Not at first, anyway. There were only more hot kisses, as fingers tore at clothing, hers undressing him, and his making her naked.Both were as ready as if they had engaged in hours of foreplay, and they landed on the bed with twin thumps, writhing against each other, pressing flesh to flesh and glorying in the feel of that touch. His hands went to her breasts, and hers felt for his manhood. She felt no shame. Instead, when she felt his iron hard penis, she felt only relief that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.When he slid into her she almost screamed, but bit it off, groaning with the delicious ecstasy of being filled with hard prick. He felt different in every way, both outside her, and inside too. Her body jerked, suddenly unable to establish a rhythm, and she flailed under his weight as he rutted into her. His gasps, as he pounded her, signaled that he would not last long, but she didn't care, because her own orgasm was rushing towards her like a freight train at full. Or she'd offer to streak or highlightand perm my hair -- "honey, it'll give it much more life andmanageability, and look really cute!" she'd say. Or she'd urge meto get a proper manicure, to decorate my fingertips with one of thefashionable new colors. "You have such lovely hands, you shouldshow them off!" she'd say.Always, always reluctantly, I'd turn her down. But all weekend I'dbe delighted by the feminine hairdo she'd given me, whenever Iglanced at myself in the mirror, until Monday morning when at lastI'd shampoo it flat and returned to my drab men's look.In short, I explained that I loved looking and feeling femininewhenever I could without anyone knowing. That I always had. ThatI'd often tried to ignore or suppress the desire, but it alwayscame back. Overwhelmingly, blissfully. Now it could well depriveme of the love of my life, so now I hated it even though I lovedit! Because I wanted to marry her. I wanted to become one withher.Then, having completed this hopeless,.
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