me
earnestly.

"Girrrl," she advised, "what you need is to get laid — by the biggest cock
you can find. Not Dianna; you need a man. You can wring your hands and
rationalize and soul-search all you want. Until you get some stud to fuck
you, and find out just how easy it is to find one, you will never get past
where your head is at right now.

"As you said, Dianna is what she is and won't change. I know her, know the
way she thinks, about as well as anyone. She loves to fuck; the hotter,
rougher, nastier, throw-me-up-against-the-wall-and-do-me-right-now, the
better. But that is just sex. When it comes to love, Miss Dianna is a
hard-core lipstick lesbian. She will bring trade home if she has to,
providing she knows she can get rid of him right away. She doesn't want
some guy underfoot all weekend, leaving his dirty, smelly clothes strewn
all over or drinking beer and watching sports on TV all day.

"For what it's worth, Dianna has been bending our ears all week, telling
us about this wonderful, caring, sensitive guy she met — and how hard he
makes her cum. That girl is crazy for you, Sweetie! We've all been saying
'yeah, yeah, we've seen it all before and experienced it ourselves. He's
all lovey-dovey, sensitive and caring in the beginning. Then, the freak
grows fur and fangs at the full moon and rips your head off.'

"When we met you tonight, watched you two make eyes at each other, saw how
you pamper her, and what an exquisitely-beautiful girl you made on the
first attempt, we knew you are exactly the kind of lover Dianna falls hard
for. I don't normally go for feminine men, but I wouldn't mind putting a
move on you myself.

"I once had a manager who told me: 'Chantal, if you can't change the
facts, change your attitude.' So, you will have to change your perception
of your relationship and who you are as a person. You started down this
path, whether of your own free will or Dianna's siren song. Believe me; I
know how persuasive she can be. Now, you have to make a choice: either see
it through to its logical conclusion or get outta Dodge. I know without
asking Dianna is hoping, praying for the former. So are the rest of us.
We've already gotten attached to you, Girl. We want you to stick around.
Believe me; that doesn't happen often around this place."

Chantal glanced at the clock on the bar.

"I have to go get ready for my next set," she announced. "Did any of this
help?"

I hugged her for all I was worth.

"More than you can possibly know," I replied.

She flashed a dazzling smile, showing off about a thousand perfect teeth.

"Good!" she exclaimed. "I meant what I said. We really want to see you
around more often. We want you and Dianna to be happy together, too. All
right, I lied. I hope she will make you miserable and you will dump her
big round butt cold — and I will be right there, waiting to catch you as
you fall. See you later!"

My new confidant made her way back to the dressing room. I mulled over her
words carefully. When Dianna returned from her date, I moved back to my
own stool and allowed her to reclaim hers. Her smile was genuine, but her
eyes were tinged with caution.

"Keeping it warm for me?" she asked.

"And then some," I replied.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I shook my head and squeezed her hand.

"Later," I demurred. "Tonight, at home, in bed — with you inside me. That
will be the right time."

She leaned over, placed one hand on my cheek, and planted a warm, gentle
kiss on my lips, in front of God and everyone.

"You really do know how to push all the right buttons," she murmured in my
ear, above the din. "I am so in love with you, I could burst!"

***

I couldn't ignore him. He was tall, attractive, and built like a Greek
god. He had been giving me the eye all evening; one of those that didn't
turn away when my gaze met his. I had winked and smiled at him a bit
earlier. Apparently, he had taken that as an invitation. As he drew near,
Dianna had done her best to divert him to herself, but he was having none
of it. He made straight for my stool and engaged me in conversation. One
thing led to another.

"I was wondering," he intoned thoughtfully. "What would it take to get a
girl like you someplace more... private? I would really like to get better
acquainted.

Time to shit or get off the pot, Girl!

"What did you have in mind, Sugar?" I inquired.

He carefully held my chin between his thumb and forefinger, then leaned
over and whispered directly into my ear.

"You have such beautiful lips," he intoned, gently tracing their outline
with his other forefinger, careful not to smear my lipstick. "I was just
wondering how much it would cost to see them wrapped around a nice, juicy
tube steak?"

Clear, concise, and to the point. I had listened to Dianna field such
requests for the better part of two hours. She had quoted them a steep
price to cull out the wannabes who were just living out their hooker
fantasy without actually planning to go through with it. Real players
would negotiate — and not be deterred by a highball figure.

"Funny you should bring that up, Sugar," I intoned. I've been craving a
tube steak sandwich all night. I know a quiet little spot not far from
here where they serve up good ones for...Seventy-Five?

"Seventy-five?" he voiced in mock surprise. "They would have to be very
good."

"What's your name, Lover?" I inquired.

"Daniel."

I sighed, expanding my chest to show off my boobs, then licked my lips
suggestively.

"You tell me, Daniel," I spoke breathily. "Do you think it's worth it?"

He gave me another once-over, then smiled.

"Oh yeah," he replied. "I definitely think you are worth it. Where do we
go from here?"

Thanks to Dianna, I had my response down pat.

"You are going to be a good boy and go back to your table. I will be
leaving as soon as you do. For obvious reasons, it would not be a good
idea for us to be seen leaving the club together. Wait ten minutes, then
come to the office building next door. Ring the buzzer marked
Two-Seventeen, identify yourself, and ask for Lisa. I'll buzz you in.
Remember: the tube steak special goes for seventy-five up front; no
exceptions. Got it?"

"Oh, yeah, Sweet Thing; I got it."

As Daniel returned to his table, I smiled at Dianna coyly. I had trouble
reading her emotions.

"My big girl is growing up really, really fast," she observed, with
unexpected distance in her voice. "You were taking baby steps only a
couple of hours ago. Now, you are going to have your first date with a
man. Remember everything I taught you and play nice with the big boys.
Jim, the owner, makes the room available to us girls. He owns the whole
building, as well as this club. Be sure to tip him like I told you. If you
are good to him, fair to him, he will be your biggest fan. Now, go — and
be sure to wear a condom."

"I'm just giving him a blowjob, Baby," I assured her. "I'm not fucking
him."

"You wear a condom anyway," Dianna intoned more insistently. "You will
thank me later."

Jim was playing host at the front door, meeting and greeting guests as
they arrived. We had never actually met. The first time I was here, he had
said hello, but pretty much ignored me, as he did with all obviously
straight males. Dianna had told me about him. He was a short, rotund Gay
boy who had a penchant for dressing. In the beginning, he had performed on
his own stage. He had a reputation for sometimes being a tyrant towards
those who worked for him. In truth, he worshipped the girls who performed
on his stage or 'worked the crowd', secretly wishing he could look as good
as they did.

He took one look at me and his eyes nearly popped out of his skull.

"Well, hello, Blondie," he gushed. "Shame on you for sneaking in earlier!
I'm certain I would remember seeing you come through my door."

I held out my hand.

"Lisa Layne," I pronounced. "I'm a friend of Dianna's."

He took my hand and kissed it.

"Well of course you are!" Jim enthused. "Leave it to Dianna to know all
the good ones. I remember her coming in tonight. I'm sorry; I still don't
remember you."

"You would have had no reason to," I admitted. "I was en drab at the time.
This is my first time out. Actually, you could say I was 'born' in your
dressing room a couple of hours ago."

I had no idea how emotional Jim could actually be. He was literally
running around in circles, not knowing what to do.

"Oh my God," he exclaimed, "oh, my goodness gracious. This is your first
time out? And you already look like THAT? And I'm the proud papa? Oh, be
still, my heart. Oh, oh, I'm going to have a coronary. Somebody fetch me
an aspirin! I have to nip this sucker in the bud right now! Dear, sweet
lady, can you dance? Can you sing? Can you at least lip-sync? Can you
roller skate and twirl a baton? I've got to get you up on my stage! Oh,
I'm so excited, I'm beside myself."

"Well, pull yourself together or we'll have to charge you a second cover,"
I jibed gleefully.

The poor dear laughed until he had tears in his eyes.

"Dear girl, will you share a drink with me? This is one of those truly
special moments that must be commemorated."

"Jimmy, I would love to," I responded with all the charm I had in me.
"Could we do it a bit later? To tell the truth, I was just about to step
next door to the employee lounge for a... coffee break."

That was the code phrase Dianna taught me to use. He knew exactly what I
meant.

"YOU GO, GIRL! This is your first night out, and you are already driving
the little boys wild? You are going to be a star, just like Dianna!"

He grasped both my hands in his and held them tightly. I took the
opportunity to transfer the twenty-dollar bill from my palm to his — a
little grease to prime the business pump. He felt the bill change hands
and cranked his smile up another notch.

"Oh, you are definitely a keeper! Go do your date, Girlfriend — and use
protection. I'll buzz you through from here. When you get back, we'll have
that drink. Oh, if I was only twenty years younger — and attracted to
women!

***

Nervous? Who, me? What would I have to be nervous about? Ten days before,
I had been a happily-married, strictly-hetero commodities trader, amateur
athlete, and (I thought) all-around nice guy. Now, I was a maxed-out
blonde bimbo, pacing back and forth across the 'employee lounge',
anxiously awaiting the arrival of her first 'date', wondering for the
umpteenth time that evening what I had gotten myself into. Acquiescing to
Dianna's instructions, I had managed to slip a condom over my raging
hard-on with trembling hands. Getting my 'clit' back into my panties,
tucked back between my thighs, had been nearly impossible.

It wasn't like Dianna had stuck a gun to my head and told me: "you have to
date." If anything, she had spent the last few hours deflecting that kind
of attention away from me — towards herself. Yet, when the choice was
made, she had done nothing to dissuade me, other than acting put-off by my
initiative. Perhaps that was the entire issue; choice. She had never
forced anything on me. She had merely presented a series of options — and
let me choose which way I wanted to go. What was it Chantal had said?
Believe me, I know how persuasive she can be. Was my lover that good, that
she could manipulate me into doing what she wanted without saying the
words? A few minutes ago, I had left with the impression she didn't want
me to go on this date at all. The chime of the intercom almost made me
jump out of my skin.

"Yes?"

"Lisa? It's Daniel. Are you ready for me?"

Upon arrival in the New World, Cortez ordered his ships burned to the
waterline. As the flames lit the night sky, his men knew there would be no
turning back.

I pressed the button.

"It's open. C'mon up."

Burn, Baby, Burn!

Daniel was impressive in more than looks. He was cool about taking care of
commerce right away, freeing us up for some serious pleasure. I think he
liked the way I pushed him down on the bed, then undid his belt and zipper
and yanked down his pants. I was impressed again when I saw the size of
his 'package'. I felt positively girlish in comparison — under the
circumstances, a good thing.

During the course of my marriage, I had learned oral skills that had kept
Susan in orgasmic bliss for hours. With Dianna, I had refined those
skills, learning how to apply them in the way a woman pleases a man.
Daniel was now receiving the benefit of my 'education'. I began with a
long, slow slathering of my tongue on the underside of his penis, from his
scrotal sac all the way to the tip. I gave him little flicks of my tongue
all over, covering ever square centimeter with my lingual attention. I
kissed the tip lightly; barely more than a touch with my pursed lips.
Then, I split my lips, allowing them to just engulf the head of his cock.
I went to work again with my tongue, this time while slipping my lips up
and down his shaft, further and further.

I did not even attempt to make him cum within some arbitrary time limit.
This was a new and wondrous adventure for me. Perhaps it was not one I had
ever envisioned for myself, but I was here, he was here, and I was
determined to see it through. As much as I was enjoying this, I couldn't
help but wonder how much better it might be if that wonderful cock were
fucking my pussy instead of my mouth. My ministrations were obviously
having the desired effect. His breathing became rapid and shallow. His
body began to thrash back and forth. He had grabbed hold of my head with
both hands and was fucking his cock with my face.

Then, he thrust me away forcefully.

"Stop," he gasped. "I changed my mind."

I had really been getting into it. To say I was disappointed would be
putting it mildly.

"Changed your mind?" I retorted, peeved. "Honey, we don't do refunds."

"That's not what I meant," he panted. "I want, need to finish inside you.
How much for that?"

My whole body twitched at the delectable thought. Chantal's words came
back to me:

Girrrl, what you need is to get laid — by the biggest cock you can find.

"Lover, with credit for what you have already paid, that little 'extra'
will cost you an additional hundred-twenty-five."

"If I make it one-fifty, can we go bareback?"

My eyes glazed over at the prospect of being filled to the brim with his
spunk. Just as quickly, my head regained control.

"Baby, I don't know you from Adam yet. My life is worth more to me than an
additional twenty-five dollars. Tonight, we play protected or we don't
play at all."

He slipped me the additional cash. I slipped the jumbo-sized lubricated
condom over his manhood, wet him in my mouth with a dozen or so sucks,
then hiked up my skirt and slipped out of my panties. The entire contents
of the K-Y tube were hurriedly deposited inside my puckered hole. At his
request, I bent over the edge of the bed, holding myself up on my hands.
His spit-slick cock parted my nether lips and slipped into me easily. My
eyes glazed over for real. If Dianna was big; Daniel was huge by
comparison. He worked me like a pro, plowing my field with animal
intensity.

It didn't take long — for either of us. I could feel him tense, feel his
cock grow rigid. The Adonis grabbed my hips and thrust my body back onto
his bar of steel. I was dimly aware of a girl's screams of "Fuck me,
Daddy. Use your slut. Cum inside your ho'. She's nothing but a cheap cum
catcher, a receptacle for your spunk. You know she's been begging for it
all night. Give it to her. Harder. Harder!" I felt his rod begin to gush
like a firehose through the thin latex membrane. That did it for me. My
world shattered into a million pieces and fell away. A thunderous roar
filled my ears. My whole body spasmed from head to toe.

It took a long, long while to pull my fragmented psyche back together, bit
by bit. Some of it, I knew, would never be the same again. I lay there
panting, quivering, unable to move, even as I heard Daniel get up, zip his
pants, express his thanks and leave. As my faculties returned, I realized
that girl's voice exhorting Daniel to use her, fuck her, had been mine.
So, too, had been the primal lust her words had given voice to. Her words,
her lust, were mine. What did that make me?

As usual, Dianna had been right to have me wear a condom. Mine was not
quite as full as the one Daniel had casually discarded, but at the time,
it felt like it should have been. Aside from the obvious, the saving grace
of sex with condoms is the relative ease of cleanup. I snatched up his in
a paper towel and deposited it in the wastebasket, followed by my own.
After checking myself and the bedclothes for spotting (none, thank God), I
rearranged my disheveled clothing, repaired my makeup, then tidied up the
bedspread and pillows for later use. I cast my eyes around the room one
more time, bidding a final farewell to this last vestige of Virginity,
then turned and strutted saucily out the door.

There was a profoundly more exaggerated wiggle to my walk as I slinked
past the patrons to resume my seat next to my Goddess. Part was necessity;
I felt I might walk bow-legged for a week. The other part was pure Drama.
Although Daniel's condom had done its job, the residual slickness of all
that lubricating jelly made me feel he had cum inside me in quarts. I felt
really wicked, returning to my lover with a man's 'cum' filling my love
nest. Baby, I played it for all it was worth for the benefit of the crowd.

I sat a bit gingerly, crossing one leg over the other with the subtle rasp
of stocking-on-stocking that was more felt than heard over the din of the
sound system. I leaned close to her, nuzzled her cheek with my nose, then
whispered in her ear.

"Did you miss me?"

I gently stroked her thigh through her dress to punctuate my implied
intention. Dianna jerked her head around to meet my gaze. Her eyes were
ablaze with emotions I had trouble interpreting.

"Did you have a good time?" she spoke carefully.

"Uh-huh!" I gushed. "Chantal was right. She said I needed a big cock to
put things in the right perspective."

"He fucked you, didn't he?" she spat.

I nodded, beaming.

"Did he ever!" I exclaimed emphatically. "Aren't you proud of me?"

"We're leaving," she hissed with grim determination.

Her coat was on in a flash. Ritchie had taken the cue; the Capezio bag was
on the bar a moment later. Dianna seemed not to notice it at all. She
seized my wrist firmly and propelled herself onto her feet. Thank goodness
my clutch was in that hand. I just managed to grab the bag off the bar
with my free hand before I was yanked off my chair. We made our way to the
door as quickly as the crowd allowed. I stayed our departure long enough
to express my thanks to Jimmy and beg for a rain check on his previous
offer.

We reached the parking lot in record time. The Mercedes was near the end,
immersed in shadow. Dianna unceremoniously threw me face-forward over the
trunk of the car, then stepped behind me, spreading my thighs with her
own. My skirt was bunched up around my waist and my panties at my knees
before I knew it. There was nothing tender in the way she took me.

"Is this good for you too, slut?" she barked, as she pummeled my love nest
with her 'clit'. "Is it as good as he was? Far be it from me to complain
about 'sloppy seconds'. If you want to let some guy — or two or three —
loosen you up for me, that's just fine."

Dianna thrust hard into me in tempo with her words. I had no idea what I
had done to invoke her rage, but that was exactly the right word to
describe her emotion. Her fiery determination almost made up for the
evening chill — almost. Between her adrenaline rush and the full-length
fur she wore, I was sure Dianna was toasty. I had only the thin suede
jacket to ward off the cold — that and the ferocity of Dianna's attack. It
wasn't like she was hurting me physically. Her words had been accurate;
Daniel had loosened me up. Her assault was emotional — and hit its mark.
After my experience with Daniel, and now this, I did feel like a slut. The
truly scary part was, I liked it.

It was that thought that made me cum a second time that evening, even
harder than the first. Dianna came too, flooding my tush with her creamy
spunk. We stood there dazed, sprawled over the trunk of the car, slowly
collecting our senses.

"Why?" I managed to gasp at last. "I did everything you asked. You wanted
to 'show me the ropes', as you put it, and I learned that, too. Why this?
What did I do wrong?"

My attacker pulled out of me, then pulled me up to face her. I could still
read the intense emotion in her expression as we each rearranged our
clothing. It was no longer fury that filled her eyes. She was still angry,
but I somehow sensed it was not at me.

"Drive the car," she said at last.

"But, what..."

"Just drive!"

I fished through the Capezio bag for the car keys, then opened her door
for her. She avoided my gaze as she settled into sumptuous leather
upholstery. After closing her door, I hurried around to my side, got in,
and started the engine. The five-liter V-8 roared to life, settling
quickly to a silky-smooth purr. We were half-way home before Dianna broke
the silence.

"Nothing," she murmured, staring out the passenger window.

"What?" I replied quizzically.

She turned to meet my gaze.

"You did nothing wrong," my companion avowed. "In fact, you did everything
right — more so than I could ever have imagined... or hoped. The problem
isn't you; it's me. I watched you go off with that guy, then return,
looking like the cat that just ate the canary. I was...."

It was a good thing we were both buckled in. I slammed on the brakes hard
enough to put us both through the windshield.

"Jealous?" I gasped incredulously. "YOU?"

"Don't take that tone with me, Missy," she intoned. "I'm human as much as
the next girl. In fact, I'm just now discovering how much. I've never been
in this situation before."

"You've never watched a girlfriend go off on a date with a guy?" I
queried, mystified.

"Not one I really cared about, no!" she huffed. "It's different this time.
You are different. I guess what I'm really trying to say is, the way I
feel about you is different. I saw you with that guy and... I didn't like
it."

First, I did the sensible thing — if you can call shifting a car into park
in the middle of Illinois Street at one AM on a frigid Sunday morning in
February 'sensible'. I unbuckled my seat belt and managed to maneuver my
body across the seat and onto Dianna's lap, throwing my arms around her
neck and nuzzling her nose with mine. All the while, I thanked my good
sense at purchasing the sedan instead of the SL coupe.

"Baby," I purred, "do you have any idea how utterly absurd that sounds,
coming from you?"

"So, it's 'absurd' I've fallen for you like a ton of bricks and I'm not
afraid to admit it?" she snapped indignantly.

"Nooooo," I re-grouped quickly, "it's absurd you think you have anything
to worry about. Daniel was just a guy with a dick. It was a really nice
dick, to be sure, but it was just a dick. You are the one I want, the one
I want to come home to — and haven't we had this conversation already?"

"Don't play word games with me, Bitch," my lover growled. "You know this
is different."

"Different?" I mused coyly. "How? Because we're talking about me, instead
of you?"

"Would you rather we make it about you and Susan?" she sniped.

That hurt.

"That was a low blow, Dianna," I muttered. This is different. Words count,
remember? That fact that we are here, having this conversation, makes us
different. Susan never afforded me that consideration; she just ran off
and did it."

"And if she came to you tomorrow," Dianna inquired, "and said to you the
same things we said tonight, what then? Better late than never."

I stared through those beseeching brown eyes, focused on that scenario in
my head. Then, I closed my eyes and slowly shook my head.

"We've already covered that ground, too," I professed. "That ship has
already sailed. It was quits when I found out about them. Here, together
with you like this, it's doubly so. Over the past ten days — especially
the last sixteen hours — I have had to undergo one continuous,
industrial-strength suspension of disbelief to get to this point. You know
what? It's working. I have jumped down the rabbit hole and am in no hurry
to find my way back — as long as you are here with me. My place is just
down the street and Monday morning is a whole world away. Now, can we put
an end to this insanity, go home, and enjoy the rest of our weekend?"

To emphasize my point, I lightly touched my lips to hers while grinding my
tush into her lap. I guess that was one more 'right button' to push.

"Just drive," she murmured — this time with a twinkle in her eyes.

We were silent as I pulled into the parking garage in the basement of my
building. We rode the elevator up to my floor in continued silence. The
pensive mood was broken as I opened the door to my place and admitted her.
She was captivated by the opulence — opulent to her — of my place. She was
further enchanted by the breathtaking view of the boat basin below and the
lake beyond. A short distance away, cars whizzed across the elevated
bridge where Lake Shore Drive passed over the locks separating the Chicago
River from Lake Michigan.

"This is nice," she offered, staring out into the night. "Very, very
nice."

The words sounded sincere, but there was that touch of distance again, as
there had been before we went to Ringers. I turned her to face me.

"It is," I agreed, "now that you are here. You are the first woman I have
brought here and the only one I want."

"I won't always be here," she corrected. "I told you that."

"Yes you will," I countered, "where it matters most. You will always be
here..."

I pointed to my head.

"...and here...."

I pointed to my heart. Dianna sighed expressively and held me close,
resting her head against my chest once more. I felt tears welling up in
her eyes.

"I don't deserve you, Lisa," she murmured, "but I am going to make it my
business to change that. Count on it."

She slipped out of her fur coat, shrugging off my offer to take it for
her. I thought she was still enamored with the feel of it and wanted to
hold it as long as possible. She located the hall closet, selected a heavy
wooden hanger, draped the coat over it, then hung it with care and gently
closed the door.

"Don't forget to take it with you when you go," I prompted her.

She smiled and shook her head.

"No way. The jewels stay here, too. If I took them back to my place, who
knows what freak or so-called 'friend' would rip them off when my back was
turned? No Honey; they stay right here. That way, I will always have
them..."

She kissed me tenderly.

"...and you to come home to. I will have you to come home to, won't I?"

I kissed her back, passionately.

"You can count on that," I replied, "and thank you."

"For?" she questioned.

"For considering this 'home'. It feels like one, with you here."

She threw me back on the couch and climbed atop me, hiking up my skirt and
unbuttoning my blouse.

"What do you say we have a little 'housewarming party'? Just the two of
us?" she purred. "We have so much to talk about."

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

A not-so-lazy Sunday afternoon and evening. You will never look at Chicago-style pizza the same way again.

Story:

Betrayed Ch. 05
by Cherysse St. Claire  ©

Chapter Five: All You Can Eat

We slept until eleven Sunday Morning, made leisurely love, then showered.
It was decided this would be a casual day for Dianna and Lisa; jeans,
T-shirts, and athletic shoes. With Dianna's help, I still looked good
enough to eat — at least, she thought so. Dianna looked… damn, no woman
had a right to look so sexy in such a sexless outfit. She filled
everything out to perfection, tying off the T-shirt below her boobs to
show off her twenty-two-inch waistline and navel ring. Turnabout is fair
play. I wore her suede high heels the night before. Now, she fit perfectly
into a pair of my Reeboks. Is it scary we wear the same sizes, or kismet?

She attacked my wig with a styling brush and comb, moving errant locks
this way and that, restoring the fabulous 'do to respectability.

"There!" Dianna pronounced triumphantly, "maybe not as good as Angelo
would do, but it will do for today."

"Angelo?" I questioned.

"He does all our wigs, Sweetheart," she informed me. "He's been around for
ages. He used to be the stylist at Broadway Wigs. Now he has his own shop.
We wouldn't think of using anyone else. When this needs to be cleaned and
re-styled, I'll take you to him and introduce you."

We knew neither of us could bear to part with the beautiful hairpiece, so
I made plans to send money with Dianna to reimburse Mimi. My lover assured
me Angelo would be able to obtain the replacement before the following
weekend.

Sunday was another shopping day. First, we went back to the same lingerie
store in Water Tower Place. This time, we purchased lingerie for me. A
stop at the MAC store netted makeup 'essentials' — about two shopping
bags' worth. Dianna promised she would have me a genuine makeup artist by
the time of the fashion show. Who better to teach me than a showgirl who
had appeared on stages all over the Midwest since age sixteen?

Our next stop was the furniture store from which I had furnished my condo.
I purchased a second, matching dresser for Dianna's things in accordance
with our avowal that my home was now her home as well. The same bedroom
collection offered a jewelry armoire and vanity table. We snapped up both,
then paid a premium to have the three pieces delivered that same day.

We motored on to a theatrical makeup and supply store on the Northwest
Side to acquire some special items Dianna professed I would need the
following day. It was a short trip from there to Paul's studio, where I
was measured for additional corsetry I would need for my ongoing figure
training. Upon completion of my fitting, we hurried home to await the
delivery truck, ordering a stuffed pizza from Edwardo's en route. Both
arrived shortly after we did. After having the delivery men array the new
furniture to our liking, I tipped them and sent them on their way. They
looked crestfallen to have to leave, after having feasted their eyes on
the stunning brunette and blonde 'roommates' for a half-hour.

We had a heart-to-heart discussion over pizza, concerning my future.
Dianna admitted the figure training alone, in conjunction with external
prosthetics, plus her makeup and deportment lessons, would probably be
enough to get me by for the fashion show. The word 'probably' had hung
heavily in the air between us. I knew without pressing she wanted more — a
lot more. She had enumerated the options available, both surgical and
otherwise.

Oh, how she wanted me to get a boob job! She didn't say so in so many
words, but I could tell.

"Do you remember Sugar?" she murmured.

I nodded slowly. How could I possibly forget? Sugar also frequented
Ringers. She and Dianna bore more than a passing resemblance. In fact,
some in the past have mistaken one for the other — until they looked below
the neckline. Dianna had full, firm D-cup breasts. She hadn't wanted to go
bigger than that, avowing she liked the "All-American Girl" look. I had
stifled a laugh when she told me that, thinking how much our perceptions
of "All-American" were changing. Sugar, on the other hand, possessed the
kind of fantasy chest that made men's eyes bulge out of their sockets and
pre-cum surge like a river.

Dianna's eyes glazed over and her breathing became rapid and shallow as
she described Sugar's choice of size, the procedure itself, and helping
her friend through her post-op recovery period. My lover's eyes regained
their focus, and she hurriedly added she just thought I should know what
to expect, should I ever decide to go that route. I got the distinct
impression there was — or at least, had been — more going on between the
two than just 'friendship'.

Dianna tread delicately on the subject of hormones. The benefits were
softening of skin and muscle tone, thickening and improved luster of the
hair, development of so-called 'secondary sex characteristics' — boobs,
hips and buns — not to mention increased sensitivity, particularly in the
nipples. There were consequences, too. Some girls experienced hot flashes
and pronounced mood swings. Others claimed the hormones made them sleepy.
There were some medical risks as well, although there didn't seem to be a
high incidence of them in girls our age. Of course, there was also the
potential for loss of male sexual function….

My companion had been massaging my crotch as she related all of this. She
had spoken those last words softly, almost reverently, as she gazed in the
direction of her hand. She lifted her head; her eyes met mine. She leaned
into me and kissed me tenderly. No other words were spoken on the subject,
but she left no doubt where her feelings lay.

There was probably something fundamentally irrational about having a
rational discussion with my paramour about methods to transform me
permanently into a more feminine image. If there was, I didn't see it. At
that point, it was just a discussion; nothing more. Dianna wasn't
insisting on anything; she was merely offering options. To be honest, my
mind was elsewhere at the moment.

Our distraction made us careless. Dianna was taking a bite of pizza and
watching me, instead of what she was doing. A big piece of sausage tumbled
out of the inside and plopped on her bare, taut belly, filling her navel
like a jewel. She laughed and reached to retrieve it, but I was quicker.
My face was there in a flash. I scooped up the errant bit of meat in my
mouth, chewed, swallowed, then gently lapped up the grease in her
bellybutton with my tongue. In so doing, I flicked her belly ring a couple
of times. I felt her body tremble, just a little, when I did that. I
glanced upward and met her eyes. We just stared for a moment, silently.

I took the pizza from her hand and gently dragged the tip across her
belly, smearing tomato and meat juice in a broad swath across her flesh. I
followed with light, delicate laves of my tongue, cleansing her skin where
I had soiled it. She trembled again. Goosebumps covered her soft flesh. I
made my way higher, peeling her T-shirt over her head with my free hand. I
dripped juice on one breast, then the other, licking and sucking each in
turn. She was trembling openly, continuously now, mewing quietly and
holding my head with both hands. I had never before seen her nipples so
erect, straining. Nor had they ever tasted so good!

I had to lay the pizza down. I needed both hands to pull her from the
sofa, lay her on the floor, then peel off her shoes, socks, jeans, and
panties. This time, I left a trail of sausage, pepperoni, onion, green
pepper, mozzarella, and elephant garlic across both thighs. Then, I
feasted my way upwards, alternating from one side to the other, nipping
tenderly at her quivering flesh as I snapped up each delicacy in turn.
Dianna's mews turned to soft moans as I approached the "V" where her
thighs met.

Her magnificent clit stood tall and turgid before me, vibrating with need.
I slathered it generously with rich, tomato-y goop, then set upon this
next hunk of 'sausage' with my mouth as though possessed. Every luscious
lick, nibble, and slurp was a four-star taste sensation, mixed with her
own flowing 'juice'. Dianna was thrashing back and forth wildly, her moans
replaced by shrieks. I had to hold her wrists firmly to prevent her
bucking me off before I was good and ready to release her. From what I
could tell, release was close at hand.

I didn't anticipate the strength the adrenaline rush would give her. She
broke free of my grasp, twisted her body to one side and hurled me towards
the couch at the same time. I landed on my knees, slumped over the
cushions. Dianna was on me in a flash, straddling my thighs and pinning my
body with her own.

"What an exciting dining sensation you have come up with, Sweetheart," she
purred in my ear. "Let's see if it is as good the other way."

She held me down with one hand between my shoulder blades. I heard the
rustling of cardboard behind me. The first tentative drippings down my
spine tickled. They were followed by heavier plops as something more
substantial landed on my skin. The soft, feathery touch of her lips and
the tip of her talented tongue were sweet torture. She began at the nape
of my neck and worked her way downward, alternately licking, nipping, and
sucking as I had done. Moments passed like hours, caught up in the agony
of sensation and anticipation.

She shifted her knees to the inside of my thighs, spreading them apart. A
thick wedge of pizza was dragged between my spread cheeks, sloughing off a
thick layer of juice, sauce, and ingredients. She took her time with teeth
and tongue, slurping up this concoction from her 'bowl'. Her tongue probed
my love blossom, opening it up, making it slick with tomato and meat
juice.

"I am so glad you are not a Vegan," Dianna cooed behind me. "I like my
dinners… meaty!"

She timed her lunge with her words. Her slick, greasy fuckpole mated with
my equally-slick, greasy love nest in one quick thrust. I grunted aloud —
from surprise, not pain. After the previous two days, I was well beyond
hurting from her sexual advances. At the same time, her greasy hand softly
stroked my own rigid love rod.

I raised upright on my knees. Dianna held me close, thrusting in and out
firmly. She continued to stroke my 'clit' with one hand while pinching my
nipples with her other. I felt my heart hammering in my chest. My eyes
focused, unseeing, on some point high on the opposite wall. My entire
being was focused on the points of her triple assault.

"Baby," she murmured, "I can't begin to tell you how much I have enjoyed
dinner. Let me take care of dessert."

Was the torrent of molten lava from her volcano, or my own? I couldn't
tell. Every nerve synapse in my body seemed to fire at once. I jerked
repeatedly, spasmodically, and would have fallen over if she were not
holding me. Then again, Dianna didn't feel all that steady, either. She
held on tight and we somehow managed to remain upright. The slick heat
from within me confirmed both volcanoes had erupted at once.

Her hand covered my mouth. I opened, and was treated to the most
incredible, aromatic elixir of tomato-basil-oregano-flavored cum. I gulped
it down greedily, then lapped the remnants from her palm. I felt her hot
breath in my ear as she gently nipped my earlobe.

"Emeril Lagasse has nothing on you, My Love," she purred. "So, what can
you do with Barbeque?"

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

Lance returns to work - and endures The Seven Levels of Hell.

Story:

Betrayed Ch. 06
by Cherysse St. Claire  ©

Chapter Six: The Seven Levels of Hell

Monday was the most vile, loathsome day of my life — for no earthly reason
other than having to be me. The first thing I had to come to grips with
was who 'me' was that particular morning. 'Lance' had to put in an
appearance at the office. Back to the old routine, go out there and make
the big bucks. F Troop back to normal, Sir! Simple, right? After the most
mind-blowing weekend of my life — as 'Lisa' — it was anything but.
Identity Crisis? Don't even go there! This wasn't the Monday from Hell;
this was Hell — all seven levels of it.

The First Level of Hell was waking up alone. I had taken my beautiful
girlfriend back to her place after our erotic dinner.

"Baby, I have to go to work at the club," she had chided softly, "and you
have to work first thing in the morning."

I offered to accompany her, as I had done Saturday night. She just shook
her head.

"Not this time," she demurred. "This is going to sound really evil of me,
but I don't want you there getting hit on by guys. I didn't handle it well
last night and I don't think I would handle it any better a second night
in a row. I know I'm being such a hypocrite, but this — us - is as new to
me as it is to you. Let me get used to the idea of you being with me
before I have to reconcile you being... well, you know what I mean. I
promise we'll get together later this week, 'kay?"

She had had to return to her life, just as I now had to return to mine. To
emphasize the point she considered my condo 'home', Dianna had neatly
folded and stowed her purchased lingerie, stockings, and corset in her
dresser drawers, then helped me do the same with mine. Her gown, sandals,
and fur coat remained in my closet and her jewels were in my armoire. My
lover admitted the special sense of sharing with me at such an intimate
level — her things together with mine - gave her warm fuzzy feelings. She
had gifted me the suede suit, blouse and mules, observing how good they
had looked on me the night before and pronouncing them a small, inadequate
token of her love for me, which paled in comparison to what I had lavished
on her.

I did my morning roadwork on the empty, pre-dawn streets of Streeterville.
Blocks away, Lake Shore Drive was already filling with the morning crush
of traffic; the blue-collars who punched in at six and seven, as well as
the workaholic white-collars whose ascent of the corporate ladder
superceded a little extra shut-eye. The Japanese no longer had a lock on
the 'salaryman' lifestyle — nor its killing results. I showered — equally
alone, and feeling it — brushed my teeth, dried my hair, then sat down on
my bed and faced the daunting prospect of the coming day.

The Second Level of Hell was dressing for work. A suit and tie? How...
drab. The thought of a cotton T-shirt and briefs was just plain revolting
after a weekend of something much smoother and softer nestled against my
skin. There was also the issue of figure training for the fashion show
Dianna and I would be doing in fourteen weeks. She had admonished me doing
it right was a constant, everyday process, no different than my running.
Dianna had agreed it would be best for now if I did not attempt to wear my
breast forms under my suit. We would allow those around me time to adjust,
even as my body adjusted.

The whole concept of me as a femme fetish fashion model had seemed such a
ghastly joke when she and Paul had proposed it. Now, I hoped I would be
ready in time. No one at the office will notice the black satin corset
under my suit, right? Or the panties? Or the stockings? Or the silk
chemise worn in place of the T-shirt? The suede outfit, plus Dianna's red
gown, sandals, and fabulous Silver Fox coat mocked me as I dressed in my
unflattering business attire. I stared wistfully at the suede mules, then
slipped on my black Florsheimloafers.

The Third Level of Hell was my personal grooming. The earrings — all of
them — had come out the night before. Dianna had filled the holes with
tiny plastic training plugs to keep them open. With a little concealer,
they weren't noticeable unless you were really up close and looking for
them. My plucked eyebrows had to be replaced with prosthetics, attached
with spirit gum. We had purchased both, plus the concealer, at the
specialty theatrical makeup store. No matter how 'natural' they looked, it
now felt unnatural to me to see the low, thick, shapeless male brows. The
beautiful long nails, each attached with a drop of superglue, had been
carefully pried off with an orange stick and put away in the vanity. The
nails underneath were then lightly filed and buffed to some semblance of
normalcy (Ugh! There's that word again).

The Fourth Level of Hell would be making a conscious effort not to swish
in front of my co-workers. I had to remember to move like a man? I had to
concentrate on not making those small, graceful gestures with my hands as
I talked, or reach up to play with my hair or earrings, which weren't
there anyway? Cross one ankle over your knee, sideways, Lance; not
knee-over-knee, in-line. How funny is that? Think Victor, Victoria in
reverse; a man, pretending to be a woman, pretending to be a man.

What was happening to me, to my confident self-image as a man? Had I been
seduced so easily to "the dark side" by this beautiful, mysterious woman?
Or had that image been yet another carefully-cultivated lie, and Dianna
merely the catalyst to release my own latent childhood desires, just as I
had told her she had merely been the catalyst for leaving my wife? Was my
life falling apart — or at long last coming together? So many questions;
so few answers.

Oh, I would put on a good show. That's exactly what it would be; a show,
for the benefit of Management and my co-workers. I would be watching their
eyes intently, looking for some glimmer of amusement, or realization,
or... something. Hopefully, I would see none. Figure this one out; if I
aroused no suspicion, I would feel relieved — and disappointed. Place
index finger between lips, then thrum: beebeebeebeebeebeebeebee....

The Fifth Level of Hell was knowing the prospect of living this schizoid
existence faced me day in, day out, for the indefinite future. Even as
'Lance' walked out the door, Lisa's memories of the night before were
crowding out everything else. While we were making love, Dianna had played
with my nipples with her fingernails. That had felt so good! At the same
time, I had felt her breasts pressing into my back. In the throes of
ecstasy, my mind had played a dirty little trick on me. In it, those
beautiful boobies had passed right through my body and attached themselves
to my chest.

I thought back to our discussion of surgery, hormones, and other avenues
of transformation used by T-girls to achieve their goal. Realistically, I
couldn't consider getting a boob job or any other major, invasive
procedure — at least, not under the rationale of looking more feminine for
the fashion show. Memorial Day weekend was only fourteen weeks away. That
'hard ceiling' precluded the lengthy, involved process of consultations,
lab tests, the surgery itself, then the long post-op recovery. Why was I
even dwelling on it? A couple of weeks before, I would have labeled the
notion 'absurd'. There was also the issue of what to tell my co-workers if
I suddenly showed up for work as a very-obvious D-cupper — or more — not
to mention the other work we were contemplating. Still, the idea was
intriguing....

The Sixth Level of Hell had been waiting for me outside my office building
when I arrived for work. Susan had already tried and failed with
subterfuge, denial, badgering, threats and insults. Now, she was at her
charming best. The short, tight suit beneath the open trenchcoat was just
a little too revealing to be business-chic. The stockings and five-inch
stilettos were a dead give-away. Jeff Spencer wasn't the only one capable
of offering up the Big Play. The mercury-vapor streetlights on LaSalle
Street were superfluous when my wife turned on her smile.

"Sweetheart," she purred, "how are you? I'm sorry to have to corner you
this way, but you left me no choice. Look, I'm really sorry about all
this. I never told you about my little... peccadillo because I knew how
much it would hurt you. I didn't want to do that."

Funny; she didn't say it was wrong of her to have an affair in the first
place. Nor did she indicate she was going to stop seeing Jeff Spencer.

"You made your point, Baby," she continued. "You are still just as
attractive to women as the day I met you. What woman could resist you when
you turn on the charm — especially when you start pampering them the way
you have always pampered me? Let's face it; we are two beautiful people.
We belong together, just as we always have. Can we please put this silly
tiff behind us? Come home to me; I miss you."

She made it sound so reasonable — until you looked past the half-truths
and misdirection. My lawyer had advised me about this possible scenario.
Without re-hashing the Legalese mumbo-jumbo, it came down to this: if I
were to take her back now, knowing what I knew, it would, in the eyes of
the court, be a tacit acceptance of her infidelity. My iron-clad grounds
for divorce would instantly evaporate, leaving me the untenable choice of
allowing her to rape me financially in a continued divorce action, or
reconcile and become her cuckold.

"I miss you, too," I admitted.

That wasn't a lie. It isn't easy to piss away eight mostly-happy years.
Then again, I wasn't about to swallow this most egregious transgression on
her part, whatever her rationale. I wasn't exactly facing my uncertain
future alone, either.

"I promise I will give it careful thought for the next few days and let
you know what I want to do," I finished.

She squeezed my arm and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. I was glad she
did not attempt to hug me. Even through the heavy overcoat, that could
have led to a problematic 'discovery'.

"Thank you, Sweetheart," she cooed. "I know I can't ask more than that
right now. You have always been fair. That is just one of a million
things, big and small, I love about you."

Would someone please get me a shovel? This is getting really deep. She
gently stroked my cheek with her hand.

"I'll be waiting for your call, Lover," she murmured, smiling.

I watched her strut regally towards the curb and her waiting Lexus.
Knowing I would be watching, she tossed in an exaggerated wiggle that
rivaled Dianna's. She stopped abruptly, turning her head to look at me
over her shoulder.

"...and Lance?" she added. "She was lovely, whoever she was. Feisty, too.
You always have had impeccable taste in women."

I wasn't sure if that last compliment had been intended towards Dianna or
Susan herself. Either my wife was a very good actress or Jeff, as I had
surmised, had not revealed Dianna's secret to her. The fact that Susan had
referred to her rival in the past tense was not lost upon me. Fait
accompli; in Susan's eyes, the usurper stood no chance. Her towering
arrogance, heaped atop her other faults, appalled me.

Why would she even bother with this charade in the first place? Together,
the two of them would have everything she wanted; prestige, money,
security, and a big dick. Was she trying to get me back just to prove she
could?I would contact my lawyer as soon as I got to my desk, inform him of
this new development, and have him instruct the investigator to keep
digging.

The usual suspects in the office extended their bright, cheery greetings.
I walked into the wing that housed the offices of the firm's half-dozen
heavyweight traders — myself included. My office was one of the middle
two. Angie, our secretary, sat at a desk on the opposite side, facing my
door. In the two years she had worked for our group, she had been one of
the brightest spots in my business life.

To put it delicately, Angie was a dish: a five-foot, six-inch Latina from
the Northwest Side, with thick, wavy raven hair that shimmered with blue
overtones when the light hit it. She possessed dark, expressive eyes and a
voluptuous body that threatened to rip through whatever tight outfit she
wore on any given day.

That she 'overdressed' for the office, or did her hair and makeup more
expressively than most — by conservative, politically-correct Anglo
standards — was a given, and a delightful daily distraction to the male
members of the staff. If her overfull hips, tush and thighs (at least, the
female Anglo staffers described them as such) swiveled a bit too much to
be considered good office decorum, again, no one in our wing was
complaining.

Employee Relations periodically made noises, circulating memos concerning
"appropriate business attire and personal grooming" — no doubt egged on by
unnamed catty co-workers. Nothing had ever come of it and nothing ever
would on our watch. All six senior traders — with myself in the lead — had
sent a memo to Management, threatening to walk out en masse if any action
was taken against her without cause. Money talks louder than petty
jealousy in our world and the noises stopped. We kept a close watch on
Angie's performance reviews to ensure no 'cause' was ever manufactured.
Call it pandering, chauvinism, or whatever you like; we protect our own,
and we considered Angie one of us. How she dressed, what she did on her
own time, and who she did it with was nobody's business but hers, as long
as the work got done.

Although Angie flirted with all the men she worked for, she had always
flirted with me most of all. I had always, in Bill Clinton's words,
"lusted for her in my heart" and flirted back. What man wouldn't? In my
devotion to Susan, I had always kept it at just that. When my rumored
marital crisis had become fodder around the water cooler the previous
week, Angie had taken it upon herself to distract me from my problems as
best she could. Our secretary had been especially friendly and solicitous
of me — and seemed determined to push the edge of the dress code
'envelope' to the breaking point. Her 'distraction' made me wonder if she
might have more than business continuity in mind.

"Busy weekend, Boss?" Angie chirped.

It was impossible for my spirits not to lift in the presence of that
engaging, infectious smile. The heart-stopping tease was dressed in a
tight white suit whose skirt ended just below her knee. The tight skirt
accentuated her narrow waist and hobbled her gait, causing her to undulate
her tush in an exaggerated manner. The jacket had wide-spaced lapels.
Beneath it, she wore a fuscia silk blouse that was unbuttoned to the "V"
of her lapels. The obviously-braless DD-cup breasts jiggled sweetly as she
moved. Her legs were clad in suntan stockings, dipping to fuscia
ankle-strap pumps with five-inch heels. She placed her hands flat on my
desk and leaned over, affording me an unrestricted view of her chasm of
cleavage.

"Yeah, Ang," I admitted. "I have to say it was a really good one, too."

"I'll bet," she giggled with a wink. "You have that just-fucked glow about
you. A girl can tell."

I almost jumped right out of my chair on that one. Was I wearing a neon
sign around my neck, or what? I decided her comment had been innocent
enough.

"Ya got me, Angie," I confessed good-naturedly. "She was good, too. I
should know better than to try to pull the wool over your eyes."

"Damn straight!" she expressed. "So, not the Ex?"

"No, Angie," I confirmed, "not the Ex."

"Goooood," she purred. "That means there is finally hope for the rest of
us peá³nes."

I reached across the desk, covered her hand with mine, and gazed into
those big, expressive eyes.

"Whatever you may be," I intoned softly, "you are not a peon."

Her eyes seemed to melt — then adopted a more serious appraisal of me.

"Are you eating okay, Lance?" she queried.

"Yeah," I asserted. "Why?"

"Oh, I dunno," the lovely Latina teased. "It's just that you seem to
have... lost weight."

I did flinch on that one. Her smile didn't lose an ounce of sincerity as
she pulled her hand from underneath and placed it lightly atop mine.

"I mean, you still look good," she recovered quickly, "really, really
good. I was just... complimenting you, is all..."

She stroked the back of my hand lightly with her perfect, polished
fingernails.

"... and anytime you are ready to find out 'whatever I may be'," she
murmured, "just let me know."

She pivoted on her toes and made for the door. For the second time in
twenty minutes, I was treated to the sight of a lush, undulating tush
strutting confidently on impossibly-high heels. The fabric of the skirt
was stretched so tightly across her rear end, I could plainly see the deep
crevasse where her lush ass cheeks met. She paused in the doorway, gazed
over her shoulder and winked.

"I'll be right outside your door, okay?" she purred. "But then, you
already know that."

O — kaaaaaaaay! Well, I guess we cleared the air on that issue. Now I had
something else to occupy my thoughts.

The Seventh Level of Hell was the most daunting of all; attempting to
reconcile Dianna's overtly-promiscuous lifestyle with her expressed love
for me. Could I learn to trust Dianna, despite her multiple sexual
partners — especially after Susan had betrayed my trust in her? It boiled
down to the twin matters of honesty and choice. Dianna had been honest
with me up front — almost brutally so. She had offered me a choice; accept
her for what she was, or not at all. But did she accept me?Suddenly
Chantal's words popped into my head:

Dianna loves to fuck... but that is just sex. When it comes to love, Miss
Dianna is a hard-core lipstick lesbian. That girl is crazy for you,
Sweetie!

Having experienced that mindset from the other side and witnessing,
first-hand, Dianna's poignant reaction to my 'date' with Daniel, I knew
exactly what Chantal was talking about — more so than 'Lance' alone ever
could. I had certainly been attractive enough to Daniel — and probably
would be to other men as well. It was a 'trust' issue, all right; trusting
myself to be desirable enough that Dianna could have sex with someone
else, but love me and me alone. If anything was going to sabotage my
relationship with her, it would be my own petty insecurity, not one of her
anonymous sexual partners.

A cold chill gripped the pit of my stomach. Was I holding Susan to an
unfair double standard? The circle came around once more to the issues of
honesty and choice. Had Susan been honest with me about her needs, as
Dianna had? Not even close. Susan had, not an hour before, offered me a
choice, but it was a choice in name only and only because I had forced her
hand. Dianna had even predicted it:

And if she came to you tomorrow and said the same things we said tonight,
what then? Better late than never.

Susan had not said the same things. She had dangled attractive bait before
my eyes; what would, for her, amount to a get-out-of-jail-free card. Any
'contrition', it was clear, was expected to come from me, not her. She had
not even hinted she would end her affair with Jeff Spencer. Fool me once,
shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. If I gave her a taste of her own
medicine, as either Lance or Lisa, she would likely turn around and
divorce me — and take me to the cleaners.

Of course, STD's are an issue when multiple partners are involved, but a
manageable one if proper precaution is taken. Dishonesty is not
manageable. Lack of trust is a plague on all houses. Could I trust Susan
again? No way, José. Could I trust Dianna? Trust has to be earned over
time, but I perceived she had been honest with me. That goes a long way
towards establishing trust.

The rest of the morning went quickly. I was following CNN closely. The
OPEC ministers were meeting in Vienna. I was anticipating them making a
move on oil production. I wasn't sure which way it would go, but I had
committed the company to a hedge position in a dangerous way. There had
been rumors circulating since the previous Thursday of a major new
offensive by U.S. forces in the Sunni Triangle When I heard that, my
instincts had gone into overdrive. I called our people on the floor of the
Merc and issued a buy order for all the Number Two Arabian Crude contracts
they could get their hands on. My job and reputation rested on the
accuracy of my instincts.

At eleven o'clock Monday morning, there was word an errant U.S. air strike
had partially demolished the Imam Ali Shrine in Najaf — the holiest
Shi'ite site in Iraq. Within the hour, there was word out of Vienna; OPEC
would be reducing worldwide production by a combined three million barrels
a day. The price of Arabian Crude futures took off for Mars — and we were
in the driver's seat! By one o'clock, my instincts had netted the firm and
its clients one hundred twenty-five million dollars and the amount was
still rising. All in a day's work. I made a note that it might be a good
idea to invest part of my commission in a hybrid car - and gave a little
chuckle for all those SUV owners who would soon be taking the CTA or
Metrato work.

Angie stuck her head in the door.

"Ready?" she inquired.

"For...?" I questioned, puzzled.

"Lunch!" she gushed. I've been following your latest exploits; we all
have. The word is, Rob Nelson and Jim Grant are about to nominate you for
Sainthood. I'm taking you to lunch before they usurp my prerogative. I may
not get another chance before you leave to start your own firm."

This was news. My commission on this trade would be enough to put me over
the top in my quest to obtain my own trading seat on the Merc. Getting a
seat was very much like joining a country club; you had to be 'sponsored'
by existing members. If Rob and Jim were willing to give me their
endorsement.... Robert Nelson was our Chairman and Chief Executive
Officer. James Grant was President and Chief Operating Officer. They had
started from much the same position I was in now — working for someone
else, then acquiring their own seats. The long hours of empire-building
had taken its toll on both their personal lives. Jim was divorced. Rob had
never married. The company was their wife, Mistress, and taskmaster. They
had reached the pinnacle of success, yet remained salarymen to the core.

"Not to worry," I chirped brightly, "if I leave, I will drag you out the
door with me — kicking and screaming, if I have to."

The comely Latina approached me, smiling coyly. She stood before me, bent
over at the waist, placing her face right in front of mine. She gazed into
my eyes, softly stroking my cheek with one hand

"I like kicking and screaming," she cooed, "but you won't have to drag me
anywhere — unless you are into that sort of thing."

She pulled me from my chair and slipped her arm through mine. In her
heels, she was actually taller than me.

"Are you sure you can afford this?" I asked.

"Absolutely!" she breezed. "The sky's the limit — whatever your expense
account allows."

"Gee, thanks." I responded dryly.

"Shut up and call a cab," she growled with mock menace.

As Yogi Berra said, it seemed like Déjá  vu all over again. Angie suggested
we try Morton's new downtown location on Wacker Drive. The 'in' joke was,
the "T" in the neon marquee was already burnt out. At night, everyone in
the Loop was having a good laugh at the illuminated result. My companion
raised one eyebrow inquiringly when I seconded her order for a Cobb salad.

"I've been eating," I reiterated. "I just haven't been eating right. I
need more roughage in my diet."

"Roughage, huh?" Angie smirked. I'll make a note of that."

With only a modest amount of 'persuasion' by the lovely Latina, I ordered
a celebratory bottle of champagne; nothing ostentatious, just a nice MÅ‘et
Brut. If Angie was concerned I ate less salad than she did, she didn't
comment. We left nothing of the bubbly to waste — and were more than a
little wasted ourselves. I remarked I was going to be a wreck when I got
back to my desk.

"Not to worry," Angie reassured me. "I left word upstairs with Sheila you
would be 'indisposed' the rest of the afternoon. Debbie is subbing for me.
No one is gonna give us flack after this morning. We earned it."

"What you mean 'we', Paleface?" I mocked.

"I mean," she continued, "you did the deal and I, as Morale and Recreation
Officer, have kept your head screwed on straight and your mind in the game
for the past week."

"Oh, you did, did you?" I scolded. "Well, thank you very much for your
dedication. And just how did you save me from myself?"

Angie just smiled coyly, and inhaled — deeply. Her chest expanded
amazingly, like two big, round jiggly balloons that seemingly would burst
at any moment, yet just kept expanding. I stared in rapt, silent
fascination.

"Like that," she responded quietly.

Under the table, her hand was in my lap, stroking the hard-on that had
popped above the waistband of my satin panties. I was scared to death she
was about to discover the corset, garters, stocking tops, or all three.

"That IS a... lovely... suit," I stumbled absent-mindedly. "You wear it...
all your outfits... so... well."

"You really think so?" she murmured. "Thank you, Sweetie! You don't mind
if I call you that here, just the two of us, do you? I mean, you are such
an attractive man.... No, that's not right. You are so young-looking,
slender, smooth, fine-featured — like a really pretty boy..."

Her hand snaked its way from my crotch to my abdomen before I could do
anything to stop her. Her smile lit up the room.

"...who likes to dress up like a really pretty girl. Now, what were we
saying about 'drag' a little while ago? Pretty girls like you always have
a pretty name. What's yours?"

I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me right then. I closed my eyes.

"Lisa," I whispered.

"Lisa!" she exclaimed. "That is so you. I am very pleased to meet you,
Lisa. I get along well with the other girls at work, but they are all
so... white bread — know what I mean? You, on the other hand, are my kind
of girlfriend. I can already tell you are hip, daring, not afraid to
flaunt what you've got, and know what to do with it when the time comes.
I'll bet it kills you to have to dress like this for work, doesn't it?
What you really want is to cut loose and dress the way you really feel,
don't you? With those blue eyes and that fair complexion, I'm guessing you
are a really fabulous blonde — aren't you?"

I nodded silently. How could she possibly know all of that? Thank goodness
the lunch rush was largely over. If anyone had been sitting at a
surrounding table....

"Angie, I'm seeing someone," I murmured.

Her eyes sparkled like black diamonds.

"That's right, Sweetie; you are seeing me — and I couldn't possibly be
more thrilled!This is way cool, mija. I just have to get the full effect.
Check, please!"

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

Lance discovers Hell has an eighth level - which may not be so bad, after all.

Story:

Betrayed Ch. 07
by Cherysse St. Claire  ©

Chapter Seven: The Eighth Level?

Angie kept my arm locked in hers, preventing any attempt at escape. We
caught a cab back to my place. She was even more appreciative of it than
Dianna had been.

"Girlfriend, you live like a queen!" she exuded.

Realizing what she had just said, she giggled.

"Oops! Well, you know what I mean."

She made a beeline for the master bedroom. Her practiced eye did not miss
the jewelry armoire or vanity. She nodded her approval, checking my
dresser drawers, one by one, noting the lingerie and Dianna's corset. She
moved on to the vanity, nodding her head and smiling at the MAC products,
then stepped to the armoire. Her eyes bugged out when she saw the
diamond-and-ruby pieces.

"I'm not even gonna ask," she exclaimed slowly.

I knew what she was implying and nodded my head. She exhaled loudly, then
moved on to the closet. She stood silently, taking in the suede suit, the
red sequined gown — and the coat. She shut the door silently, then turned
to face me.

"Well," she observed, "it's not as extensive as I would have guessed, but
Jesus...."

Her last word came out almost in a whisper.

"I'm kinda new to this," I admitted. "That's why my wardrobe is so
limited."

"Define 'new'," she interrogated.

"Uh, this past weekend?"

"Two days?" she questioned. "Wow, you're just a cherry at this."

"Um, not...exactly..." I corrected.

Her eyes bulged. Then she smiled a Cheshire smile.

"You don't waste any time, do you?" she smirked. "I was right about you,
Lisa. You do know how to use it when the time comes. We are going to
become very, very close friends..."

"But, Angie, I can't..."

"...and no one in the office will ever have to know our secret — if I
don't want them to. Now, Lisa, I want you to get dressed for me. As much
as I might want to see you in that red sequined number, I think the suede
will be fine for now."

I stripped off my male attire, swapped the pink panties for the
freshly-washed lavender bra and panty set, then slipped my boobs into my
bra. Angie re-tightened the corset's laces, cinching them down as far as
they would go - crushing the breath from me. She also directed me to swap
out my suntan stockings for a jet-black pair.

I professed my relative lack of skill at applying makeup. My captor
insisted on doing my 'look' for me, right down to re-applying my eyelashes
and fingernails. During the course of our makeup session, she was
delighted to discover my prosthetic male eyebrows, peeling them away in a
flash, then penciling in the dramatic high, thin arches I had affected all
weekend. Angie was doubly delighted to discover my camouflaged ear
piercings. She pursed her lips and shook her head expressively.

"You are just full of surprises, Lisa," she intoned mirthfully. "It really
must kill you to have to hide all this just to come to work. Just looking
at how beautiful you can be, and knowing how drab you have to be to get by
in your stifling male persona is killing me."

When her task was complete, my face did not present the full-blown
drag/stage look my girlfriends had given me Saturday night. Still, it
reflected a dramatic/exotic Latina flair, right down to the dark claret
outline of my lips with the more vibrant red filler, all covered with a
coat of shimmering gloss. I could not detect a shred of difference in the
look and feel of my glamour-length crimson talons from what they had been
all weekend. Under Angie's direction, I re-applied my jewelry, then
spritzed myself with perfume.

"Looking good, Girlfriend," she assured me. "Now, let's see it with the
hair. Wait a sec; let me work with it first."

When Dianna and I had decided to keep the wig, we had picked up a
professional wig block, styling brush and pick and, of course, hairspray
("A showgirl's best friend, Sweetheart," Dianna had claimed). Angie now
attacked my shimmering mane with the latter three. In less time than I
thought possible, she had 'pumped up the volume' — literally as well as
figuratively — to compliment the dramatic flair of my makeup.

"Now that's what I'm talkin' about," she crowed, then paused and winked.
"I'm also a secretary. Now, let's get this puppy on you, Sweetie. I can't
wait to see."

The elastic mesh cap went over my head first, holding my own longish locks
in place. Angie carefully positioned the wig as Mimi had done, cinching
the elastic Velcro tabs in back. I then did a credible job mimicking my
friends' efforts to anchor my new mane to my own hair with bobby pins.
Angelina's smiling face was next to mine, meeting my gaze in the vanity
mirror.

"Oh, yeah," she murmured. "Now put on the shoes. I want to see The Strut."

My heart was pounding, but no longer from apprehension. I was into it now.
I slipped my feet into the mules. The skyscraper stilettos arched my legs,
thrust out my boobs and tush, and made me feel invincible. I conjured up a
mental image of Dianna flowing across a room in that effortless way she
did. Then, I willed my body to emulate her.

"Oh... YEAH!" the lovely Latina extolled. "Girrrl, that is pure poetry in
motion. Two days, my ass! You were born for this. I'm gonna have to work
hard just to keep up."

The excitement — and champagne — had caught up with me.

"Angie," I pleaded, "I hate to break up this mutual aberration society,
but I really have to pee."

She laughed, nodded, then sat down at my vanity.

"You go ahead, Sweetie," she encouraged. "I'm gonna take advantage of this
fabulous collection of cosmetics and touch up my face."

While I was doing my business, I sorted out the tangle of emotions from
the afternoon. Once I had gotten over the initial shock of discovery and
Angie's blackmail, the whole thing had been an incredible turn-on. I could
not deny I had always been attracted to my beautiful secretary; now, more
than ever. She had given every indication she felt the same way. Where was
she going with this? My instincts told me this was going to be more than a
casual get-together.

Was this being unfaithful to Dianna? No; she had told me there would be
times she would not be able to tell me in advance about having sex with a
man. She would share it with me later, when she saw me again. I could do
the same now, and everything would be all right. Would Dianna be as
jealous of me having sex with a GG as she had been about my 'date' with
Daniel? Would Angie want to penetrate me as Dianna did — in this case,
using a dildo? I wanted to be prepared....

The bathroom was fully-equipped; whirlpool tub, separate shower stall,
double sink. toilet — and bidet. When I had toured the place, I thought it
was a quaint appendage that would sit forlornly in the corner, forever
unused. Now.... The sensation of being thoroughly cleansed by the powerful
jet of water was stimulating and unnerving at the same time. My insides
tingled from the experience, not to mention the anticipation of what was
to come. During my stay in the bathroom, I swore I heard my companion's
voice, talking to... someone.

In my absence, Angie's 'touch-up' had rendered her face and hair as
dramatic as my own. She beamed at me as I emerged from the bathroom and
held out her hand to me.

"Ready?" she asked.

Déjá  vu.

"For...?" I reiterated.

"A celebration!" Angie gushed. "The cab will be here in a few minutes.
There is no way two zorras like us are gonna sit at home, looking like
this. I want all of Chicago to see us tonight. I have never felt so
alive!"

I had to admit; I felt the same way. I gathered up my suede clutch, added
cash, my Driver's License (embarrassing if I had to show it, but at least
it was legal), perfume, compact, and another tube of K-Y. Angie noted the
lubricant, as well as the condoms already in the purse, and beamed.

"Planning on getting lucky tonight, Girlfriend?" she cooed.

"The thought crossed my mind," I admitted coyly.

Angie winked.

"You just might be right," she ventured. "I'm really turned on right now
and you are so hot! This keeps getting better and better."

The cab ride was short, depositing us in front of Ruth's Chris Steak House
on Dearborn. Well, okay; the bar is kinda nice and I might be hungry
enough for a small filet later, but.... Angie wrapped my arm in hers and
hurried us inside to escape the evening chill. We made our way into the
bar. I was musing to myself how long it had been since I had a really good
frozen strawberry margarita. My first had been with Susan, at Fat
Tuesday's in Key West. You remember those historic firsts in your life:
your first kiss, your first date, your first love... your first full-blown
coronary seizure. There, seated at the bar, were Rob Nelson and Jim Grant!

"If we turn around right now," I murmured to my companion, "and leave the
way we came, they might not notice us."

Angie pouted.

"What fun would that be?"

"But you said no one from the office had to know!" I cried.

"If I didn't want them to," she corrected. "Be nice and you will be fine.
I was asked out for a special occasion tonight — and I'm not about to say
'no' to our bosses. They asked me to bring a friend for a foursome. I
can't think of any girlfriend I would rather have by my side tonight — or
one more perfect. Let's go, Mija!"

She tightened her grip on my arm and pulled me forward.

"Angie!" Rob beamed. "You made it in record time. Was traffic that light?"

My girlfriend shook her head, beaming her most radiant smile.

"Nothing to it," she chirped. "We were just over by North Pier. We
actually waited longer for the cab to arrive than it took to get here.
Rob, Jim, may I introduce my girlfriend, Lisa...."

It suddenly occurred to us both she had never asked my femme last name.

"...L-Layne," I stammered, lucky to find voice at all. "P-pleased to meet
you both."

I extended a trembling hand in their direction. Both men were off their
stools in a flash. Jim shook my hand with a gentle touch — as a man would
shake a woman's hand. Rob turned my hand over and kissed the back of it.
He stood transfixed, staring into my eyes as though turned to stone. Jim
just grinned at his partner's distress. At last, Rob shook his head as if
clearing it.

"I'm sorry," he intoned, embarrassed. "Where are my manners? It was rude
of me to st.... I mean, I couldn't help mys.... Damn, Angelina, you were
right. She is absolutely captivating.

Okay, that helped a little. I was still shaking like a leaf in a Force
Five Nor'easter.

"You poor girl!" Rob stated compassionately. "Why don't you women ever
wear coats? You look great, but even if you take a warm cab, you can catch
your death of cold getting into or out of it."

"When some nice Sugar Daddy buys me a fur," Angie hinted, "I'll even wear
it in July."

"Consider it done, Baby Doll," Jim breezed. "Call it a 'perk' of your new
position."

"Angie is getting a... promotion?" I asked hesitantly.

"Yes," Rob replied with a grin, "for services rendered. Didn't she tell
you? We will announce it officially to the whole company tomorrow. She is
coming upstairs to become an Executive Personal Assistant. That's part of
the reason for our celebration tonight."

"Um, congratulations," I offered lamely.

"Thank you, Sweetie," she responded sprightly. "I couldn't have done it
without you."

I wished she would stop dropping hints like that. So far, they didn't seem
to realize who I was. As long as they didn't, I might still have a job the
next morning. I gathered up all my courage.

"Well," I observed, "if this is a celebration, perhaps we should have a
drink. Would it be too much trouble to order me a frozen strawberry
margarita? Make it the big one; I need it."

Ten minutes later, I was already half-way through the frosty, forty-eight
ounce concoction. It went down so easily! After all, it was just a big
Slurpee — with about a gallon of Cuervo. The others were sipping leisurely
at their cocktails. There had been not a single untoward comment or
reference, regarding me. The two executives, particularly Rob, were
actually warming to me as they would to any attractive woman. Fortified
with liquid courage, I was beginning to respond in kind.

"So, uh, Mr. Nelson," I began.

"Lisa, please call me Rob," he interrupted. "This isn't office hours and
'Mr. Nelson' is way too formal for the occasion — and present company."

"Okay...Rob," I corrected myself. "I just wanted to express my personal
pleasure in your choice of promoting my friend Angie. I know she deserves
it and she will be a valuable asset to you and Mr... uh, Jim."

"Thank you, Lisa," Rob responded. "Angie's promotion is richly deserved.
The men in the Major Trades Group give her rave reviews, particularly
Lance Layton. Perhaps Angie has mentioned him to you? She thinks the world
of him."

I stiffened — hopefully imperceptibly — at the mention of my alter ego,
nodding my assent.

"Lance is the real reason we are celebrating tonight," Rob continued. "He
really put us on the map today. He's the best of the best, and loyal to
the core. Did you know he threatened to quit, and take his whole group
with him, because some blue nose in Employee Relations got a bug up her
ass about Angie's sartorial splendor? He was willing to piss away a
six-figure income, plus stock options, for his secretary's honor. I wish
all my people had that level of personal integrity. Jim and I have been
wracking our brains all afternoon, trying to decide on a suitable reward.
Angelina has even offered a suggestion or two, haven't you Angie?"

She smiled from behind pursed lips and nodded. Her eyes twinkled.

"From what I hear," Rob went on, "Angie is lucky to have a good friend
like you. Your unselfish support of her career advancement is just one
more indication of that. The truth is, she won't be working for us."

"She... won't?" I asked haltingly. "Then who will she be working for?"

"Our Executive Vice-President," Jim answered.

"Really?" I questioned with genuine confusion. "Angie never mentioned you
had one. Who is it?"

The two men looked at each other — and grinned.

"Why, you of course," Rob stated matter-of-factly. "Dear Lady, after your
performance this morning, you could write your own ticket anywhere on
LaSalle Street. I'll do anything I have to do to keep you."

He gazed at me with a whole lot more than professional interest.

"Anything. Anyone who can make us one hundred fifty-seven million dollars
and change in the morning, then show up that same evening, looking like a
supermodel for her date with me, deserves her chair in the Executive
Suite."

My internal clock may have been a little off, due to the effects of stress
and alcohol. As nearly as I can figure it, about one-point-five seconds
elapsed between the time Rob uttered those words and I sensed the first
taste of bile in my throat. Strawberry-flavored bile is not cute.

"'Scuse me," I barked, even as I was bolting for the bathroom door.

As I dashed away, I thought I heard Rob inquire: "Was it something I
said?"

The First Commandment states: "Thou shalt worship no god before Me."

Fine; I won't burn in Hell as long as God is a porcelain throne.

***

I heard her voice directly behind me as I knelt.

"Sweetie? Are you all right?"

"Never better," I gasped. "Purging is 'in' these days. With the right
spin, I may make the cover of next week's People."

I felt her right arm wrap gently around my tummy as I coughed. Her left
hand held my forehead. No one had performed that simple, loving act for me
since my mother. I adored Angie at that moment — even as I despised every
fiber of her being.

"What did I ever do," I wheezed, fighting for breath, "to make you hate me
so much?"

"Huh?"

My stomach finally decided it had done enough somersaults. My breathing
returned to normal. I got to my feet, turned around, lowered the seat, and
collapsed on it.

"You set me up," I cried. "You outed me — to our employers! I'm done in
this town. I'll be lucky if I can get a job trading baseball cards in
Buffalo. Why, Angie? Why?"

She just stared at me as though I had sprouted a third eye in the middle
of my forehead.

"Excuse me?" she exclaimed indignantly. "Did I set you up? Of course! How
else could I have gotten you here under these circumstances? As for the
rest, were we sitting at the same table a moment ago? I could have sworn I
heard Rob Nelson offer you a Vice-Presidency. How, exactly, does that
classify you as 'done in this town'?"

"By this time tomorrow, everyone in the company will be convinced I'm some
kind of freak!"

The raven-haired Latina continued to stare. The corners of her mouth
twitched a bit, then curled upwards.

"Oh," she stated matter-of-factly. "Is that all?"

Angie reached down, hiked my skirt up around my hips, then slipped off my
panties. My damn clitty, not understanding how indignant I was about what
my companion had done to me, sprang to full, painful attention. My
companion then unzipped and wriggled out of her own tight skirt — she
wasn't wearing panties - straddled my thighs, then slowly sank onto my
lap, impaling herself on my rigid rod. Her eyes momentarily glazed over.
She trembled and gasped a sigh of contentment as I filled her drenched
pussy.

"Mija," she intoned, "you need a reality check. You are a freak. Your
instincts have consistently made our company profitable and you a valuable
asset, when the other traders guess wrong as much as they guess right.
That makes you a freak. Today, your instincts caught the commodities
market flat-footed, made this company a ton of money, and likely
positioned it as the premiere commodities brokerage in this city, if not
the country. That makes you a freak. In spite of it all, you are the most
intelligent, kind, loyal, funny, down-to-earth man I have ever met,
working in a world of arrogant alpha assholes. That makes you a freak. If
that isn't enough, you are also the most drop-dead gorgeously-feminine man
in this whole damn city. It goes without saying how freaky that is.

"I could have any man in this city. Do you doubt that? Don't! All I have
to do is wiggle my cute, curvaceous ass, and he would be all mine! I know
how the game is played and I don't mind fucking my way to the top. I've
already had Jim Grant - often. I don't love him, but he's a great lay, and
it doesn't hurt to get in good with the guys who can make your career. I'm
gonna have him again tonight, too — and you are gonna have Rob Nelson.

"I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, which Jim revealed to me over
'pillow talk'. The reason Rob never got married has nothing to do with the
long hours he puts in on the job. He is gay - and has an
industrial-strength Jones for beautiful T-girls. When I saw you like this,
I couldn't wait to put you two together. Did I 'set you up'? You bet your
sweet ass I did — and for good reason! Now, you may have 'missed the memo'
a few minutes ago, but he was hard as a rock the moment he saw you. He
wants you so bad, I can taste it. You heard him; he will do 'anything' to
keep you. What he really meant was, he will do anything to HAVE you.

"Do you deserve this Vice-Presidency on your own merits? Of course you do!
Is that enough — in our world? Sweetie, we are not gonna leave anything to
chance. Here is what you and I are going to do. We are going to pull
ourselves together, fix our faces, fluff up our hair, then go out and make
nice with our dates. We are going to enjoy our dinner, laugh at their
jokes, flirt with them, then let human nature and hormones do the rest.

"Tomorrow, we are going to pack your things, move you upstairs, get you
settled into your new life as an Executive Vice-President — and I am gonna
be right by your side, just as I have been every business day for the last
two years. I know how hard you have fought for me in that time. Don't even
dream I won't fight just as hard for you now."

I just shook my head in bewilderment.

"I guess I can chase away the butterflies in my stomach," I began
tentatively. "I may even be able to screw together enough courage to go
back out there. I suppose I should count my blessings; I didn't stain my
suit or blouse. Hell, if you pump enough alcohol into me..."

I stared at the bowl between my thighs.

"...excuse me; back into me, I might even be able to enjoy myself. But
where, oh where am I gonna find the courage tomorrow to put on a suit and
tie, ride up to the top floor, shake Rob and Jim's hands and sit behind my
new desk, as though tonight never happened?"

It was Angie's turn to shake her head, incredulously.

"You really weren't paying attention out there, were you?" she scolded.
"The man said, anyone who could do the things you have done today deserves
HER seat in the Executive Suite. 'Lance' wasn't invited to The Show; you
were. You are a star, Baby Doll, and I have hitched my star to yours.
Together, we are going to ride this right to the top."

"Angie," I inquired seriously, giving myself the once-over, "I really need
to know. Doesn't all this bother you? I mean me, this way. Wouldn't you
rather work for someone more... I dunno, manly? Do you really want to come
with me?

She stared at me without expression for a moment, then glanced down to
where my 'clit' was buried to the hilt inside her pussy. It was really wet
down there. She gazed into my eyes, a smile curling the edges of her
mouth. She leaned forward and kissed me deeply.

"Do I want to come with you?" she cooed. "I guess you missed that memo,
too. Twice. We'll have to do something about your breath, though. I've got
a pack of those little mouthwash-thingies in my purse."

***

We pulled it together (did we ever!) and slinked saucily, arm in arm, out
to meet our dates. I hoped my smile was somewhere near as dazzling as my
girlfriend's. I exuded bravado I didn't feel. This time, I got it right.
We drank cocktails with appetizers and champagne with dinner. I got it
right with Rob, too. I sat on the inside of our circular booth, next to
Angie. Rob was on my outside; Jim on hers.

The conversation — and confidence — flowed more naturally as my
blood-alcohol level increased. I was snuggled up to Rob just as tightly as
Angie was to Jim. After dinner, my arm was linked through his. I touched
the back of his hand lightly with my free hand to make a point during
conversation. Angie and I did laugh at their jokes — which were
surprisingly good and well-told for two guys from the Executive Suite.
Who'd a thunk it?

We walked out of the restaurant with my arm still through Rob's. My head
rested lightly on his shoulder. Was I surprised when he kissed me? Not
really. Was I surprised I sucked his tongue into my mouth like a vacuum
cleaner and held it there? Well, uh... yeah. What scared me most was, I
liked it. Did I think of Dianna? Immediately! I knew what was about to
happen; at that point, it was inevitable. I knew it was the one thing she
still felt uneasy about in our relationship. I knew all the noble things I
should be doing at this moment. I should politely thank Rob and Jim for a
lovely evening, call a cab and go home (I wasn't sure how hard a time I,
Lisa, would have retrieving the Benz from the secured garage at work, even
at this time of night). I should call Dianna, go to her, find her wherever
she was and tell her I loved her truly, madly, deeply. I also knew none of
that would happen beforehand. Angie and I were going home with our two
escorts, 'to let human nature and hormones take their course.' I could
have told myself I was doing it for my promotion or even doing it for
Angie's. If I repeated it often enough, I might even begin to believe it
myself.

Rob's condo in the John Hancock Building had a magnificent view of the
lake to the East and Lake Shore Drive to the North, with the Drake Hotel
in the foreground and Oak Street Beach just beyond. Rob had me up against
a wall with his hand under my skirt almost as soon as the four of us were
in the door. I guess he just had to check out my bona fides. He seemed to
like my 'bona' just fine; his lurched hard inside his pants. Playing the
ever-so-accommodating 'date', I unbuckled and unzipped his pants, then
sank slowly to my haunches, sliding his pants and boxers down as I went,
allowing his tortured tube its freedom. God, did it ever spring at the
chance!

Rob was not huge; certainly not like Daniel. But he was nice and thick and
meaty and stood straight at attention in my face, which was not only a
huge turn-on but an incredibly rewarding compliment. I kissed him right on
the tip to show my appreciation. He lurched again. I gazed upward into his
eyes — and saw The Look. I hadn't seen it all that often. Once upon a
time, it had been in Susan's eyes. Lately, I had seen it in Dianna's. If
you have ever seen it, you know how it makes those butterflies in your
tummy start a'fluttering and makes you do goofy things; sometimes
consciously, and sometimes on auto-pilot....

I sank forward on my knees and rested my hands lightly on Rob's thighs. I
had one serious lollypop staring me eye-to-eye. The tip of my tongue
traced a delicate path along the underside, from the sac all the way to
the tip. A series of little flicks around the head caused the whole of it
to jump numerous times. I traced back along my original route, laving his
balls upon arrival. I sucked each one in turn while lightly massaging his
firm buttcheeks with my long nails. I turned my head and traced back
towards the tip with my tongue along the upper crest, gently lapping off
to each side, first one, then the other, returning to my point of origin.

My second kiss lingered a moment, with my lips ever-so-slightly parted. My
tongue flicked the tip yet again, spreading the pre-cum which, by this
time, was flowing substantially. I parted my lips a bit more, taking the
head only into my mouth, giving it a more playful tongue-bath, round and
round, first one direction, then the other. One hand lightly grasped his
shaft; the other, his balls. I gently stroked the first, while massaging
the second, ever-so-deftly scraping the sensitive skin with the tips of my
nails.

I took more of him into my mouth, stroking him faster at the same time. I
could feel him tremble, feel his hands on my head, holding me, easing me
forward, urging me to take still more of him into my mouth, deeper,
deeper. I released his balls and reached around once more, massaging his
buns. I traced the length of his crack with my middle finger oh-so-slowly,
from the ilial crest to his scrotum, then back to massage his little
puckered hole. He jumped when I hit it with the tip of my nail.

By this time, I was inhaling his raging member up to my hand. I removed my
hand, placed it on his other butt cheek, and inhaled him even deeper,
until my nose brushed his pubic hair. His pre-cum was flowing continuously
now. I sucked my middle finger into my mouth next to his cock, getting it
nice and slick with saliva and Rob's natural lube. I found his love button
again and, with excruciating care, slipped my finger into it, making
certain I did not damage the delicate tissues with my fingernail. He went
off like a bomb, blasting hot jism into the back of my mouth and down my
throat. Knowing how sensitive a man is after coming, I resumed my light
tongue-flicking on his frenulum, holding his butt cheeks firmly to prevent
his escape. I honestly thought the sensations would drive him mad — but
his erection did not go down a centimeter.

Shouts and shrieks from the direction of the bedroom told me the action
was going hot and heavy in there. That was okay; I was up to my tonsils —
and then some — in action right here. It might have been minutes, tens of
minutes, an hour. I lost all concept of time and space. My entire universe
was the cock in my mouth and I was going to explore every last one of its
mysteries.

My universe picked me up and carried me bodily to the sofa, draping me
over the upholstered arm such that my back rested on the overstuffed
cushions and my hips were raised. Bless his heart, he accepted my offered
K-Y. He thrust into me so easily, as though I had been accepting cock in
my pussy all my life, instead of eleven days. I wrapped my legs around his
thighs and matched his thrusts with my own, closing my eyes, arching my
back, and focusing my entire will on simply being.

Something brushed against my hand. I opened my eyes, to be greeted by yet
another hunk of angry man-meat. I reasoned that, in the heat of passion,
slippery concepts such as 'gay' and 'straight' had less meaning than
slippery lips or a drenched pussies. I had not reached the point of doing
multi-million-dollar trades on the commodities market by being slow to
recognize obvious cues. I opened my mouth and accepted Jim Grant up to the
hilt.

I was being pummeled at both ends — and not-so-quietly going out of my
mind. My own shrieks were muffled by the bulging 'cock gag' filling my
mouth. My love nest was stretched and on fire from Rob's thunderous
assault. My own clitty had found a gap between my panties and skirt hem
and exploited it, standing tall. My attention snapped back from my mouth
and love nest to the gently touch of a hand on my cheek. Angie's face
hovered just over my head, upside-down, as she leaned over the near end of
the sofa. Her smile, like her name, was angelic.

"Is that enough 'roughage' for you, Baby Doll?" she cooed, "or would you
like it rougher? You're close to popping, aren't you? And it's such a
bitch to get cum stains out of suede...."

Her head disappeared. Moments later, I felt my skirt raised even higher,
up to my waist, then soft suctioning on my clitty as slick lips and a wet
mouth descended its length. I had no idea how long it lasted, nor where my
endurance came from. The cocks at either end of me thundered their release
in quick succession. I milked every drop from them with mouth and rectal
muscles. When they were at last spent and limp, I focused my attention on
the last remaining member of our 'party'.

There is something to be said about telepathy. Perhaps it was just the
recognition in the glance of one pair of perceptive eyes to another.
Strong hands had the gorgeous Latina impaled on my clit before she knew
she had left her perch on the floor next to the sofa. She was open and
drenched, but neither so much to deny her pleasure from my aching member.
Take pleasure, she did; openly, vocally, enough to raise the dead. Then
too, the lips teasing her nipples and the mouth sucking her tongue out of
her head had much to do with her passion. When she came, she convulsed
violently, spasmodically. I couldn't see her eyes; rather, I sensed from
the feel of her they rolled up into her head. But for the mouth covering
hers, they would have heard her in the next ZIP code.

I thanked them — for everything — and bid them a sweet slumber. They
begged me to stay, but I demurred, claiming I would have a busy day
coming. They mandated it start late, in view of my efforts 'above and
beyond the call', and that I contact Angie before I do anything else. She
took me aside and kissed me so deeply, I thought she would suck my head
inside-out.

"Will you be all right?" she asked, with a voice tinged with concern.

I tilted my head sideways and gave her a screwball look.

"Depending on your definition," I replied, "I may never be 'all right'
again. I think I will recover. From there, I guess we'll just have to take
it one day at a time, won't we?"

She kissed me again. Her smile banished the night's shadows.

"Good answer, Lover," she trilled. "In case I haven't told you in the last
ten minutes, you are magnificent. Call me?"

I had to laugh.

"No," I intoned solemnly, "after this, I'm afraid I'll just have to walk
away from it all and take up the solitary life of a long-haul trucker."

I trapped her fist before it impacted my shoulder and kissed it.

"Yes, I will call you," I continued. "I have to. If I don't, how will I
get the job done?"

"Damn right, Missy!" she exclaimed.

That reminded me of something really important that needed doing.

Getting a cab at that time of night was partly luck, but mostly a matter
of where you were calling from. No cabbie gave a second thought about
picking someone up at the entrance of Big John. My driver was a little
less enthusiastic about the destination in Lakeview, but Ulysses Grant was
always a strong persuader. If I looked to him like a hooker headed home
from a hot 'date' — well, that wasn't completely inaccurate, was it? It
never occurred to me not to tell Dianna everything, whatever the fallout.
I wasn't going to make the same mistakes that had been made at my expense.
The flashback to Jeff Goldblum and The Lost World was almost automatic:

"No, this time you're making all new mistakes."

As the cab rounded the corner, I spied a tall figure walking down the
steps of Dianna's building and heading in the opposite direction. There
was something about the fluid motion of his body that tugged at my memory.
I dismissed it, paid the driver and hurried up the stairs. Fortune was
with me. Dianna's building was older. The closer on the front door was
hydraulic, not pneumatic. In the February cold, the fluid inside must have
had the consistency of axel grease. I caught the door before it latched.
Hooray! I wouldn't have to ring. I hurried up the stairs and tapped at her
door. She opened it, crying. Her tears turned immediately to a look of
genuine horror, as though she had seen a ghost. From the disarray of her
bed and nightgown, I surmised the departing figure had not been a
coincidence. Well, I hadn't been pure as the driven, either. Still, the
thought he had hurt her hurt me — and made me angry. I did not want to
start off on the wrong foot by demanding details which were none of my
business.

"Y-you should have called first," she sniffed.

"I should have called hours ago," I professed, pushing her down on the bed
and kissing her deeply. "Now, I'll have to make it up to you the best way
I know how. This time, it's my turn to talk."

Did I say it was getting deep before? Call Streets and Sanitation; this
time, I'm gonna need a plow...

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

Lisa assumes her new job and life. She learns of the possible plot against her - and hatches a wild scheme to identify the players.

Story:

Betrayed Ch. 08
by Cherysse St. Claire  ©

Chapter Eight: The Noose Tightens

Did I happen to mention everything was moving so fast? People weren't
really surprised Lance Layton took his commission and ran for the door as
fast as he could. There wasn't an employee in the firm who didn't wish
they could produce the same results for themselves. The rumors ran
rampant: he had purchased his own seat and started his own firm; he was
trading through the Internet from his new home in Aruba; his marital
problems had so devastated him, he had quit the business entirely and now
ran a charter boat in Key West (my personal favorite); he had secretly
been Michael Jackson all along, hiding out from the glare of publicity
while attempting to re-build his fortune.

Nor were they really surprised Rob and Jim had 'gone outside' to acquire
their new Executive Vice-President. Lisa Layne had come highly
recommended. She and Lance had been classmates and friendly competitors in
the Finance curriculum at their university, so the gossip went. They had
both gone into futures trading and, according to the departed Mr. Layton,
she had done quite well herself. When he decided to leave the firm, he had
floated her name as his best possible replacement. The two senior
executives had planned to make him their choice for V.P., but valued his
judgment and had tendered her an offer, which she had accepted. Angie had
been proud to come up with, then disseminate, that plum piece of
disinformation. One very real aspect of this move was: Major Trades was
being re-vamped into the "Strategic Trading Group", and its direction
would be the new Vice-President's - my - primary focus.

Another rumor spread immediately, and unbidden; the new Veep was "a real
looker". That rumor probably began in the Transportation Department. I
hadn't known we even had a 'Transportation Department'. Most likely, it
was just three or four guys from Maintenance who had been Shanghai-ed into
going down to the garage, loading Lisa Layne's recently-arrived personal
effects onto carts, then bringing them up the service elevator to the top
floor and delivering them to her new office. She and her Personal
Assistant had been there to supervise the unloading. The guys already knew
Angie. They had been suitably (no pun intended) impressed with Ms. Layton
herself. Add the glowing welcoming memo circulated from the Offices of the
Chairman and President, and everyone accepted the new 'suit' without a
second thought — but not without a second look.

That was Wednesday morning. To preserve the fiction of the 'outside hire'
and thus protect my identity, Angie and I had boxed up all my stuff from
my office Tuesday night, then taken it down to the garage on those same
carts. Employee Relations had fast-tracked the new hire's paperwork after
receiving the memo from Rob. I don't know how the issue of the Social
Security Number had been handled. Angie told me it was best if I didn't
know for now; 'plausible deniability'. Maybe she bought one on the
Internet.

She and I had gone shopping Tuesday afternoon for my new wardrobe. One of
my 'executive perks' was a generous clothing allowance, which came in very
handy. The outfits we purchased were tasteful. Okay, they were largely
tasteful; after all, I was a Vice-President now. With Angie helping me
pick out my apparel, you know there were going to be some delightfully
feminine touches — like... no pantsuits or pantyhose. Somehow, a portion
of my clothing allowance found its way into 'leisurewear'. I even got to
expense my new corsetry — and a few other little 'ups and extras'. Sigh.
The things we must do to get ahead in Business....

At home, Angie boxed up all of Lance's clothes, shoes, and underwear to
make room for Lisa's. She was all set to take it down to Goodwill. I told
her an Executive Assistant did not concern herself with grunt work; I
would have someone pick it up and deliver it. I did - to a storage locker
on North Clark Street, just in case the 'Lisa' thing didn't work out....

The whole girly-girl thing completely bewildered me. I had dismissed my
childhood wonder long ago as exactly that. Now, that wonderment had
sprouted and taken root like a long-dormant seed. It was turning out to be
one of those things you didn't know you were going to like, then suddenly
discovered you really, really do and can't get enough of. It's kind of
like having a compulsion for Hot Fudge Sundaes — without the calories.
Angie loved it. She now had a girlfriend at work with whom she had so much
in common. That her girlfriend was also her supervisor, whom now wrote her
performance reviews, was Serendipity itself. That her girlfriend was
also... well, you get the idea.

Dianna couldn't have been happier for me. Now that 'Lisa' was going to be
around 24/7, she lobbied me heavily to get 'done'. I was tempted, but
worried about the degree of permanence it would attach to this strange new
lifestyle. Was I ready for that? I offered up the thirteen weeks remaining
before the show as a dodge. Would that be enough time? She argued yes, if
we hurried. My lover had been surprisingly understanding about the
'promotion party'. She was not ashamed to admit using sex to get what she
wanted and saw no difference in what I did; it wasn't like I was out
cruising for a new boyfriend. I didn't see the wisdom in pointing out the
'new boyfriend' may have been out cruising for me. I loved her and that
was that.

She was overwhelmed I had thought so much of her, I had immediately hopped
in a cab and come to share it all with her, rather than letting it wait or
not telling her at all. No one before me, she avowed, had ever displayed
such consideration for her thoughts and feelings. She had begun crying
again, and I had to find a creative way to dry her tears and turn her sobs
into shrieks of bliss.

As much as I was learning about her, I still felt Dianna was an enigma. It
wasn't so much what she said as what she didn't say. I had had the
impression before; she was holding something back. I had visited Ringers
and talk to Chantal and the other girls. I learned Dianna, like most of
the girls, held back from everyone, including her friends, to protect
herself from being hurt. Pain — both physical and emotional — was a
constant in their world. I didn't know what she might still be withholding
from me, but hoped it wouldn't damage us both.

***

My attorney called Thursday morning. When I had initiated my proceedings
against Susan, I had specified that my communications to and from him
would be via my cell phone, not through the company switchboard. Although
'Lisa' now had her own cell, I had retained my original one for exactly
this reason. As much as I respected Angie, I didn't want to expose my
'dirty laundry' to her or anyone else in the company. Now, I was glad I
had had the foresight.

The investigator had dug up a goldmine of information which explained a
lot. Jeff Spencer had a major gambling problem. The 'multi-millionaire
star' was in serious debt to the bookies. Susan had been carrying him
financially. Now she too had been stretched to the limit, maintaining the
façade of their star-quality lifestyle. No wonder she wanted me back! So,
which ploy would she use? Live with me, while secretly sucking me dry to
prop up her lover, or tell me it had "all been an awful mistake, and can
you ever forgive me?" - and dump the QB like yesterday's trash? Then
again, if she did dump Jeff, how long would she stay this time before her
roving eye caught sight of fresh meat? No thanks.

There had been another disturbing development. The phone taps indicated a
suspicious pattern of activity between Jeff and another party, presumed to
be female. At first the investigator suspected it was simply one of his
other lovers — one Susan did not know about. The taps recorded
conversation that indicated Jeff was running some kind of sting operation
— and I was the target! The apparent intent was to ruin my personal
reputation in a very public way, allowing Susan to side-step my
allegations of "Open and Notorious Adultery" and clean me out.

It was unknown at that time whether or not Susan was involved in the
set-up, as her voice never appeared in any of the conversations. The
communications were directed to and from a pre-paid disposable cell phone
which the investigator could not trace. He was currently trying to obtain
the cellular records to isolate which cell towers had handled the calls,
to get a better idea of where the third party was geographically located.
In the meantime, the attorney cautioned me to be especially vigilant in my
professional and personal relationships and not involve myself in any
activity which could be turned against me legally and, more importantly,
publicly.

Now he tells me!

This was a conspiracy theorist's wet dream. Jeff's contact was "presumed
to be female." There were a lot of new 'females' in my life of late. Most
of them seemed to be hell-bent on pushing me down a path that was
guaranteed to explode in my face if it was ever made public. That path had
just been institutionalized; 'Lance' was gone and 'Lisa' was a company
executive. Angie had pushed hard, blackmailed me down that road. Then
again, Dianna wasn't exactly trying to talk me out of it, anymore than
were the girls at Ringers. In fact, I met the gorgeous T-girl because she
had 'dated' Jeff. For that matter, this would be just the kind of revenge
Susan would eat up to get back at me for leaving her, even if it was her
own fault.

The conspirators were not necessarily limited to Jeff and one female,
either. That could be just the tip of the iceberg. The firm — that is, Rob
and Jim — leased a skybox at Soldier Field for entertaining current and
prospective clients, politicians, and other notables. Naturally, they were
cozy with the team's management and, on social occasions, player
personnel. It wasn't conceivable they had never met Jeff Spencer, the
team's star. Could they all be in this together?

My employers had taken great pains to be supportive of me through my
crisis with Susan — but dare I take that at face value? Money talks; did
my money — the money I made for them in the course of my work - talk
louder than the team's? I said the team's because they had a substantial
stake in the quarterback's wellbeing. They might not publicly bail him out
of his potentially scandalous problem. That would be a public relations
disaster for both the team and the league. But if they could deflect any
breaking scandal onto another person while helping their 'investment' out
financially, wouldn't they jump at the chance? Who do I trust? Perhaps, as
the cliché goes, I should trust no one.

Key West was looking better all the time.

***

 ¡Qué Diga! What do you mean, a 'fashion show'? Have you been holding out
on me, Mija?"

"I didn't think it was that big a deal, Angie," I responded, embarrassed.
That's why I've been wearing corsets every day. Paul said I would need
figure training..."

"Get outta town!" Angie barked. "Paul C., the corset-maker, wants you to
model for him? I would kill just to meet him, let alone walk the runway
for him. Our paths never seem to cross."

"I can introduce you," I offered. "To tell you the truth, I think you
would be perfect as one of his models — much better than me."

"What do you mean, 'much better than you'?" my assistant challenged. "You
are gorgeous!"

"Yeah," I countered, "but you have the body for it; I don't. Face it; I'm
just not endowed like you. A lot of Paul's creations feature either demi
cups or no cups at all. I would need a heavyweight Hollywood special
effects artist to craft a convincing pair of boobs and a tush for me to
wear that stuff."

"How about a heavyweight Chicago plastic surgeon instead?" the Latina
chirped.

Not her, too!

"Actually," I admitted, "I've discussed that with friends. With only
thirteen weeks to go, I don't think I could be ready in time."

"Thirteen weeks?" Angie questioned.

Then, her eyes lit up.

"Ohmigod!" she gasped. "You're doing the fashion show at the Mr. Gay
Leather Pageant? Oh, Honey; people come from all over the United States,
Canada, and Europe for that. It is one of the biggest gay/fetish events of
the year! Thirteen weeks is plenty of time if we get on it right now. I'll
get on the phone and clear it with Rob. He will eat this up!"

"Do you really think so?" I gushed, with false enthusiasm. "I can't wait."

I gulped — with luck, imperceptibly — and hoped for the umpteenth time I
knew what I was doing.

I had embarked upon a dangerous game of cat-and-mouse. I wasn't one to sit
back and let events run their course, regardless of the outcome. That is
not what commodity traders do. I was determined to discover the nature of
the 'hammer', and who was dropping it on me.

I had my attorney and his investigator on my side. I had not divulged
anything about 'Lisa' to them; at least, not yet. My attorney would have
had a stroke, with such a revelation coming on the heels of the warning he
had just given me. I could not go to The Media. Publicity was the one
thing I was trying to avoid at all costs. If the story did break at this
point, the conspirators would simply crawl back under their rock and
gloat, having accomplished what they set out to do.

I could not go to the police, either. I had learned enough through Dianna
and the girls at Ringers to know cops abuse transgenders worse than
Society at large. In their eyes, 'Lisa Layne, Executive Vice-President'
would appear to be a T-girl scam of epic proportions. At the same time,
Jeff Spencer was an idol to every macho jerk in Chicago — particularly the
ones wearing badges. Chicago's Finest would more likely take Susan and
Jeff's side than mine, unless I could provide iron-clad proof of criminal
conduct on their part.

I would have to draw the conspirators out in the open to obtain that
proof. To accomplish that, I would need to dangle some bait. Hey, maybe I
was in the fishing business after all.

Rob didn't know that heavyweight plastic surgeon personally, but Jim did.
His ex-wife swore by the doctor's work — and she had reason(s) to know.
Rob gave his enthusiastic Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval and Jim made
the call. Chicago is all about Clout; Rob and Jim had it. Yeah, that's
right; Five PM, that afternoon, offices on Superior Street, for the
consultation.

Before I kept that appointment, I needed to get with Paul, A.S.A.P.

I was glad I didn't have to give up the Mercedes when I gave up 'Lance'.
The ploy had been so simple: When Lance decided to leave the firm and get
a fresh start, he had sold it to his 'friend', Lisa. She had been grateful
to forego the hassle of transporting a car from the city where she had
been living. She hadn't been hesitant to tell people around the company
the elegant E500 Sport was a nice 'upgrade' from her Lexus. Angie was
eating up the luxury sedan as we made our way to Rogers Park. I could tell
she was really getting into the perks of the 'Executive' lifestyle.

Paul was as gracious as ever. If he cast a lustful glance at me and the
even more voluptuous Angie, he kept it a discreet one.

"Lisa!" he boomed. "You look absolutely lovely! You really are going to be
perfect for the show. And who is your charming companion?"

"Paul," I began, "this is my friend, Angie. I was wondering if you could
use her..."

"...in a heartbeat," he finished. "She's in. I would be lucky to have her.
We can get started taking her measurements immediately."

"Paul," I went on, "there's something else. Angie... well, it looks like
I'm gonna get some work done in time for the show; a boob job at least,
maybe more."

The growing smile on his face was precious to behold.

"That's fantastic!" he gushed. That's going to put a whole new spin on
what I'll have you model. The possibilities...."

Then, his face fell.

"Aw, crap!" he barked. "I've already started your garments, based on your
existing measurements. I'm at a point where I can still modify the
dimensions, but I won't have any idea what your new measurements will be
until it's too late! Can you give me some idea?"

"Uh, mmmm..." I hedged.

I hadn't thought of that. I was too new at this; I couldn't quote him
numbers. I glanced around the room, hands raised in exasperation.

"Will mine do?" Angie inquired sweetly. Butter would have melted in her
mouth.

Paul's eyes bugged out.

"You can do that in time?" he asked reverently.

Angie grabbed my arm and snuggled up to me.

"I guarantee we can!" she gushed, before I had a chance to say anything.

"Two of you with the same body?" he queried incredulously. "That body?
Dear God; this is a fetish designer's dream come true. With the two of
you, plus D-"

"Yes, exactly," I interrupted hastily. "Would that work out?"

"Work out?" he asked, stunned. "It will only be my best show ever — and
it's Mr. Gay Leather, too. That is always one of my top-grossing shows.
Lisa, my cup runneth over...."

He glanced down at our respective cleavages and grinned.

"Well," he continued, "mine and a few others. Thank you; you made my day.
Now, let's get Angie's measurements."

Pure reflex had caused me to cut Paul off before uttering Dianna's name in
Angie's presence. I could rationalize my action by citing: in a
conspiracy, divide and conquer; never divulge who or how much you already
know. I didn't really know a thing, but I wanted to keep the suspects
compartmentalized. If I had been really truthful with myself, I would have
admitted I didn't want to complicate my life still further by allowing my
two lovers to know about each other. Betrayal begins so simply....

On our way back to the car, Angie seized my head in both hands and speared
my mouth with a searing kiss. I stumbled, arms flailing, at the sudden
onslaught.

"What was that for?" I finally gasped.

"I can think of about a dozen reasons off the top of my head," she
chirped, "but for starters, thank you for going through with this."

"I haven't gone through with anything," I pointed out.

"But you will," she continued, unfazed. "I know you will because I know
you. Whatever you start, you always see it through. That's just one of a
million things, big and small, I love about you, Sweetie."

I flinched when the words left her lips.

Mistaking my suspicion for hesitation, Angie pressed her body tightly
against mine and ground her pussy into me enticingly. She smiled that
alluring Cheshire smile again.

"You do want my body, don't you?" she purred. "At least, you gave me that
impression Monday night."

This was the same double entendre I had experienced with Dianna. If I
denied her one, would she then deny me the other? Why should this matter
to me when I had Dianna? Did I have Dianna? For that matter, did I have
Angie? Beebeebeebeebeebeebeebee....

"Let's go see a doctor about a body," I sighed.

She kissed me softly.

"I knew you would," she murmured. "You are gonna look so delicious with a
pair of full, firm melons, a tiny waist, and a big, round bubble butt,
just like me!"

As I said: tasteful.

***

Dr. Peter Reagan's offices were in one of those gentrified ex-warehouses.
The airy loft-style office was all bright, freshly-sandblasted brick
walls, glossy hardwood floors and doors, comfortable-but-not-ostentatious
chairs and sofas, framed water colors, brass hardware and the obligatory
potted ferns. The high ceilings were criss-crossed with exposed,
freshly-insulated ductwork. It almost looked like a River North Yuppie
bar, rather than a doctor's office. I half expected the doctor to resemble
Butch McGuire, incarnate.

He didn't. Doctor Reagan was in his late thirties and stood about six feet
tall, with a thick shock of dark brown hair, piercing grey eyes that
missed nothing, rugged good looks and a smile that would melt a glacier in
Antarctica.

"Miss Layne, it is a pleasure to meet you," he intoned sonorously. "You
come highly recommended."

"I've heard that," I sighed, smiling ruefully, then added: "Thank you."

The grip from his large hand was so gentle as it took mine, yet I could
easily visualize it crushing bone. I was grateful when he offered us seats
in his office. My knees were having difficulty supporting my weight in his
presence. I knew he knew at a glance, yet his demeanor was nothing but
quiet admiration. I glanced down and noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding
band. Now why the hell would that interest me?

"Angie," he effused. "It's so good to see you again. Everything is going
okay, I trust? They look beautiful!"

I turned my head and gave my companion a
'have-you-been-holding-out-on-me?' stare. She just smirked and shrugged
her shoulders a little.

"I couldn't be happier with them, Doctor," she replied brightly. "I've had
the nicest compliments about them — which brings us to why we are here
today. My friend Lisa adores them so much, she... well, you tell him,
Lisa."

Nothing like putting me on the spot. Suck it up, Baby Girl. Play out the
string in this tawdry little drama. Lull the Bad Guys into a false sense
of security. When they raise their heads - WHAMO!

"I'm so embarrassed to put it this way," I began, "but I am so enchanted
with Angie's breasts, I... want a pair just like them."

"Just the breasts?" Dr. Reagan inquired bemusedly.

I could feel my face flush from the base of my neck to my hairline. Angie
took my hand in hers.

"She is such a sweetheart," the Latina chimed softly, "and so embarrassed
about all this. She's trying to say she wants it all; boobs, buns, hips,
the whole package. We're already working on her waistline."

Dr. Reagan came around his desk.

"May I?" he inquired, as he reached for my torso.

He felt around for a moment. The only sign of recognition of my confining
undergarment was a twinkle in those grey eyes and a trace of a smile on
his lips.

"She's coming along nicely, too," he confirmed. "She obviously has good
tone to begin with. I could probably help the process along with some
micro-liposuction. Rib removal is an option if you are really serious
about an 'hourglass figure'. Might I suggest we take a little off the nose
here..."

He indicated the point to which he referred.

"...to make it more delicate-looking. Also, I could tuck a bit at the
corners of the eyes to give you a more exotic appearance. Of course, I
would also do a trach shave..."

He ran two fingers up my throat.

"...to eliminate that unsightly bump. I could do all of that in a single
surgery. You would be back to work in a week and essentially healed in
four."

"That's... wonderful," I said hesitantly, steeling myself for what came
next, "but what about the breasts and... the rest?"

The doctor perched on the edge of his desk before us, beaming.

"That's the best news," he crooned soothingly, "if you are willing to have
a little faith in me. I am taking part in a clinical study of an exciting
new body enhancement procedure. There is a new media called Perma-Plast
that may make traditional augmentation procedures obsolete. I can craft
your body to any proportions you desire. There would be no incisions,
therefore no scarring and no lengthy post-op recovery. Angie can tell you
what a pain that can be — figuratively and literally."

"It sounds wonderful," I admitted guardedly. "Enhancement without surgery?
How is that possible?"

"Easy," the doctor continued. "Perma-Plast is injected directly into the
areas we wish to contour. It adheres to the surrounding tissue and sets up
its own matrix, mimicking that of the body itself. It is chemically and
biologically inert, unlike traditional silicone, so it does not trigger
the body's defense mechanisms. Nor does it do long-term autoimmune damage.

"Perma-Plast comes in two formulations. One simulates bone; the other,
soft tissue. I would use the first to build up your cheekbones and pelvic
girdle, giving you those hips like Angie's. The second formulation would
give you the breasts, rounded derriere... and lips, if you so desire."

"Yes!" Angie chirped. "Absolutely!"

"All of it can be done on an outpatient basis," Dr. Reagan assured us,
"right here in the office. It builds up gradually, layer upon layer...."

Layers! Layers! Ogres have layers!

"As I said," the doctor continued, "I can contour your body to any
proportions you desire. Of course, you are welcome to undergo traditional
implantation surgery if you prefer. Angie can tell you exactly what to
expect. You will be mostly in bed for the first two weeks, severely
limited in range of motion for a month, and substantially limited for one
more. If that is your preference, I need to know right away so I can put a
rush on the implant order."

I played along.

"I would certainly be willing to forego the pleasure of being knocked on
my butt for two months. I guess I will go for Door Number One. What is the
schedule?"

"We do the blood work and a Perma-Plast skin test right now," Doctor
Reagan pronounced. "That way, we make sure you are not allergic to the
material. The lab work is done right here in the building, so I can have
the results tonight. If you are one of the very small percentage of the
population allergic to Perma-Plast, you will notice a skin reaction by
tomorrow. I can schedule the surgical procedures for Monday morning. We
can have you back on your feet in no time."

One of his nurses drew the blood from the crook of my right elbow, then
popped a tiny amount of Perma-Plast just under the skin of my left forearm
with a hypodermic needle. I took Angie back to the office to have her
report to Rob and Jim that I would be out the following week. I begged off
from a pre-surgical celebration, claiming I really wanted to relax
tonight.

My head was swimming with too much information. Agreeing to the procedures
had been a ploy on my part. If the conspirator(s) believed I was going
ahead with my procedures, they might become complacent enough to tip their
hand. I would have two days to make something happen before I went under
the knife. If I did, I might not have to go through with the surgery at
all. The taps of Jeff Spencer's telephones would tell the tale. Then
again, what proof did I have Jeff's plan to ruin me had anything to do
with 'Lisa'? I hadn't really lied to Angie; I did want to relax, but not
with any of them.

Out of the frying pan.... I called Dianna. She assured me she wasn't doing
anything that night that wouldn't keep, thanks to my generosity with her
rent. I took her to Geja's on Armitage for fondue. The live classical
guitar music had always been one of my favorite, most relaxing
mood-enhancers and I needed that now. Feeding Dianna forkfuls of steak,
chicken, lobster, and fresh-cut vegetables, flash-fried in the table-top
peanut oil fondue pot, was a flashback to the previous Sunday's pizza
seduction.

When it came time for desert — chunks of Angel Food cake, marshmallows and
fresh fruit, dipped in boiling chocolate — I could see the gleam in her
eye that told me she had other ideas for the confection than feeding each
other with fondue forks. Watching her gently lap dripping chocolate from
the cherry I held before her lips was priceless, and worth every penny of
the dinner's cost. Then she delicately grasped the cherry in her teeth and
tugged it away from the fork, as softly as you please....

At least we made it through our front door before we began ripping each
other's clothes off. The bedroom would have to wait. Our surging passions
deposited us on the deep rug in front of the fireplace. The Dura-Flame log
was ignited with a single long-stemmed match. The log was the only
illumination in the room, but not the only thing ablaze. Our first
coupling was not so much sex as a frantic, desperate fuck, fueled by a
yearning born of too many days apart. I felt so... complete to have her
inside me again. It would break my heart if I found out she was part of
the conspiracy. Right now, I wanted to put all that out of my mind. Just
let go....

***

"Baby, do you know a 'Doctor Reagan'?

This was not my preferred method of being awakened on a Saturday morning.
Then again, Dianna could awaken me by asking me how to throw a knuckle
ball and, coming from her lips, I would think it heavenly. Now, if someone
could just teach the Cubs' pitching staff....

"Yes," I replied sleepily. "Why?"

"His office is on the phone," she informed me. "He wishes to speak with
you."

"On a Saturday?" I questioned, accepting the handset and bidding the
receptionist a good morning.

After a moment, the doctor himself came on the line.

"Good morning, Lisa," he greeted in a tone worthy of commercial
voice-overs. "Would it be much of a bother to come into the office this
morning? I would like to review your test results with you before your
surgery Monday morning."

"Is there a problem?" I asked, concerned.

"No," he assured me. "Quite the opposite. Monday is a 'go', as far as your
body is concerned. I just wanted to confirm what we will be doing and get
the releases signed."

"Uh, I suppose I can pull myself together and be there in an hour," I
responded. "Will that be okay?"

"Perfect!" he confirmed. "We'll see you then."

I had filled Dianna in the night before on my upcoming surgery. She had
been excited, to say the least. She asked about my boob job and how big I
was going to go. I relayed to her the information about Perma-Plast and
that my breast enhancement would be an ongoing thing for several weeks.
Her eyes grew as big as saucers.

"You're gonna get pumped?" she gushed. "Oh, Baby, that's wonderful! We
will be closer than ever."

She hugged me so tightly, I thought she would end up behind me, a la
Groucho Marx. She admitted she, too, had gone that route to figure
enhancement — the 'old school' way. Dianna felt this was just one more
intimacy shared between us, a way of proving to her how much I cared for
her. I hadn't envisioned that when I agreed to the procedure — if, in
fact, I went through with it — but was delighted it pleased her so.

We actually arrived at Doctor Reagan's office three minutes earlier than
anticipated. The receptionist ushered us right in. I introduced Dianna and
we took our seats. The doctor reiterated all the tests showed I was
"disgustingly healthy" — lamenting his lack of time for keeping up with
his own workout schedule. He confirmed and reviewed my upcoming rib
removal, micro-liposuction, rhinoplasty, eye tuck and trach shave, having
me sign the necessary forms for each. Dianna fidgeted in her chair,
growing more excited by the moment. Discretion was not her strong suit.

"How soon can you start pumping her?" she blurted out.

We both gazed at her with the amusement of a parent fielding "How many
days until Christmas?" for the umpteenth time. The doctor turned to me.

"Actually, that was one of the reasons I asked you in this morning," he
pronounced. "May I see your arm?"

I extended my left arm for his examination. The almost-imperceptible bump
was still there; otherwise, nothing.

"I couldn't ask for better," he announced. "There isn't a trace of
reaction or rejection."

He winked at Dianna, then focused on me, smiling.

"In answer to her question," he responded, "there is no reason we cannot
begin right now. Would that be soon enough to satisfy you?"

Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves. I wore mine in my throat.
Dianna was crushing me in an anaconda-like death grip. My rib removal
would be child's play; the doctor would merely have to retrieve bone
fragments.

"Shouldn't we wait until after my... surgery?" I questioned hesitantly.

Doctor Reagan shook his head.

"There is no need to," he assured me. "If we do it today, the receptor
sites will already be set up by Monday morning. Besides, none of them will
be the subject of our surgical procedures. There is one more detail; I
would like to get you started on your hormone therapy as soon as
possible."

"Hormones?" I repeated.

"Yes," the surgeon confirmed. "We can do the figure enhancement without
them, but the results will have an angular, artificial cast to them. The
combination of estrogen and progestin will round out your curves, giving
your body a lush, more natural look. Also, they will aid in the
assimilation of the Perma-Plast matrix."

Caught in my own web of intrigue! Suddenly, I no longer had two days to
sound out the conspirators, make them make a move. I didn't have two
minutes.

Last chance, Pal. You can get a little walk-up with a balcony overlooking
Duval Street. You can take the rich tourists out in the morning, fish and
drink beer until late afternoon, then come home and drink yourself into a
stupor at Sloppy Joe's and stagger home, just like Papa Hemmingway. You
can christen your boat "Busted Flush". Just walk away from all of this
now. Even your eyebrows will grow back. If you change your name to Travis
McGee, no one will ever know....

All I had to do was say: "no; let's wait until after the surgery." Then,
when Monday morning rolled around.... The look in Dianna's eyes was the
most hopeful, anticipatory, loving one I had seen in years. Even
suspecting her as I did, I couldn't bring myself to disappoint her. Just
let go....

"Okay," I softly sighed.

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

The game's afoot (long), and 'Sherlock' Layne is on the case!

Story:

Betrayed
By Cherysse St. Claire  ©

Chapter Nine: The Game’s Afoot

The weeks passed; March, April, and into May. I won’t dwell on the
mechanics of the surgery or post-op. Either Angie or Dianna was at my
side almost constantly, but never together. I don’t want to say I
‘juggled’ them, but it was sometimes a delicate balancing act. I was
head-over-heels for Dianna, but couldn’t deny my feelings for Angie.
How could I choose between one or the other? In truth, the choice might
not be mine to make; I might end up with neither.

Dianna, especially, was much more emotional than I had ever seen her
before. She fussed over me, telling me how much she flat-out adored me.
Then she would burst into tears for no reason I could see. Hey, I
thought I was supposed to be the victim of raging hormones around here!
I certainly appreciated her raw display of emotion for me, yet I
couldn’t help but wonder; was there more behind her tears than just
love?

My nose looked… pert — another new descriptor I thought I would never
use about myself. It was still a touch swollen - and numb; they told me
that goes away after about a year. OK, I liked my eyes; sue me.
Everyone else was crazy about them, especially when they were made up.
My cheekbones and lips were both fuller. It was scary to see people I
knew and cared about just stare at me, speechless, captivated. I knew I
would get used to it — I had to get used to a lot of things — but at
the time, it was still new.

The rest of the body was new, too. I had already been wearing a corset
every day before the surgery, so that didn’t make a difference. The
results were different. Angie and I were both on target to have twenty-
inch corseted waistlines by the time of the show. Dianna’s corseted
waist was already eighteen inches - the bitch. Paul was absolutely
ecstatic.

The prosthetic breasts were gone. I was a full DD-cup all by myself;
well, me and Perma-Plast. They looked huge at first; but then, so had
Dianna when I first met her. That was one more thing I was getting used
to in a hurry. It was nice to be able to show off my cleavage — a
modest amount at work and more on my own time. My backside had filled
out just as nicely.

This is one of those little joys women never tell men; only each other.
There had been a few occasions — becoming more frequent with time — I
had walked past some guy in the office or on the street, traveling in
the other direction. In a second or two, I heard a thump or clang as he
walked into a wall, file cabinet or light pole because he wasn’t
watching where he was going. If any woman tells you that doesn’t bring
a smile to her face, she is lying to you.

The physical transition was surprisingly easy. The mental transition —
with the understanding I would not be changing back — was much harder.
It took a while to get beyond the angst and anguish. How could I
abandon all that I had been? I came to realize I hadn’t.
Intellectually, I was still the same person, doing much the same
routine. The packaging was different. The perceptions, both internal
and external, were different. The emotions also were different; in
part, due to the hormones. Over time, my perception on a whole was one
of gain, not loss. Remember that hot fudge sundae? What if you could
eat from it every day, never lose your taste for it, and never gain an
ounce?

Upon returning from Post-Op, I surprised even myself how quickly I
wrapped my mind around work. I had watched CNN and CNBC while I was
recuperating. I had seen some report or other about the continuing
drought in the western U.S. and Canada. As soon as I was up and around,
I booked a flight west to talk to some of the farm groups that had
appeared on television.

I heard first-hand from them how bad the situation really was, minus
the candy-coated coverage the corporate-owned networks had given the
story. I called the office immediately and ordered STG to gobble up
Winter Wheat futures like Pac-Man. About a month later, the Department
of Agriculture announced the harvest would be down about twenty
percent, due to the drought. Harvest gold turned into real gold for us
as the price of Winter Wheat skyrocketed.

Most people had not anticipated how bad the Asian Bird Flu epidemic
would be, nor how it would affect poultry prices here. It was simple;
after having to destroy a significant percentage of its poultry
population, China would need to re-supply itself with untainted
chickens; a lot of them. We bought poultry futures — and made out like
the fox guarding the hen house. Essentially, China caught a cold, the
rest of the world sneezed, and we cornered the market on tissues.

Those trades, on top of the oil deal, had made this a banner year for
our company — and the year wasn’t even half-over. The Christmas bonus
checks were gonna fill everyone with holiday cheer this year and they
were looking at STG as their ‘Santa’. The guys in Strategic Trades were
calling my instincts eerie; Twilight Zone stuff. They claimed it
was like Lance never left; that he cloned himself into me, somehow. I
just smiled and thanked them for the lovely compliment. I didn’t mean
to intimidate them. I had worked with some of them three years; they
just didn’t know it.

I thanked my lucky stars I was so good as a commodities trader; Sam
Spade, I wasn’t. Memorial Day was two weeks away and I didn’t feel any
closer cracking the case than before my surgery. Angie and I were in
rehearsals for the fashion show. Dianna had gone to visit a girlfriend
in Los Angeles, but promised to be back in plenty of time. Paul was
not worried by her absence. As a veteran of previous shows, he was
confident she knew what he expected of her and would “come up to speed”
quickly.

I was grateful for the respite from throwing Angie and Dianna together.
Then again, perhaps I needed to throw them together to force one or the
other to show her hand — if, indeed, either was in league with Jeff
Spencer. No one in my inner circle had given the slightest hint of
being in on a conspiracy. There were no signs coming from outside,
either. Was it all a desperate ruse on the quarterback’s part? C’mon,
Guys; I can’t make the bait any riper, juicier, or more tempting. On
the other hand, maybe I can….

Rob and Jim had one of those society charity things to go to the third
Saturday of the month. The Mayor and most of the City’s movers and
shakers would be there, including those in the various sports
franchises. To the boys, it was a given that Angie and I would
accompany them. In fact, they put it to us exactly that way — at the
Executive Staff Meeting Thursday morning. They were at a loss for our
reaction. What do you mean the invitation took you completely by
surprise? It doesn’t take you three days to get dressed, does it? You
know those guys who go berserk with an assault rifle in the workplace?
I’m beginning to understand…. Anyway, I had more important things to
dwell on at that moment. I didn’t have a thing to wear… or did I?

I must have stared at the dress a hundred times, hanging there in my
closet. You want to talk about guilt? I had left messages for Dianna at
the number she gave me, but she hadn’t called me back yet. Sure, I
could have cruised Michigan Avenue and found something else. My
instincts were nudging me; there was something about this dress and
its connotations to the unfolding conspiracy that made it the perfect
choice. If this be my ‘Maltese Falcon’, let me wear it well….

Oops! Perhaps a little too well. I was now bigger on top than Dianna. I
had gone the whole route; salon, then the red calfskin corset and
matching thong, sheer black hose, the dress itself, and the jewels. I
wouldn’t need the coat; it was unseasonably warm for May (this, in a
city where it is not unheard of to see snow the second week in June,
then ninety-plus degrees by the Fourth of July). I overflowed the
bodice provocatively. The skirt fit my tush snugly, too. Then again, if
I was chumming for sharks, why do half-measures?

Rob looked positively dashing in his black tie and tux. In line with
the marine analogy, he gasped like a fish out of water when he first
laid eyes on me. It took a very stout straight-arm to his chest to
bring him back into focus and away from his all-too-obvious advance.
We were doing the ‘star turn’ all the way; he helped me into the back
seat of the limo, then seated himself next to me. We picked up Jim and
Angie, then sipped champagne on our way to the City Cultural Center on
Washington Street, formerly the Central Library.

“I knew I would see you in that dress sooner or later,” Angie gushed.
“My God, Girlfriend; if you take a deep breath, you’re gonna bust right
out of it, you shameless hussy, you!”

“And this,” I retorted with mock cattiness, “from someone whose body
makes a Donatella Versace original look like Frederick’s of Hollywood?”

Actually, Angie was stunning in the fuscia satin bustier-style sheath.
We had fled the office immediately after the Thursday morning meeting
and found it in the couturier salon at ‘Needless Markup’. Her eyes
glazed over when she saw herself in it in the three-way mirror. Those
eyes filled with tears when she read the price tag. She wept openly
when I put it on my platinum card.

“Listen, puta,” I had teased, “you got me into this mess three months
ago. I’ll be damned if I’m going it alone.”

I had kissed her softly on the cheek to soften the faux blow.

“Besides,” I had cooed, “you deserve it.”

There was more champagne and canapés when we arrived, plus an honest-
to-God string quartet in the main salon and a harpist in the smaller
‘Conservatory’ — what, once upon a time, had been the Reference Room.
This was rare air, even for someone who has been in the corporate
culture for a while. There is something intimidating about rubbing
elbows with people whose last names appear on public buildings and
corporate logos, not to mention packages of hot dogs or bacon. Angie
was already on Cloud Nine and I was working on getting a leg up.

Apparently, we were perceived as some kind of visiting royalty, on loan
to the two investment wunderkind of the hour. Boy, did we get the
double- and triple-takes! Rob and Jim were basking in the glow of
attention they were receiving, both for their achievements and their
choice of companions. Astute politician that he is, even the Mayor had
compliments to pay, citing us as “a shining example of what makes The
Great City of Chicago great.” Considering the direction of his gaze, I
wasn’t sure if he was referring to our investment successes or our
bustlines.

One of the many things I admire about Rob Nelson is his utter
selflessness when it comes to giving credit where credit is due.

“I would love to tell you it was some well-planned grand strategy on my
part,” he began, turning my way. “In fact, it was really…”

He paused in mid-sentence as he felt the increasing pressure of my
stiletto heel on his instep. I shook my head imperceptibly, then hugged
his arm tightly and inhaled deeply, inflating my chest to epic
proportions.

“… a spur-of the moment thing, which I credit to my companion, Lisa
Layne,” he ad-libbed. “She and her friend, Angelina Torres, were
generous enough to take time off from their careers in Hollywood to
visit Jim and myself this past few months and lend their moral support.
You know how it is; when your muse beckons, you follow.”

He’s quick on his feet, too. I like that in a man. I couldn’t have
asked for a better cover story. Since they would not be able to place
our names, faces, or anatomies to any big-budget Hollywood productions,
I was sure our new admirers would rush home that night and check their
other DVDs.

This was not some sudden attack of modesty on my part. I was seeing
other ‘movers and shakers’ — of the gridiron variety - interspersed
throughout the crowd. My instincts had flashed me a warning; this might
not be the best time to take a high profile. Then again, in this dress,
with my push-up corset, I couldn’t help but take a high profile.

As is so often the case in these society affairs — like I would know,
right? — our little group became separated by the dynamics of shifting
conversations and conversationalists. I had spent a goodly amount of
time charming the pants off a group of industrialists (figuratively-
speaking, but not for lack of desire on their part) when I sensed a
body immediately behind mine; not touching, but definitely inside my
personal space. Rob was deft about showing his affection without
appearing overly familiar in such a setting. I smiled and moved a
fraction of an inch closer in response. After a moment I turned….

Okay, you would think by then I would have been used to incipient heart
failure; not so. Jeff Spencer’s eyes were almost as blue as mine. His
had a predatory glint to them, sizing me up like a piece of meat. Even
in my nearly-six-inch heels, I had to look up to him.

“I couldn’t help but notice you are the most beautiful woman here,” he
offered.

Now that was suave — NOT! Are you sure you graduated from high school,
Big Boy?

So this was it. He had picked this time and place — in front of the
city’s elite — to ‘out’ me as a man. Mentally, I judged the vertical
distance from floor to crotch, factored in flexibility, heel height,
plus strength and speed of my up-thrusting knee. Yep; that should
just about do it. Sopranos, here he comes….

“Why, thank you, Sir!” I oozed with appropriate unctuousness. “Have we
met before?”

“I would remember if we had,” he schmoozed back. “Allow me; I’m Jeff
Spencer of the…”

“Of course,” I interjected. “I’ve seen you on TV. I must say, the
camera angles don’t do you justice.”

No, but I will. Just give me an excuse, Sport-o. Your next endorsement
will be for the Vienna Boy’s Choir instead of the Vienna Sausage
Company.

“On the subject of Justice,” he segued….

Here it comes….

“…it’s positively criminal for a gorgeous woman like you to be standing
there with an empty champagne flute. What do you say we waylay a waiter
and rob him blind?

So that’s your game; take me someplace private and apply a little
blackmail, with the implied threat of outing me to everyone who is
anyone. You are slicker than I gave you credit for, Buster. Okay; let’s
play. Perhaps I can get you to give up your partner, too….

“Oh, let’s,” I chirped, slipping my arm through his. “They aren’t being
nearly attentive enough anyway. Perhaps we can shake things up a bit.”

Believe me, the smug smile and undulating tush was all an act. Inside,
I was screaming. The knee ploy was useless at this angle, unless I
could spin on his arm really fast. Godzilla here could crush me like a
grape. On the other hand, if I timed it right, I could skewer his foot
with my stiletto heel and pin it to the floor, right through that
ultra-sheik, ultra-expensive, ultra-thin Bruno Magli. I’ll have you
singing in the upper registers yet, Butch.

Somehow, I didn’t think the waiters were hiding out in the stairwell.
Then again, I hadn’t bought the champagne ploy for an instant. As soon
as the fire door closed behind us, I spun to face him, expecting a
mouthful of fist. Instead, I got a mouthful of… mouth — and tongue. My
arms flailed about ineffectually as I was pinned to the wall.

Oh, no you don’t, you sick sonofabitch! You are NOT gonna have your way
with me, THEN out me to half the city of Chicago! Just lean into me a
little bit more and I will FedEx my reply; absolutely, positively
guaranteed delivery….

He got a handful of tittie, massaging my rapidly-hardening nipple with
thumb and forefinger. That brought everything into soft focus. My
struggles dissipated like so much dust in the wind. My mind was
screeching at this ultimate treachery. What chance did I have to beat
him at this dangerous game when my own body betrayed me?

His other hand was hovering around his crotch, doing… I couldn’t tell
what. Then that hand took my hand and pulled it forward. Oh… my… dear…
sweet… Jesus! Godzilla is right; this guy is a monster! I can’t begin
to explain it; Auto-Pilot kicked in at that exact moment. I sank to my
knees and had him unzipped and exposed — with difficulty — a few
moments later. I actually made him back up half a step so I could face
it properly. I softly encircled it with my right hand and ever-so-
gently stroked its length, all the way to the base. Holding my hand
there, I realized with detached awe my small hand covered little
more than a quarter of its total length!

Don’t even ask what was going through my mind as I inhaled the bulbous,
purplish head. At that point, my thought processes had all the
coherence of a bowl of alphabet soup. That was the only way I could
have gotten that slippery snake down my throat. As I sucked him, one
lucid thought gradually came to the forefront:

There is a just and merciful God, after all!

All I had to do was smile, close my eyes, and take a great, big bite;
Vienna Sausage AND Vienna Boy’s Choir, all in one gulp!

Yeah, right. That was when the next lucid thought hit me. I was about
to maim a hero to tens of thousands of Chicagoans without a shred of
hard evidence (discounting what was in my mouth) of criminal conduct.
Baby, if you don’t think The Media would sniff out my story then…. For
all that certain anguish, I still didn’t have a thing on him other than
my lips and tongue.

God hates me; He really, really does.

The thoughts were coming faster now, on pace with my ministrations to
his cock. Jeff hadn’t given the slightest indication this was his
revenge on me, or even a prelude to it. He hadn’t given any indication
he even knew me. Was he that good an actor? He was treating me like I
was just another of his adoring bimbos. Was it just possible he didn’t
know who I was?

Whether he did or not, Boulder Dam opened its floodgates and dumped a
raging torrent down my spillway. I hadn’t even realized I had been
massaging my own clitty with my other hand. I shuddered through my own
release, barely holding it together as I held him between my lips.
Surely goodness and mercy…. Anticipating either Rob or Angie — or
both — might be in a playful mood that night, I had heeded Dianna’s
long-ago advice and sheathed my clitty in a latex mitten, tucked
discretely back inside my calfskin thong. I could take care of that
little problem later, at my leisure.

We corralled a passing waiter as we strolled arm-in-arm into the main
salon. As we sipped the chilled bubbly, we were immersed in
conversation.

“We really must get together again and finish what we started,” Jeff
intoned in my ear.

“There’s more?” I inquired innocently.

“Oh, yeah, Baby,” he replied, “a lot more. How about next Saturday?”

I shook my head.

“Sorry,” I demurred. “I have a thing planned. I don’t know how long it
will last.”

He nodded disappointedly.

“Actually, I do, too,” he agreed. “Our promotions people have me doing
a publicity appearance at the fag pageant over at the Hilton. I’m gonna
be appearing with some models at a fashion show. I know one of them.
God, I hope the rest aren’t all dogs….”

My face lit up.

“Woof, woof,” I barked playfully.

He gaped at me, astonished.

“You’re kidding,” he gasped. “You?”

I nodded, smiling. Just then, I caught sight of Angie, chatting with a
group on the other side of the room. I extended an exquisitely-
manicured index finger in her direction.

“And my friend there, too,” I purred. “We’re kind of a matched set.”

“Jesus,” he whispered hoarsely. “I think I’ve died and gone to Heaven.
I have some other, more personal business to wrap up there next
weekend. I thought that was gonna be the highlight of my week, month,
and year. Now, with you and your friend there….”

His voice trailed off. He stopped and spun me around.

“We will get together then, right?”

At that instant, I looked over his shoulder and spotted Susan coming up
behind him at full steam. I couldn’t resist. I leaned up and kissed him
softly on the cheek.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I purred.

Susan slipped her arm into his as smoothly as silk. Her smile was
bright, but her eyes were cold as ice.

“Thank you for keeping MY BOYFRIEND company while I was busy,” she
intoned with veiled menace.

I glanced up at his blushing face with a twinkle in my eyes.

“My pleasure,” I smirked, turning to walk away. My hips and tush
undulated as though on rails.

“Will we be seeing you later, Miss…?” she called out behind me.

I looked over my shoulder and winked.

“Lisa,” I giggled. “Lisa Layne. I’m certain you will.”

She was glaring at Jeff with a look that could only mean one thing:
Wait ‘til I get you home.

Angie looked quizzically at the smirk on my lips. Then she glanced over
my shoulder and spotted Susan and Jeff. I thought SHE was going to have
a coronary. She raced to my side, grabbed my arm and led me hurriedly
away, leaning her head close to mine.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” she murmured. “What on earth did
you think you were doing?”

I shrugged my shoulders a little and smiled contentedly.

“Damage assessment,” I chirped. “Either they were very good actors or
didn’t have a clue who I was.”

Angie’s face was right in mine. She was about to give me another piece
of her mind when she stopped — and sniffed my breath. I guess the
champagne didn’t completely mask the odor. She rolled her eyeballs and
shook her head with resignation.

“Now I know you have a death wish,” she moaned, then looked up at me
with a rueful smile on her lips. “Time for some more mouthwash-
thingies. What am I gonna do with you?”

“Anything you wish, Lover,” I whispered in her ear, “but we should
probably wait until later - after this little shindig is over. You know
how people like to talk. By the way, let’s not forget who started me
down the road of living dangerously.”

Susan did see me later that evening. I caught her out of the corner of
my eye, glaring at me from across the room. When a member of the group
I was in shifted to one side and Susan saw I was on Rob’s arm, I
thought her eyes were going to pop out of her skull. She resumed
conversation with various members of her group, glancing in my
direction. A couple of the men smiled and said something or other that
made her flush scarlet. My best guess was, Angie and I had just been
outed for our suspected careers ‘going down in The Valley’. Shortly
after, Susan was dragging Jeff by the arm towards the door.

Later that night, Angie and I ‘starred’ in our own production for two
very appreciative admirers back in Rob’s condo. The sex had only been
better when I was sharing it with Dianna alone. Then again, it was my
attitude that had changed in a major way. I was no longer hunkered down
in a siege mentality. I had made a major breakthrough in understanding
the time and place Jeff would make his move against me. I wasn’t close
to knowing everything, but it was falling into place at last. In fact,
I could actually see where I might have the upper hand for the first
time. Angie’s reaction to my chance meeting with Jeff and Susan had
been a major piece to the puzzle as well. On the one hand, I was
feeling more confident about her. On the other hand….

Forget Sam Spade. Think Sherlock Holmes:

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter
how improbable, must be the truth.

I didn’t like the thought of that at all.

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

Everything that has a beginning has an end. Lisa's fate will be decided - but not all will live happily ever after.

Story:

Betrayed
By Cherysse St. Claire  ©

Chapter Ten: Everything That Has A Beginning…

I would have loved to be waiting at the gate at O’Hare when Dianna de-planed from L.A. that Sunday night. I had to settle for the Baggage Claim Area. Those people working for the Transportation Security Administration have no sense of humor. I guess at eight dollars an hour, they can’t afford one. Then again, the other passengers were treated to quite a show, right there in front of the carousel; the knock-out brunette and blonde hugging and kissing like something right out of a Vivid video.

It was going to be our place that night, not her studio in Lakeview; I wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. She hesitated only a moment, then acquiesced willingly. My lover seemed genuinely relieved at the prospect. She was cuddled up next to me, her arm through mine, the entire trip down the Kennedy Expressway into town. We didn’t utter a word, allowing the nearness of our bodies to speak volumes. I was having a hard time reconciling her reaction to me with the growing body of evidence suggesting she was setting me up for Jeff Spencer.

Dianna was tense, agitated. Whatever the cause, she did not want to talk about it. We were just exiting at Ohio Street when the cell phone rang. It wasn’t my cell; either of them. The ring tone was some downloaded Hip-Hop clip. I glanced down at Dianna’s purse. She stared out the windshield.

“Ignore it,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“But,” I began, “it might be…”

She spun her head to glare at me.

“Ignore it!” she barked sharply. “I am. You have my undivided attention tonight. I will not share you with anyone — especially not Angelina Torres.”

BUS-TED!

Well, not really. Dianna already knew Angie was my Personal Assistant. She also knew I had had sex with the lovely Latina that first night at Rob’s condo because I had told her everything about that afternoon and evening. Since then - and the dust-up over my ‘date’ with Daniel - she hadn’t pressed me about subsequent liaisons, just as I hadn’t probed her about her business. It had been an unspoken agreement between Dianna and myself to spend our time together focused on each other, not externals. Given my conflicted feelings for the two women, I was thankful for that. Perhaps that dynamic had changed in Dianna’s mind.

Once inside our door, the gorgeous shemale attacked me as though she hadn’t had sex in a year. We didn’t so much have sex as engage in a prolonged, frantic fuck, replete with bruised ribs, love bites, pinched, sore nipples, and stretched, aching holes. Afterward, we
lay together, spooned, with me in her arms. We were both shivering; physically and emotionally spent. Dianna murmured into my ear.

“Would you tell me about you and Angie if I asked?”

I continued to stare straight ahead.

“Would you tell me about you and Jeff Spencer?” I responded, taking a shot in the dark.

Behind me, I felt her body momentarily tense.

“I deserved that,” she replied. “Before I say anything else, I have to know; do you love me?

“Yes,” I avowed, “without reservation.”

“Do you believe in me?” she continued.

I was glad she phrased it that way. There is a fine line between ‘believe in’ and ‘trust’ — if only in my own mind. At that point, my answers to the two would probably have been different. Perhaps she sensed that before she worded her inquiry.

“Yes,” I repeated.

“Then believe in this,” she intoned with feeling. “In the three months we have been together, you have become my life, my reason for living. I have never told that to another human — ever. I never thought I ever would. My lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to deep emotional attachments. I got lucky with you — very lucky.

“Do you remember what I told you in the beginning, at the restaurant? ‘A week, a month, a lifetime; it makes no difference. When it’s right, it’s right; you just know it.’ We are right. We belong together. I didn’t know it that first time, when we met at the club. I have known since that fabulous Valentine’s Day weekend, though. Every day, I thank God for sending you to me.”

“I can’t get enough of you,” I affirmed softly. “In the beginning, it was wonderful; just you and me, forget about anything and everyone else. Then, things started getting… complicated. You were with me a lot after my surgery and I loved that. Now that I’m becoming more… well, more like you… and I wanted me to be, I feel like we are drifting
apart. I hardly ever see you as it is. Then, you left for L.A….”

My lover kissed me softly on the nape of my neck.

“You haven’t seen me because I have been trying to stay away from you,” she explained. “It’s not because I don’t love you; it’s because I do.”

“That makes no sense, Dianna,” I complained petulantly. “It’s about you and Jeff Spencer, isn’t it? Look, I know he’s a lot bigger than me — in that way; probably a better lay, too….”

She grabbed my shoulder and pulled me over to face her.

“What did I just tell you?” she scolded. “You are everything I could have ever hoped for in a lover and life partner. If I had my way, you wouldn’t be able to get rid of me. Things HAVE gotten complicated and yes, it involves you and that freak. I don’t even want to know how you know how big he is. I have a feeling the answer would make me sick.

“Let’s clear the air about Mister Jeffrey fucking Spencer, shall we? Ignore that wonder rod of his for a moment. Have you noticed how big the rest of him is, how well developed? He has been on steroids since he started college; he admitted it to me. That is how he got to be such an All-American stud on the football field. Off the field, it was just
the opposite. Oh yeah, he had a nice-sized dick and probably a pretty good set of balls — at one time. The steroids have been fucking with that. He needed the Little Blue Pill just to get it up.

“That all changed a few months before I met you. His white bread girlfriend — your ex-wife — convinced him to get a penile implant! Now, whenever he wants to have sex, all he has to do is pump himself up. I’m sure it feels just fine in your ex’s pussy, but he goddamn tears me apart every time he fucks me.”

“Then why do it?” I wailed. “Why not just kiss his ass good-bye, leave that place, that life if you have to, and come home to me?”

My lover just stared at the sheets for a moment, collecting her thoughts.

“That’s the complicated part, Baby Doll,” she stated solemnly. “I can’t… I don’t want to go into all of it right now. I know that isn’t fair, but I’m trying to protect you. Please don’t press me on it. I can tell you this much. The steroids have fucked with his head, too. You haven’t seen him when he loses his temper; you don’t want to.”

“Dammit, Dianna!” I exclaimed. “Stay away from him. If I even suspect that bastard is beating you, I swear I will….”

“STOP IT!” she shrieked. “That is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you anything. There is just enough ‘man’ left in you to do something really brave, and noble, and stupid. He would pound you into the woodwork like a ten-penny nail, then go out for pizza and beer with the boys. I know what I’m doing, Baby. I’m a big girl now; I can take care of myself.”

“You don’t have to,” I avowed. “WE can take care of you. I’m in this too, remember? I would give it all up — the job, condo, clothes, car, everything - to keep you safe. I have more than we will ever need to live on. We can go anywhere; just walk away from all of it — together.”

Dianna kissed me tenderly on the lips. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“You would do it, too, wouldn’t you?” she sobbed. “You really do know how to push all the right buttons. Just remember you said that.”

Dianna and I showered and dressed together Monday morning. She insisted on taking a cab back to her place; she didn’t want me anywhere near it. I reluctantly kissed her good-bye, then put her in the cab. After that, I went to work. I was an emotional wreck all week. Angie and I had done our final rehearsals with Paul. He told us Dianna had met with him separately. I was excited about — and dreaded — the upcoming weekend. I stayed away from trades completely; I didn’t trust my instincts at all at that moment. I had called Dianna several times — and left messages on her voicemail. She hadn’t called back. I spent most of Friday standing before my window, arms folded under my chest, staring down at La Salle Street.

I didn’t even hear Angie come up behind me around four o’clock. She slipped her arms
around me from behind and hugged me to her. I was grateful for the human contact and
backed myself closer to her.

“You are wasting your time here, Mija,” she purred soothingly. “You are a thousand
miles away right now. Rob, Jim and Shirley are already gone. Most of the staff is
chomping at the bit, ready to bolt for the holiday weekend. What do you say we blow this
pop stand early, too? We’ll go over to North Pier, have greasy ribs and Hurricanes at
Dick’s Last Resort, lick each other’s fingers clean, throw napkins up into the ceiling fan
and insult the other guests like the wait staff does. We can watch the boats dock, pick the
one we like most, accost the owner, and convince him how much cooler he will look
cruising the lake this summer with us laying on his deck, sunning ourselves in our
skimpiest thong bikinis. Then we can go back across the street to your place and fuck our
brains out. Does that sound like a plan?”

Damn it, it did; all of it. God knew, I needed something to break the tension I had been
feeling the last five days. Getting drunk and disorderly on Hurricanes at Dick’s would
certainly fill the bill. We could even add to our growing collection of tulip glasses in the
kitchen cupboard — if we didn’t drop them, staggering across the street to my building.
The thought of having sex with her wasn’t exactly a turn-off, either. Damn me for
thinking that! I had been in bed with Dianna five nights before, telling her I loved her.
Now, I wanted to take Angie home and rock her world — and let her rock mine. Who
would I be betraying? Dianna? Angie? Or both?

I turned to take her in my arms.

“Angie,” I began, “it sounds wonderful; every rum-soaked, rowdy, in-your-face minute of
it. I’m just not sure cheap, meaningless sex with you is such a good idea right now.
Haven’t you ever thought about finding someone who….”

In all the time Angie and I had worked together, I had never seen her burst into tears like
that. She broke free from my embrace and ran from my office, sobbing. I dashed after
her, as fast as my heels would carry me. She had already grabbed her purse and was
locking her desk. I placed my hand on her arm. She jerked hers away, not even looking at
me. This time I grasped both biceps firmly and turned her to look at me. In our heels, we
were almost exactly the same height.

“What?” I questioned firmly.

She struggled to free herself, avoiding my gaze.

“Let go of me!” she shrieked. “Go find some other bimbo to toy with.”

“You are not going anywhere until you tell me what this is all about,” I intoned evenly.

“I can’t believe,” she wept, “that is all I mean to you after everything we’ve been through
and done together. ‘Cheap, meaningless sex?’ So, I was just the little office slut all this
time. I am such an idiot. Well, you are right about one thing; I feel really cheap.”

I uttered the only intelligent thing that came to mind at that moment.

“Huh?”

“If you have no objections,” she hissed, “I’ll just move back to STG Monday morning.
I’ll send Debbie up here to replace me. You’ll like her; she bends over in a light breeze.”

“TIME OUT!” I roared — well, with as much authority as my voice had anymore.

I yanked down, hard, on her arms. She dropped into her chair like a sack of potatoes. I
perched on the front edge of her desk, glaring down at her. She glared right back,
defiantly.

“What I was trying to say was,” I pronounced carefully, marshalling my thoughts as I
went, “haven’t you ever wanted to find someone who really meant something to you?
You made it clear to me, right from the beginning; you could have any man you want.
I’m sorry if this sounds shallow of me, but I’m tired of being just another of your casual
conquests. I know it’s only been three months since I separated from Susan, but I want —
need — something more than that now.”

Angie stared at me, mouth agape, then shook her head as though trying to clear it.

“Let me get this straight,” she growled with equal slow precision. “You thought you were
just another casual fuck to me?”

I nodded. The slap came out of nowhere, stunning me.

“How could you?” she wailed. “As good as you look, as sexy a slut as you have become,
you can be such a man sometimes!”

“What was I supposed to think?” I screamed.

“When I told you I could have any man I wanted,” she screamed back. “You were
supposed to know I meant I wanted you. I have wanted you since the day I first laid eyes
on you — long before I knew there was a ‘Lisa’. Once I found out she existed, I knew I
couldn’t live without you.”

“But you never told me that!” I protested emphatically.

“I shouldn’t have to!” she railed. “Girls are supposed to understand these things.”

I beat the air ineffectually with my fists.

“Words count, Angelina,” I responded, more measured. “I am not a mind-reader, as much
as I try to be. Susan didn’t say the words and look what happened to us. Then again, she
probably didn’t feel them in the first place.”

Déjá  vu.

Angie came off her chair, wiping away her tears. She took my hand and helped me to my
feet, then wrapped her arms around me tightly and put her face right in front of mine.

“I feel them,” she sniffed, “and I’ll say them. I love you. I want you. I need you, as much
as the air I breathe. You are my life. What do you have to say to that?”

I was honest to a fault.

“Words fail me.”

She tilted her head slightly to one side and leaned closer.

“Good answer,” she softly sighed, parting her lips. “Fuck Dick’s. Let’s cut to the chase.”

***

Angie and I spent all Saturday morning and early afternoon in a Hispanic salon on the
Northwest side. My work took a lot longer than hers. My already-bleached hair was long
enough now; she mandated it was time for extensions. By the time the stylist was
finished, my hair was just as long and curly as my wig had been. Although our colors
contrasted like night and day, our styles complimented, as did our makeup and nails.

“I could have done you myself,” my lover assured me confidently, “but I had to get
ready, too. Besides, it’s a lot more fun to watch you get done up for me this way. My
panties are drenched.”

We met Paul and Kitty at their booth in the mezzanine-level vendors’ area at the Hilton
on South Michigan Avenue. As we came up the escalator, Angie and I both gaped at the
far-flung assemblage of fetish apparel and gear; booth upon booth, row upon row,
extending throughout the mezzanine and into the ballroom where the pageant would be
held. He escorted us towards the backstage area while Kitty took charge of the booth.

As we traversed the vendor area, there was a seemingly-endless array of leather and
rubber clothing, shoes and boots, whips, paddles, chains, restraints, dildoes, butt plugs,
vibrators, bondage furniture, even medieval-style iron cages, up to and including an
honest-to-goodness ‘iron maiden’ — minus the spikes. Paul’s was not the only booth
featuring corsets, but as far as I was concerned, it might as well have been. All of it was
brand-new and for sale. The vendors were mostly fresh-faced, intelligent, superbly
knowledgeable about their craft, wares and the market they served — and as matter-of-fact
and enthusiastic about it all as though they were vending hot dogs and soda from a
curbside cart. Angie and I stared at each other and shook our heads sadly - wondering
what we had been missing in our lives all this time.

“And this is all for the boys?” I questioned Paul, fingering an exquisitely-tooled pair of
black patent thigh boots with wicked six-inch stiletto heels.

“Hardly,” he chuckled. “Look around you. You are not the only women here; just the
sexiest.”

“Don’t you dare let Kitty hear you say that,” I teased. “She’ll have you trussed up like a
Thanksgiving turkey all night!”

“Promises, promises,” he sighed.

Dianna was already backstage, applying her makeup. I had dreaded this moment for
months; the two women I adored, coming face-to-face. How was I going to get past this
moment? How would I be able to look either in the eye again?

“Hi Dianna!” Angie beckoned, hugging the beautiful brunette and bussing her lightly on
the cheek.

“Hi Angie!” Dianna returned, a warm smile on her lips. “How’s our girlfriend? Let me
take a look.”

Posing for her was not a problem; I was rooted to the floor in shock. The sensual shemale
examined my makeup and nails, then my hair.

“Nice work,” she commented appreciatively to the Latina. “That ‘do is fabulous. You, or
your daddy?”

Angie shook her head.

“Lupe did it. Papá¡ was busy setting up his booth. He’ll stop by after the vendors’ area
closes.”

I must have looked really stupid standing there, eyeing the two apparently old friends
back and forth. Angie slipped her arm through mine and patted the back of my hand with
her other hand.

“It’s okay, Sweetie,” she chirped. “I’ve known Dianna forever. I grew up in the scene —
kinda like an ‘army brat’. That’s how I got my taste for gorgeous T-girls. Isn’t that right,
Dianna?”

It was Dianna’s turn to kiss Angie on the cheek.

“Until a few months ago,” she purred, “I would have said I’ve never had anyone as
good.”

Angie beamed.

“I know exactly what you mean, Girlfriend!”

Scene… hair… daddy….

“Angelo!” I groaned, holding my face in my hands and shaking my head.

Both gorgeous girls broke out in laughter.

“There’s hope for you yet, Mija,” Angie giggled. “Maybe you’re not such a ‘man’ after
all — although a girl would have grasped the obvious a lot sooner.”

She turned to Dianna.

“Is… everything ready for tonight?”

Dianna winked and smiled.

“Everything.”

“I can’t wait,” Angie gushed.

Can I sit down now? I’m feeling faint….

There were three large trunks under our portion of the makeup table. Each bore the name
of one of Paul’s three models. Dianna’s was already open at her feet. Angie and I each
retrieved our own, then began donning our first costume change. The show was to begin
at five and extend ninety or so minutes, featuring the three of us, plus models from other
vendors. There were so many vendors and models, each of us would have four passes
down the runway in four different outfits. Dianna was doing a special solo finale to close
the show. The final competition to crown the next Mr. Gay Leather would commence at
seven.

I peeked out through the curtain at the edge of the stage. Lance and Susan were seated at
the end of the catwalk. They were the special guest M.C.s who would announce the
models, the outfits they wore, and the vendors they represented. Their presence had
guaranteed press coverage, plus a camera crew from the local independent television
station that televised the team’s games. Gee, no pressure there. If this was, indeed, the
time they had selected to destroy me, they would do so in print and on the ten o’clock
news - for everyone in metropolitan Chicagoland to see.

Sipping piá±a coladas in Fat Tuesdays on Duval Street, clad only in a skimpy string bikini
and high-heeled sandals, would be just as good as the charter-boat thing, wouldn’t it?

It was daunting to stand backstage and listen to the applause the first models were
receiving. The butterflies in my stomach had metamorphosed into vultures who were
thumping away with their wings and picking me apart at the same time. I received my
cue and hit the runway in white calfskin corset, collar, and forearm-length gauntlets with
black patent trim, matched with white calfskin lace-up thigh boots with black patent
scrollwork overlays and five-inch stiletto heels. Dianna had coached me on ‘Attitude’ and
I had it to burn. Look at me wrong and I’ll bite it off at the root!

Angie was right behind me in a purple calfskin corset mini-dress with matching platform
sandals. Dianna followed Angie in a red patent corset combination like mine, with
coordinating thigh boots. The applause from the previous models had continued to wane
as I took the stage. By the time all three of us were on catwalk — just a second or two - the
only sound was the music pounding from the loudspeakers. The seconds seemed like
hours. I could tell Susan remembered me from the previous weekend. She looked none
too pleased to see me again. I couldn’t detect so much as a glint of anything else, but you
never knew with Susan…. It was the silence of everyone else that was really damning.

Code Blue! Code Blue! Get the crash cart. Charge paddles to three hundred. I need one
cee-cee of Eppie, push.

Then I looked at the faces. I don’t think I had ever seen so many bulging eyes and gaping
mouths in one place. The applause began — and swelled to thundering proportions,
overwhelming the sound system and causing the massive central chandelier to rattle. I
had already made my turn and passed Dianna on my way towards backstage. She winked
at me.

Oh, yeah, Baby; JUMP-START that heart!

The applause came quicker and louder with each successive pass down the runway. That
did wonders for my self-confidence.

Gee, if the commodities thing doesn’t work out….

I heard the heated exchange between the third and fourth costume changes. It was coming
from the wings on the far side of the stage. I crept around the back side and approached
the two angry voices; one male, the other female.

“Damn it, you said you would have him here,” the angry male challenged. “I swear, if
you cross me on this, I’ll make you wish you had never been born — in either gender!”

“He is here,” the female spat. “I have him chillin’ ‘til the finale. He doesn’t suspect a
thing. Believe me; no one will ever forget it - just like you wanted it.”

“Yeah? Then where is he? Show me, or I’ll….”

I hurried around the corner and grabbed Dianna’s arm. Jeff had an empty rocks glass
raised in the air, poised over Dianna’s head. It was heavy enough to deliver a crushing
blow to her skull. Then again, if it shattered as he hit her….

“Sweetie,” I urged, “we have to get you changed for the next set. Hurry up now. Hi Jeff!
Nice to see you again.”

“Lisa, WAIT!” he barked. “We need to talk….”

“We’ll hook up after the show, ‘kay?” I cooed. “Right now, I’ve gotta get my girlfriend
here ready for our next pass down the runway. See you!”

I hurried Dianna backstage before either one could utter another word. She pulled me up
short and spun me around. I could tell she was about to ‘read’ me about something.
Whatever it was, I just didn’t have the stomach to listen to it right then. I placed an index
finger to her lips and patted it a couple of times, partly to shush her and partly to buy a
moment or two while I collected my thoughts. Finally, I spoke.

“Just… do what ya gotta do, okay?” I muttered resignedly. “I don’t want you to explain it
to me; just do it. Whatever it is, it isn’t worth you getting hurt for. That would hurt me
more than anything else. I swear to God, if he does hurt you, I will personally hunt the
sonofabitch down and kill him. I don’t care what you say.”

Dianna’s eyes welled with tears. She gently stroked my cheek and brushed my lips with
hers.

“I love you.” She murmured, then turned and ran back to the dressing room.

We had altered the order of our appearance with each pass down the runway. On our final
appearance, Dianna led off in a leopard-print calfskin bustier-style corset with matching
thong, collar, armpit-length gloves and stiletto-heeled thigh boots. Angie followed in a
deeply-plunging shocking pink patent bustier-style corset minidress with sheer black
seamed stockings, perched atop shocking pink patent platform sandals with six-and-a-
half-inch heels. I brought up the rear in the ankle-length hobble version of that style, in
black patent with red patent flame appliqués. The bodice plunged so deeply, if I inhaled
too much, my nipples would pop right out of the top. That wouldn’t be a problem; I was
cinched down to nineteen inches and could barely draw a breath. As I minced my way
down the catwalk in my six-and-a-half-inch red patent stiletto stilts, I was getting light-
headed from lack of oxygen. I couldn’t hear the music over the thunderous roar of the
crowd. We held hands with Paul in our middle and took a bow, then made our way
backstage.

“Hurry up, Dianna,” Paul urged. “You have to get changed and onstage for the wedding
number.”

“Chill,” Dianna reassured him. “I’ve got it under control. You go out front and enjoy it
with Kitty. We’ll take care of everything back here, ‘kay?”

Dianna hustled him off. I was leaning against a post. Black spots were dancing in my
vision. Angie detected my distress.

“You poor thing!” she cooed. That dress must be a killer. Here, let me help you sit down
by the makeup table. I don’t know about you, but I’m parched. Dianna, let’s get us all
something to drink.”

Sure; just sit down. Easier said than done in that dress; it didn’t bend much, if at all. I was
more or less perched on the edge of the chair, unable to stand up or move around much. I
became aware of a cell phone chiming insistently, inside my purse. It was Lance’s phone.
As I answered, I noticed there were about a dozen missed incoming calls.

“Are you all right?” my lawyer exclaimed. “I’ve been trying to reach you for almost two
hours. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I assured him, “everything is fine.”

“You sound funny,” he observed. “Winded. Kinda high-pitched, too.”

“I, uh, just ran a marathon,” I replied. “I’m still trying to catch my breath.”

“Are you someplace really public? Like, a lot of people?”

“Yeah,” I responded warily. “Why?”

“Listen to me very carefully,” the lawyer intoned slowly. “Go home. Lock the door. Stay
there — alone. The investigator intercepted a call earlier between Jeff Spencer and his
contact. She told him everything was ready to go, just as they had planned it. Lance, she
told him she’s scored a hit of GHB. They are planning on drugging you, then doing who
knows what. Don’t eat or drink anything! Got it?”

Angie and Dianna were returning at that moment. Angie carried two champagne flutes;
Dianna, one. My eyes darted back and forth between the two, not believing what they
were seeing.

“I gotta go,” I told him. “I’ll call you later.”

I hung up, flipped the lid closed and slipped it back into my purse. Angie handed me a
flute. I accepted it cautiously, as though handling a snake. She raised one eyebrow
quizzically.

“Anything important?” she inquired musically, glancing toward my just-stowed cell
phone.

“Not anymore,” I replied wearily.

I felt utterly defeated. Both my lovers smiled at me disarmingly. Angie raised her glass.

“Well, what shall we drink to?”

I drew a blank. I don’t think anyone in history has raised their glass and pronounced:
“Here’s to Treason!” I had no intention of being the first. At that point, I really didn’t
give a shit. I just shrugged my shoulders a bit — and chugged the glass. Hmmm; MÅ‘et
White Star, Extra Dry. Well, if ya gotta go…. I idly wondered: what was the current
market value, in U.S. dollars, of thirty pieces of silver - split two ways?

I felt really spaced out, detached, like I didn’t have a care in the world. Dianna was more
beautiful than I had ever seen her before. She was dressed in a black tuxedo waistcoat
with tails, black satin bow tie, and old-fashioned top hat, over a severely-cinched black
patent corset, black fishnet stockings and black patent ankle-strap platform sandals. The
‘bride’ was bent over a bondage ‘horse’ before her, wrists and ankles securely locked,
legs spread invitingly. The wedding dress didn’t fit all that well; I think it was intended to
look cheap, trashy. Then again, the bottom half was flipped up over the back anyway, so
what difference did the fit make? I’m certain the garishly-applied makeup didn’t soften
the image at all, either. The expression on Dianna’s face was so serene, as though she
was realizing the culmination of her greatest wish. I was so accustomed to the feel of her
eight-inch clit inside me, I could clearly visualize every millimeter sliding in and out of
my eagerly-waiting love nest.

The curtain came up to the strains of Billy Idol’s White Wedding. Dianna consummated
her ‘marriage’ with impassioned fury, driving in and out — amid the roar of the
predominantly gay-male crowd. I happened to catch Susan’s face amid all those others.
She was recoiling with a look of horror and disgust. Funny; I thought she would be
relishing this moment of ultimate triumph. Jeff Spencer was certainly eating it up. The
look of sheer joy on his face told me he was loving every thrust. His massive twelve-inch
bionic boner jutted out proudly, angled down between the legs of the horse - as Dianna
plunged into his ass again and again. She was certainly enjoying giving it to him. I
cherished the memory of her in me — and was more than a little envious.

The curtain came down as the music faded. Chantal and Mimi hurried onstage from the
opposite wing, disengaged their friend and hurried her off in the direction from which
they had come. Angie clung to me, holding me up, both of us out of sight in the near
wing. I was, once again, dressed in that lovely lavender suede suit and mules that I loved
so much. If anything, Angie’s white suit looked better on her now than it had that
Monday afternoon three months before.

“Baby,” she cooed in my ear, “the girls are gonna get Dianna out of here. We have to go,
too — right now.”

We slipped out the side door and into the mezzanine proper as the pandemonium
exploded around us. Hotel security and Chicago PD were running in every direction,
searching for the fleeing, scantily-clad ‘models’. So, too, were the photographers and
camera crew who had to make their deadlines. Hell, with a scoop like this, their editors
and producers would hold everything! Meanwhile, two young, attractive — if somewhat
provocatively made-up - professional women slowly made their way toward the
Michigan Avenue entrance. One had obviously had a little too much to drink.

***

I awoke to sunlight on my face. It was streaming in through the east-facing windows of
my bedroom, overlooking Ogden Slip. Angie lay next to me, her head propped up on her
arm. She gazed down at my awakening form, smiling so serenely.

“Good morning, Mi Corazá³n,” she murmured. “Do you feel okay? No ill effects, I trust?”

“I wouldn’t be tossing the word ‘trust’ around so casually right now,” I replied groggily.

Suddenly, the memory of the previous night flashed into my head.

“Dianna….” I exclaimed, sitting bolt-upright in bed.

Angie stayed my moving body with a gentle hand to my chest.

“Safely out of town,” she admonished, then added: “We had to. Every cop and sports fan
in the city is gunning for her right now. This is WAY worse than Hugh Grant and Divine
Brown.”

I stared down at the blankets, puzzled. I remembered everything so vividly — but I
thought, with GHB…. Angie shook her head, reading my thoughts.

“Valium,” she corrected. “Not enough to knock you out immediately. Just enough to
make you… tractable — so I could get you to the car without you making a fuss. I’m
sorry. After that stink you raised about Jeff Spencer beating Dianna, and what you were
going to do about it, we couldn’t risk you doing something impossibly noble like you
always do — and getting hurt really bad. We were trying to avoid that. That is what this
whole thing has been about from the beginning. For the record, Jeff got the GHB in his
drink. I don’t think he will remember a thing — at least, not until he has to take a shit.”

I brought my knees up to my chest, wrapped my arms around them, and rocked. Angie
put her arms around me.

“You deserve to know everything, from the beginning,” Angie purred soothingly into my
ear. “Dianna told me some parts I didn’t already know. Some of the rest is guesswork,
but I think it’s pretty close. That Friday night at Ringers when you first met Dianna
probably would have been your first, last, and only time together. As she put it, you were
just another ‘freak’ to her then. She had a good laugh at the way you stormed out of her
place afterward.

“Jeff Spencer went to Ringers that night, too — looking to score with her. Susan had been
ranting in his ear all week about how you had left her high and dry — as though you owed
her and her lover a life. He needed a good lay without having to listen to her whining. He
spotted you and Dianna leaving the club — and recognized you immediately.

“He confronted her the next night and fed her some line about you having fucked him
over on some deal or another. He told her he would make it worth her while to ‘play’
you. He wanted her to get in good with you, get you to dress up in girly clothes, then get
pictures of you being fucked in drag by Dianna. She was okay with it at the time. To her,
it was just making a little extra money from one freak fucking over another. Once they
got that ‘dirt’ on you, Jeff and Susan would then be able to blackmail you into dropping
the divorce and go on as before — with them shacking up whenever they felt like it and
you supporting them financially. Just to make sure you were ‘on board’ with their little
scheme, he was planning to beat the shit out of you after he took the pictures.”

“Susan knew?” I growled angrily.

Angie nodded.

“That’s what he told Dianna,” she confided. “Actually, I think she knew what Jeff wanted
her to know. At that point, he would have had a hard time explaining how he knew
Dianna was a T-girl without casting suspicion on himself. Most likely, he told her he had
seen you out with another woman, and that it looked to him like it had been going on for
some time. When she saw you and Dianna outside Morton’s — and saw how beautiful
Dianna was and how lavishly you had obviously pampered her — Susan was ready to
believe you had been cheating on her longer than she had been cheating on you. She was
insanely jealous! Dianna told me she felt on top of the world when Jeff told her that. As
possessive as Susan is, I can’t imagine her just giving up without a fight on a more
personal level. Did I miss something?”

I told Angie about the incident in front of the office that Monday morning. She pursed
her lips, smiled, and shook her head in amazement.

“As much as I hate the bitch,” she murmured, “I’ll give her this; she is a girl after my
own heart. When she sees something she wants, she goes out and gets it. She never
followed up?”

I shook my head. Angie nodded gazing speculatively into the distance. Then, she re-
focused on me.

Again, this part is guesswork on my part. That’s probably the time Jeff dropped The
Bomb. Maybe he told her he had had Dianna followed and found out she was a shemale.
Discovering she had lost you to a ‘man’ would push a woman like Susan right over the
edge. She would have agreed to anything Jeff planned from that moment on. That’s why I
really despise the cunt. She sat back, kept her nose clean, and let Jeff do all the dirty
work. I’ll bet she didn’t even want to know the details - as long as he got the job done.”

“I didn’t sense that Dianna was on board with all this,” I pointed out. “Did I misread her
that completely?”

Angie rested her hand on my cheek and shook her head.

“My dear, sweet Baby,” she intoned. “You have no idea the kind of effect you have on a
woman — especially after she experiences men like Jeff Spencer. He made her call you
that Friday and set up the date that night, to start the scam rolling. After that magical
Valentine’s Day weekend, Dianna was ready to give up The Life completely and camp
out on your doorstep. I would have, too. Apparently, you also set her straight on what the
real situation was between you, Susan, and Jeff. True?”

I nodded my head in agreement.

“The next time Jeff contacted her, she told him he could keep his money and his bionic
dick; that she was keeping you,” Angie resumed. “That’s when things started to get really
nasty. It wasn’t enough that he slapped her around. It wasn’t his first time by any means —
nor his last….”

Angie gazed off towards a corner of the room again, marshalling her thoughts.

“Sweetie,” she continued. “Girls like Dianna have to do… stuff to survive; illegal stuff.
They can’t get regular jobs; no one will hire them. Jeff knew about a public-assistance
scam Dianna had run; not ‘Welfare Cadillac’ level, but serious. He could have dropped a
dime and gotten her sent to prison — in her case, a men’s prison. Do you have any idea
what it means to a T-girl to have her hair shaved off and have to live as a man — and be
the communal fuck toy?”

I shivered.

“I think I have a pretty good handle on it now,” I admitted.

“Poor Dianna,” Angie lamented. “She was in an impossible situation; torn between her
love for you and her fear of a fate worse than death. At that time, she knew nothing of the
kind of connections and clout you had. She perceived Jeff as being the stronger of the
two — and that he could wipe the floor with you. She wasn’t about to let that happen. She
did the only thing she knew how to do.”

“What was that?”

“She knew she couldn’t protect you in your and Jeff’s world — as a ‘man in a dress.’ So
she had to bring you into her world — all the way in. That was one place where she made
the rules and called all the shots. She told Jeff about the fashion show, and how it would
be the perfect time to set you up. He agreed; he loved the public humiliation aspect. That
bought her some time to carry out her plan.

“He had to have told Susan. She would have been the one to set up the publicity
appearance and make certain the photographers and television crew were on hand. Oh,
how they must have been looking forward to destroying you publicly! Of course, all that
time they were expecting to see a man in a dress. I don’t think either one had any idea
you could be so totally transformed, and be so convincing as a woman. Dianna knew —
and knew it was her only way to save both of you from them.”

“I can’t believe your involvement in this was all a coincidence,” I stated flatly.

Angie blushed, staring down.

“It wasn’t,” she admitted. “I knew almost from the start. Remember I told you I grew up
in the scene? I had blown off my date for Valentine’s Day — he kept me waiting once too
often. I went to Ringers to catch the show and chat with some of my girlfriends. I
watched ‘Lance’ and Dianna go into the dressing room — and you and Dianna come out.
Only someone who had been in the scene for a while would have recognized you and
‘Lance’ were the same person. Then again, I had fantasized about you en femme for so
long…. Oh, God; I wanted you so badly at that moment I almost came on the spot! Then,
when you went outside — and that guy followed you — I was insanely jealous.”

“Wait a minute!” I exclaimed. “You acted completely surprised that Monday afternoon
when I indicated I wasn’t a ‘cherry’ anymore.”

Angie winked and beamed a smile my way.

“I sure did, didn’t I?” she cooed. “Pretty convincing, too, if I do say so myself. Anyway,
while you were gone on your ‘date’, I sidled over to Dianna and complimented her on her
new ‘girlfriend’. She gushed about you, went on and on about the day the two of you had
had, how you had spoiled her, how she was falling in love with you, and that she was
going to transform you totally. She didn’t tell me anything about the plot that night. She
was stunned when I told her you were my boss. I offered to help in your transformation
and she couldn’t have said ‘YES!’ any faster.

“You didn’t tell her about your personal interest in me, did you?” I inquired.

Angie shook her head slowly.

“It was wrong of me; I know,” she spoke ruefully. “I had wanted you so long. Then,
seeing you as ‘Lisa’ — something I had been craving all that time…. No honor among
thieves, huh?”

I just shrugged my shoulders a little bit.

“Later,” Angie continued, “after she had had it out with Jeff and he had begun
blackmailing her, she saw the whole thing coming apart. She knew she was going to need
a lot of help — and she confided everything to me. Of course I told her she could count on
me. I don’t know at what point she suspected my motives were about more than my
friendship with her. A girl just knows, Mi Amor. I think by that time she had begun to
believe no matter how much she loved you, she wouldn’t be able to keep you. You were
too deeply entrenched in your world — a world in which she felt she was an outcast. To
her credit, she didn’t begrudge me winning you. Yesterday, she told me if she couldn’t
have you, she didn’t want you in anyone else’s arms than mine.”

Tears were streaming down Angie’s face.

“Did you say to her,” she sniffed, “something to the effect that you ‘would give it all up,
everything, to keep her safe’?”

I stared at the sheets and nodded. Tears were welling up in my eyes, too.

“Baby,” Angie cried, “Dianna asked me to remind you of that. That is exactly what she
did; she gave everything up — including you — to keep you safe. She said it wasn’t much,
compared to what you had done, given, and meant to her, but it was the best she had to
offer.

“Mi Amor, please don’t hate me for what I am about to say. I have never seen anyone
sacrifice herself so selflessly for someone else as Dianna did for you. I love her like my
own flesh and blood for doing it — but I’m not sorry she’s gone. I have wanted you for my
own for so damn long. Now that I’ve got you… damn it, I know I love you every bit as
much, if not more. I just pray to God I never have to prove it that way!”

Angie clutched me tightly, her body wracked with sobs. That made two of us.

***

No official mention was made by the team of the incident at the Mr. Gay Leather
Pageant; nor did any account find its way onto the local news. It was announced Jeff
Spencer was going into rehab for a dependency on painkillers and would probably miss
training camp. Of course, it was all over the Gay community, which meant it was all over
the city. The switchboards at the local radio sports and talk shows were lit up like
Christmas trees for weeks. Later, it would be announced that, with regret, the team was
dropping Jeff Spencer’s contract — presumably, over the ‘morals’ clause.

After that public relations debacle, Susan left the team’s front office, and Chicago, “by
mutual consent”. I guess publicity people are like baseball managers, too; she signed on
with the Miami organization within a week. I suspect the deal had been done before she
even packed her bags. Miami had an up-and-coming QB prospect whom they believed to
be another Dan Marino. Jake Prescott, three years out of USC, had it all; the size of
Bobby Douglass, the stamina of a racehorse, the eye of an eagle, and a rifle for an arm.
All the sportswriters were touting him as The Next Big Thing. Knowing Susan, he
already was.

A few months later, there was a small article on Page Three of the Tribune. Des Moines
police were investigating the shooting death of Jeffrey Glenn Spencer, former football
star and Chicago sports legend, whose body was found in his room in a transient hotel in
downtown Des Moines. Spencer had been attempting a comeback with the Des Moines
Demons of the fledgling Continental Football Association. Autopsy results would be
forthcoming, a police spokesman announced, but a preliminary Coroner’s investigation
indicated the fatal wound may have been self-inflicted….

Angie and I found that boat we liked. We accosted its owner, too — in the office next door
to mine. Rob hadn’t had any idea he was going to buy a boat until Angie and I slinked
into his office and closed the door. She perched on the edge of his desk. I slipped into his
lap, wrapped my arms around his neck, and fed him the pitch exactly as Angie had
presented it to me. Well, not exactly the same way. So, the firm came into possession of a
‘company yacht’ (nothing like Bill Wirtz’s Blackhawk, but nice enough to cruise the lake
and small enough to tie up in Ogden Slip). Rob and Jim had a blast weekends,
hobnobbing with the other Boat People. Angie and I kept up our end(s) of the bargain,
getting fabulous tans on deck and making our bosses look really good in the process.

I didn’t need Angie to tell me where Dianna went. Armed with the Internet and her Social
Security Number — plus the suspicion her trip to L.A. had not been a coincidence — I
tracked her down in West Hollywood. Angie was not thrilled with my proposed trip, but
acquiesced. She knew I needed closure. She also made me promise faithfully I would
come home to her before making any lasting decisions.

I found her sitting on a stool at the bar in Club 7969 on Santa Monica Boulevard. I didn’t
think the place was anywhere near as nice as Ringers, but it had a function and served it.
God, she still looked good! It was as if time stood still for both of us. We spent a long
weekend in bed together, just as it had been before; concentrating on the here and now,
not externals — or the past. Before I left her, I made sure I set her up — with a trust fund,
two-bedroom condo, and car of her own. I wanted her to understand she could be
anything she wanted to be — and not dependent on anyone or anything to achieve it. This
time, I made sure I had her cell phone number, too. When she dropped me off at LAX,
we just kept touching each other, not wanting to break the magic of the moment. The
feeling was still strong, and has been every time I’ve called.

I still have my life and job in Chicago. I won’t deny Angie keeps me happy. There are a
million things, big and small, I love about her. She isn’t afraid to tell me how much she
loves me, either. STG and I have made the firm phenomenally successful; a ‘name
brand’, both on LaSalle Street and worldwide. I’ve made a ton of money for myself, too.
Angie and I socialize publicly (and intimately) with Rob and Jim, but still reserve that
special, very private relationship for each other. We have not gotten married and
probably won’t while we both still work for the firm. We need to keep up appearances at
the office; such a union would lead to some really embarrassing questions we wish to
avoid. If we are being less than honest with our co-workers, I hope we are at least being
honest with each other. Sometimes, I have my doubts.

When she wants me that way, the Little Blue Pill is there to help. Yes, it works for
‘pickled’ T-girls just as well as sixty-year-old would-be Lotharios. She has jokingly
suggested perhaps I should get an implant, too. Then again, she has also suggested I go
the other way entirely - and not in a joking way. I admit that thought has a definite
appeal, but what would that mean to us?

Rob is happy with the status quo but I don’t think Jim is. My instincts tell me he wants
more from Angie. Angie hasn’t voiced any desire to change a thing, but she does enjoy
our little foursomes a lot. Sometimes, when I see the way they look at each other…. Rob
looks at me the same way and Angie doesn’t object — but then, why would she? Lately,
she and I have been ‘honeymooning in Viagra Falls’ less and less. There I go, being a
‘man’ again. We don’t need to, Silly — do we?

Should I have The Talk with her? Do I need to? For someone who has placed such high
stock in the value of words, why am I afraid to ask them? Am I more afraid of the
answers? Why does my life have to be so damn complicated? Then again, maybe it
doesn’t.

There were times, very late at night, when I stood on our balcony, gazing down at Ogden
Slip and the lake beyond while Angie slumbered peacefully in our bed. I imagined myself
on the sun deck at Fat Tuesdays on Duval Street, clad in my string bikini and heels,
sipping a piá±a colada and listening to island music. The sun shown brightly, the air was
hot, and everyone was looking forward to the rain shower that would descend from the
heavens at five PM, as it always did. I could see in my mind the old movie theater a bit
farther down the street, where they now do drag shows. Then I pictured those
mesmerizing brown eyes and wondered if that kind of life would appeal to her. Would
she be willing to do it again; give it all up, everything, to keep me safe, secure, and happy
in her embrace? Would I? As the lawyers say: “asked and answered” — at least, in my
own mind. I ached for her then. I still do.

Just let go - and see where the current takes you.

***

Special thanks to Matt Jones for his timely contributions on Chicago lore, past and
present.

Notes:

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