Tammy answered the door, practically vibrating with excitement. Of course, most of what he was feeling was fear, but he couldn't deny an element of sexual titillation. It made for a strange alchemy of turn-on more potent than anything he'd ever known.
"Hi Jackson," he said, shyly, looking down to the floor. "Welcome. Please come in."
He had been practicing this greeting in his best girly voice ever since his wife told him that it was time for him to meet Jackson. She was tired of being, as she put it, discreet. It was high time that Tammy accepted the fact that she was sleeping with another man, high time that she accepted the fact that she no longer considered Tammy a man. That no one would.
Jackson gave Tammy a long once-over. The feminized male was hardly what he was expecting. What he was expecting was something a lot closer to travesty. Basically, a dog-faced man in drag. What he saw instead was what—even upon a closer, second examination—looked to be an attractive woman in her mid to late thirties. Deena had certainly done an exemplary job with the little faggot. Tammy was wearing a pleated pink skirt, an off-the-shoulder puff-sleeved blouse, and a pair of wedged-heeled peep-toed sandals. Her lips were frosted a delicate pink—a cocksucker's mouth for sure—and her expressive eyes were lined with mascara. As he entered the house, he caught a whiff of Tammy's lightly applied floral perfume.
"Nice to meet you Tammy," Jackson grinned. He offered his hand. Tammy offered her own, limp, pale, trembling. Her fingernails painted pink.
Deena had told him that Tammy would be cool with the new arrangement, but wives weren't always the best interpreters of their husband's attitudes towards the men who were replacing them in the marital bed. He'd had experiences in the past and was ready, if need be, to get physical with Deena's old man. But it was clear that he wouldn't have to twist arms or any legs in this case. Tammy spun around gracefully and bid Jackson to follow her into the living room. She called back over her shoulder that Deena was still getting ready for their date and would be down shortly.
"Can I get you anything? Beer, wine, coffee…anything?"
Jackson watched the tiny skirt twitching from side to side as Tammy led the way with an exaggerate heel to toe walk. She wasn't wearing stockings and her long legs were smooth as alabaster. Damn, he felt a stirring in his crotch when he thought about running his hands up and down those legs. What was between those girly legs, however, was a bit problematic. Jackson was no faggot. But could you really call this flouncing, perfumed, blonde-ringleted creature a man?
* * *
Tammy sat on the couch across from Jackson. She had given him the beer he had asked for. Instinctively, it seemed, certainly symbolically, he had chosen the captain-style easy chair. That was the chair that Tammy herself used to commandeer back the old days when she was pretending to be "the man of the house."
What a joke that was!
She made small-talk with her wife's lover. He really was a good looking man. Large, well-built, and comfortable in his own skin. He was smart, commanding, dominant, but not at all belligerent or overbearing about it. He wouldn't have expected Deena to go for someone like that. She was a strong woman in her own right. She needed a man who was at least her equal. That Jackson was African-American didn't surprise Tammy either. She knew that Deena had a kind of fetish for black men. Tammy could see why Jackson had caught her interest. If she'd been a woman…well, even as it was, Tammy found herself attracted to Jackson!
It was ridiculous, insane, really, but if Tammy didn't know better, she would swear that she was flirting with her wife's lover. As it was she was shocked how easy it had been to make small-talk with the man sitting across from her. She had expected to be uncomfortable, stilted, artificial. But her nervousness and attraction to the man had unleashed an unexpected flood of silly patter that could only be a form of flirtation. She cocked her head, smiling at something Jackson was saying. She couldn't even say what it was, her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears. She felt flushed. She purposely let her blonde ringlets fall across her eyes, then pushed them away with the most feminine gesture of her graceful, painted fingers. Her thin, fey wrist, ringed with bangles, jingled prettily.
(to be continued)
"Hi Jackson," he said, shyly, looking down to the floor. "Welcome. Please come in."
He had been practicing this greeting in his best girly voice ever since his wife told him that it was time for him to meet Jackson. She was tired of being, as she put it, discreet. It was high time that Tammy accepted the fact that she was sleeping with another man, high time that she accepted the fact that she no longer considered Tammy a man. That no one would.
Jackson gave Tammy a long once-over. The feminized male was hardly what he was expecting. What he was expecting was something a lot closer to travesty. Basically, a dog-faced man in drag. What he saw instead was what—even upon a closer, second examination—looked to be an attractive woman in her mid to late thirties. Deena had certainly done an exemplary job with the little faggot. Tammy was wearing a pleated pink skirt, an off-the-shoulder puff-sleeved blouse, and a pair of wedged-heeled peep-toed sandals. Her lips were frosted a delicate pink—a cocksucker's mouth for sure—and her expressive eyes were lined with mascara. As he entered the house, he caught a whiff of Tammy's lightly applied floral perfume.
"Nice to meet you Tammy," Jackson grinned. He offered his hand. Tammy offered her own, limp, pale, trembling. Her fingernails painted pink.
Deena had told him that Tammy would be cool with the new arrangement, but wives weren't always the best interpreters of their husband's attitudes towards the men who were replacing them in the marital bed. He'd had experiences in the past and was ready, if need be, to get physical with Deena's old man. But it was clear that he wouldn't have to twist arms or any legs in this case. Tammy spun around gracefully and bid Jackson to follow her into the living room. She called back over her shoulder that Deena was still getting ready for their date and would be down shortly.
"Can I get you anything? Beer, wine, coffee…anything?"
Jackson watched the tiny skirt twitching from side to side as Tammy led the way with an exaggerate heel to toe walk. She wasn't wearing stockings and her long legs were smooth as alabaster. Damn, he felt a stirring in his crotch when he thought about running his hands up and down those legs. What was between those girly legs, however, was a bit problematic. Jackson was no faggot. But could you really call this flouncing, perfumed, blonde-ringleted creature a man?
* * *
Tammy sat on the couch across from Jackson. She had given him the beer he had asked for. Instinctively, it seemed, certainly symbolically, he had chosen the captain-style easy chair. That was the chair that Tammy herself used to commandeer back the old days when she was pretending to be "the man of the house."
What a joke that was!
She made small-talk with her wife's lover. He really was a good looking man. Large, well-built, and comfortable in his own skin. He was smart, commanding, dominant, but not at all belligerent or overbearing about it. He wouldn't have expected Deena to go for someone like that. She was a strong woman in her own right. She needed a man who was at least her equal. That Jackson was African-American didn't surprise Tammy either. She knew that Deena had a kind of fetish for black men. Tammy could see why Jackson had caught her interest. If she'd been a woman…well, even as it was, Tammy found herself attracted to Jackson!
It was ridiculous, insane, really, but if Tammy didn't know better, she would swear that she was flirting with her wife's lover. As it was she was shocked how easy it had been to make small-talk with the man sitting across from her. She had expected to be uncomfortable, stilted, artificial. But her nervousness and attraction to the man had unleashed an unexpected flood of silly patter that could only be a form of flirtation. She cocked her head, smiling at something Jackson was saying. She couldn't even say what it was, her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears. She felt flushed. She purposely let her blonde ringlets fall across her eyes, then pushed them away with the most feminine gesture of her graceful, painted fingers. Her thin, fey wrist, ringed with bangles, jingled prettily.
(to be continued)
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