By Guest Writer: Mike
Chapter 9 – Part 2 of 3
I parked, staring up at the building that housed my company. Should I go up there? I had just altered Cynthia’s life. Did I really want to have that conversation with Carley sitting outside my office and listening in on what I had done? And how would Cynthia react? I didn’t know and that prompted my decision to drive to my house instead. I would find something to do instead of worrying or causing a scene. The thing was, I didn’t regret what I had done. Cynthia had already talked about quitting and it only took me ten minutes to figure out why. How she’d put up with that for so long I didn’t know but it told me how strong she was as a woman and how capable. I didn’t think it was possible but once again my estimation of her was elevated.
I didn’t have a key to my house. When Cynthia had kissed me good-bye she’d said she’d pick me up at my place. Had she seen me as Cynthia and not myself? Did she mean she would pick me up at her place? It was a little bit confusing but since I couldn’t get into my house without breaking in and as I didn’t see me going to my neighbor as Cynthia and ask for my spare key, I decided I would go to Cynthia’s place instead. Or, I guess, it was my place for the moment. I did have a key. What’s that about possession and the law?
I let myself into Cynthia’s house. I plopped down on the couch and picked up my phone. I thought I should text Cynthia; tell her what I had done. No, that could wait. She wanted to go to work as me; I’d let that play out uninterrupted. Besides, I felt this thrumming in my crotch that was demanding attention.
I knew I shouldn’t do it; I knew the power of the stone, but I was alone, and needy, without any distractions and lots of free time. In the office, I’d been able to block out that arousing tingle. Even driving I hadn’t been aware of it. Now, with nothing but freedom, I was acutely aware of the warmth I felt in my pussy. My fingers slipped along my stomach and disappeared into my skirt. I felt the lacy edge of my panties and then that, too, was riding my wrist. My fingers found my pussy and I jerked at the touch, feeling an electric sensation that buzzed as loud as power lines.
A dirty thought entered my mind. I stood, unstrapped my heels before kicking them under the coffee table, and shimmied out of my skirt. Walking towards the master bedroom I left a trail of clothes. My salmon colored blouse landed in the hallway. My bra wound up hanging from a bedroom doorknob. My panties wound up a tight ball in my hand, pressed firmly against my face. I smelled like Cynthia and that smell aroused me further, fanning the flames I could never extinguish but demanding more fuel just the same.
I rushed to the nightstand, yanking it open. I spotted a silver vibrator with a black knob at the end. I picked it up, turned it on, and ran the buzzing toy over my erect nipples. I slipped it lower to hold it against my clit that was throbbing in perfect time with my racing pulse. I slipped the cylinder into my pussy, my back arching at its touch. I pounded that fake cock in and out, all the while feeling it buzz, sending sharp jolts of pleasure though every excitable nerve. I pinched my nipples, first one and then the other. My hand dropped lower, both hands now clutching the vibrator. I thrust it into that wet, hungry and swollen hole, with an angry, needy ferocity. I pounded that cock into me, my arms a thundering blur. I felt my orgasm rise, feeling it growing closer and closer like a tidal wave ready to crest and wipe out a surfer.
I kept going, feeling that need growing bigger and bigger. Almost there. I could feel it threatening to spill over my body. The tension mounted, growing even larger than I thought possible. “No!” I cried out as my arms started to slow. “No, I need this. Please!” I felt a knot in my throat, making it hard to swallow. My voice, Cynthia’s voice, was full of desperation. I pounded the bed in frustration. I left the vibrator running inside my pussy and brought my fingers to my clit. It stood hard, throbbing for attention and I gave it what it wanted. I stroked it, massaged it, pinched it; I tried everything hoping to push me over the edge.
Nothing worked. Something had to work.
A fuzzy thought entered my brain. Makeup. I needed to perfect my makeup.
I let out a groan when I pulled the vibrator out of my cunt. It was slick and wet and without thinking I licked it clean. The Adam part of me loved the taste and that part felt another crescendo of desperation surge through my pussy as I cleaned the vibrator with my tongue. I put the vibrator where I’d found it and climbed out of bed. My knees were shaking, my mouth was dry, and my poor pussy was pleading with me to finish what couldn’t be completed. I cried, I actually cried. Tears welled in my eyes to run down my face. Looking in the mirror attached to Cynthia’s dresser I could see the black lines made on my cheeks as my tears washed away my mascara.
Mascara was make-up. I needed to do my makeup. Cynthia had said so. If I can perfect my makeup I can come. These are the mindless thoughts that motivated me. Cynthia had an old-fashioned makeup table sitting in the master bathroom. It held three drawers full of makeup from rouge to lipstick, eyeliner to mascara. It held powders, tubes and creams. I didn’t know what most of it was but I’ve studied Cynthia’s pretty face and seen enough movies and television shows and old girlfriend getting ready that I knew the basics. That was a start.
I cleaned my face with some moist towelettes. With a blank canvas, I picked up a few tubes of lipstick. They had names like Sangria, or School House Brick. They were mostly just varying shades of red although she had Plum and Pomegranate and even a deep purple one called Eggplant. I picked one that mostly matched the color I had washed away and brought it to my lips. It had a distinctive smell and when I put it on my lips it felt heavier than it should. Too much. I looked like the Joker getting ready to assault Gotham City.
There went another wipe. Twenty wipes later and I felt I could put lipstick on without an issue. The key was to maintain a light stroke. I wasn’t so much as painting my lips as staining them. I kept the lipstick on and began working on my eyes. That was even harder to do. I needed my eyes open to see what I was doing but I needed them closed to decorate the skin. How did women do this? Did they all work blind? It took far longer to work out eyeshadow. Lipstick was easy by comparison. Over an hour passed before I felt that I could do my eyes in a way that wouldn’t make me look like a freak. I wouldn’t call it perfect but it was passable. It felt like a victory.
My stomach grumbled by the time I had blush and concealer down pat. I was eating a piece of toast and working on eyeliner at the same time. Mascara was harder than I thought it would be. It was far too easy to get it to clump. I learned a lot about makeup that day while waiting for Cynthia to pick me up for our dinner date. The most important less I learned was that makeup was best used in moderation. Only a clown used a heavy amount of color.
I looked in the mirror, satisfied that I did a darn good job on my face. It wasn’t quite as good as it had been when Cynthia had helped me that morning, but now, with the sun fading in the west I thought I did a fantastic job. Sadly, the Wererock didn’t think so. I used the vibrator again, and as I had that morning all I did was work myself up into a desperate froth. Practice; I needed more practice. But I had to get dressed. Cynthia was coming soon. I just wish I was.
With my face made up I opened Cynthia’s closet. Something slutty, she had said. I didn’t want to do that. Did I? The idea sounded appealing or was I already in such a state, desperate to come, that anything sexual sounded desirable? Maybe if I was made up like a slut Cynthia would take pity on me and use the stone to let me come. To my muddled and horny mind that thought had merit.
Cynthia’s closet was huge. There was a standing mirror in the middle of the left hand wall that was filled with a row of pant suits, an even longer row of skirts and blouses and dresses. The back wall of the closet was filled with heels and flats and sneakers. Some of the heels were towers; I couldn’t imagine walking in them. One shiny red pair had a heel that had to be eight inches in length without a corresponding platform at the toe. They would force her to stand like a ballerina en pointe. They were sexy but the locks at the cuffs gave them a menacing feel. She had some boots that would go half-way up her thighs with a six-inch platform and a ten-inch heel. I had never imagined such a shoe collection.
The wall to my right was filled with the most revealing pieces of clothing I could imagine. This was the part of her wardrobe that her fantasy mistress made her wear. Her slut clothes. Her humiliating clothing. I began looking through the tiniest skirts and the most low cut tops imaginable. She wanted to show me off; wanted me to be her. No, I thought, correcting myself. She wanted to see what she looked like when she was out strutting her stuff, wearing next to nothing. She knew what it felt like. Now she’d get to see it.
I found a skirt and put in on. It fit, of course. This was Cynthia’s closet and I was Cynthia. The skirt didn’t cover my ass, leaving the lower third uncovered. Standing still the skirt covered my hairless pussy but nothing more. I tugged at the hem and saw the pink, needy flesh of my cunt. The skirt was obscene but was it revealing enough?
I tried on another skirt. It was a little loose at the waist but covered my ass fully. I turned from side to side and took a step backward. The skirt slipped and fell to my feet. I let out a little squeaking sound and rushed to pull the skirt back to my hips. What if that had happened out in public? Or Publix? That thought made me laugh.
I stood in front of the mirror and began pacing side to side. With every step the skirt flounced and felt just a bit looser. After about four steps the skirt fell again. I let out another involuntary squeal and hiked the skirt in place. This could be fun. I practiced walking in the skirt and as long as I tugged the hem every few steps the skirt stayed in place. Only if I ignored it did it finally hope over my hips to fall to the ground. I wanted to see Cynthia in this skirt.
With my skirt selected I began searching for a blouse. Something tight. Something revealing. I tried on a mesh shirt that left nothing to the imagination but that didn’t seem to go with the theme of the skirt. I needed something that could be easily removed. I looked at the slutty clothes, at skirts and dresses that were far too tight, at clothes made of lace that would hide nothing to skintight latex that would be just as revealing. Finally, I came across what I was certain I’d find.
The top was thin, almost threadbare. It was like a loincloth that covered my breasts, held together by one simple blue string that tied together at the back. Coming off the blue string was a piece of clear fishing line. I knew what that extra piece was for long before I tried on the top. The top tied around my neck and the same string wrapped though the cloth, under my boobs, to tie to itself to the same knot at my throat. Wearing it left my back bare, with the light blue fabric covering more like a dish towel than anything else. The clear part was long enough to reach my fingers.
With the fishing line in my hand I stood in front of the mirror. I gave the invisible line a tug, the knot at my throat became untied, and the whole blouse fell to my feet leaving my topless. I clutched at my breasts, imagining the humiliation I’d feel if I tugged that string in the middle of a crowd. Or, if I gave the line to Cynthia to pull when she wanted to. I took three steps, ignoring the skirt and found myself standing naked in the closet.
Perfect. I think. Could I really do this? Did I want to?
I put the skirt back on and tied the top in place. I looked slutty but at least I was dressed. The skirt was short and black and hung low on my hips but at least I was fully covered. The blouse covered my tits but left my back fully exposed except for those thin straps. I was fully dressed but with the color on my cheeks and the desperation in my eyes, I looked like a slut. I put on my black heels, completing the look.
I practiced walking with the skirt and tying the top while waiting for Cynthia to arrive. If she did what I thought she would I’d need to be able to redress quickly. I know she would approve of my outfit and I wanted her to be happy with me. I was worried about her reacting to me costing her her job and about the lawsuit I thought she should pursue. Maybe this outfit would help her forget exactly how I had damaged her life in such a short amount of time. In my mind, I did the right thing but she had been hesitant to quit so I wasn’t sure how she’d take the news. My chosen outfit did what? Try to assuage my guilt?
Lights appeared in the front window. Cynthia was home. I felt a wave of fear that briefly masked my horny need. I was worried about what I’d tell her; I was terrified that her reaction would be horrible. She had me in a desperate situation; what if she’s thrown the stone away? That thought left as soon as it arrived; I trusted her otherwise I wouldn’t be here now. I took a deep breath and waited for Cynthia to come in the door.
I heard her knock. That made me giggle; this was her house but she didn’t have a key, just as I didn’t have a key to my place. That struck me as funny or maybe the laugh was one of nervous fear. It was time to face the music. I crossed the room, tugging my skirt up as I went. I opened the door, feeling my whole-body tremble.
“What did you…” She sounded angry but then her voice went higher than I’d ever heard my voice go before, “Oh, God, I love your outfit,” Cynthia squealed, rushing in to give me a hug. “Did you wear that for me?”
I nodded, feeling submissive and small in her masculine arms. She let me go and looked at me. “You’ve been practicing your makeup. Aww, is my girl horny?”
I could only nod. Cynthia took my hand and escorted me to the couch. I sat, feeling like a student waiting for the principal. She had come in angry so she’d heard about what I’d accomplished at her office in what, fifteen minutes? I felt bad about it but justified as well. Maybe I would have done something different if I hadn’t already offered her another job. Or, maybe, I was just justifying my actions. Had I taken Cynthia’s feelings into account when I told off her supervisor or had I snapped hoping Cynthia would come rushing to me to save her? The guilt was evident on my face; I felt it as my head fell.
“Want to tell me what happened?”
I told her everything, from the condescending tone her boss too to me telling him I didn’t give a fuck. I told her about the guilt and about going to my office to tell her in person but deciding against it for reasons I thought made perfect sense. Again, I felt like I was justifying my actions more than anything else.
“Well,” Cynthia said, in my voice, wearing my clothes, and looking exactly like me, “It’s a good thing I have a new job. I own this software company downtown.” Was she taking my job? She was smiling; was she toying with me? “But I don’t want to be Adam all the time. I know, maybe Adam could hire me as the new CEO? Maybe he can go on a leave of absence? Or maybe I could buy his company from him outright, say for the price of using the Werestone one last time? I’m sure we can work something out. You know,” she gave me a look, “Oh, this can work out perfectly.”
“What?” Why did my voice sound more curious than scared? It felt like she was toying with me but there was this undercurrent of sincerity that left me feeling both queasy and excited. Or maybe that was my pussy tingling already. I felt mixed up and lost and excited and scare and anxious. I was a cornucopia of emotions, all of them fighting for top dog. I felt myself becoming something less than I was but more than I had ever been. I didn’t know who I was; I wasn’t me and I wasn’t Cynthia and the way she was talking left me feeling like I wanted her to pull me along on whatever journey she was planning.
“Nothing,” Cynthia smiled. Or I did. Or whatever. “It’s just an idea. But first, I think we need to go to dinner. You did dress up for me, after all.”
My voice, or rather Cynthia’s voice, sounded small, “Do you like it?”
“Baby, I love it. Show me what you can do.”