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From: Max Mize <optimizer888@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} My Pleasures Were (To Say The Least) Undignified - Optimizer - M+F MF FF MFF Fdom Mdom tg tv exhib reluc
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Date: Thu, 19 Apr 2007 22:10:02 -0400
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<1st attachment, "mpwu.txt" begin>

The source material's been done to death, of course. A few have even
taken it in the direction this story goes. But none have been terribly
faithful to the original, and commercial considerations prevented them
from following things to their logical conclusion.

My Pleasures Were (To Say The Least) Undignified

by Optimizer

I've finished preparing the next set of doses and carefully stored them
away. I still should have at least another few hours. Just enough time
to finish composing this and hide it somewhere out-of-the-way. But where
to begin?

At the beginning, I suppose.

                                  ---

*"...that truth, by whose partial discovery I have been doomed to such a
dreadful shipwreck..."*

It was the end of the day, and I was examining some bedroom furniture
I'd recently obtained at an estate sale. I ran an antique dealership on
the outskirts of Boston that was, if I may say so, upscale and
well-respected among a more refined clientele. The bed, wardrobe,
bureau, and so forth had been indifferently cared for but I felt that
with some restoration work I could turn a good profit on them. Late
19th-century sets such as this one were a bit in fashion in certain
circles.

My first hint of something strange was when I started to remove the
drawers from the bureau. The final one, on the bottom left, refused to
come out completely. It appeared to be stuck on something inside the
frame. I bent low and examined it carefully; I certainly had no
intention of damaging it. To my surprise, I realized there was a hidden
catch preventing it from coming loose. I'd seen this before, in other
furniture of the period - I had stumbled upon a secret compartment.

Cautiously I disengaged the catch and removed the drawer from its slot.
There was indeed a hollow concealed beneath. I carefully extracted the
contents, puzzling a bit at their curious nature. Two small, thick,
stoppered bottles came out first. The larger vial contained a residue of
a very dark, reddish, viscous substance. The smaller one was almost
empty, holding just a few grains of some white crystal. Beneath them,
perhaps a dozen pages of handwritten notes, yellowed with age. Nothing
else.

I skimmed the pages quickly, my excitement mounting. At first I thought
it was a portion of Stevenson's 'Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr.
Hyde', and a handwritten copy could be worth a good deal. But slowly I
realized it was something different, and much stranger. It was old,
clearly. But it wasn't Stevenson's work... at least, not as published.

It was the confession of one 'Dougal Tawesson', and mostly it followed
'Jekyll's' from the story. Large chunks were identical. (A pure liberal
arts education isn't worth much outside of academia, but at least I knew
literature.) Key details were different, though. It took place in
Edinburgh, not London. Instead of murdering a prominent citizen, his
alternate form had killed a prostitute who'd refused him 'service'. But,
like in the original (Or was it original? I had begun to doubt...) there
had been a witness to the crime. And so on.

Whatever I'd found, I had an unaccountable hunch that it was important.
I looked to the stoppered bottles in the drawer. Perhaps it was a set of
props for one of the plays based on the story? It was old enough to be
an early production - still worth some money to the proper collector.

Or, far more valuable - might this be an early draft of the story? That
could be very lucrative, and buy some useful publicity besides. Then
there was the dim, scarcely-possible chance that I had found an earlier
work, something Stevenson had based his story upon. The papers could
easily be that old... and if that were the case, they would be nearly
priceless.

It's ridiculous now, looking back. Even my craziest, most half-baked
imaginings fell so far short of what I actually had in my hands. I
didn't even begin to suspect what I now know to be the truth until later
that night. I decided to leave the set for the morning. I bundled up my
finds, locked up the store, and drove home.

My house was a sizeable cottage in the older part of the city. Somewhat
expensive, but my business brought in a respectable income and I had no
one but myself to spend it on. I'd restored much of it to its original
condition, with a few discreet updates. The electrical system had needed
the most modernization, I remembered as I sat in front of my computer,
skimming sites and Googling details.

The first thing I did was find a copy of the original story online and
compare it with my find. As I'd thought, it was mostly identical. Only
the names and a few circumstances and details were different. Next I
began to research those circumstances.

There really *had* been a Tawesson, and he'd been killed by one of his
servants, who had then killed himself. He'd been a learned doctor, at
least later in life, and while the fit was not exact there were other
parallels between him and the fictional Jekyll. A record of churchgoing
and charitable pursuits. There'd been hints of blackmail between him and
the 'newly hired' servant, Henry Cuilidh. Tawesson's body was never
found.

And like Jekyll, he'd apparently craved the respect of 'higher society',
though he'd had somewhat less success in garnering it. His past was a
trifle too disreputable - an excess of drinking and brawling when he was
young, heroic service in the Anglo-Zulu War but stories of brutality had
dogged him afterwards. (Considering the times, that implied a truly
shocking level of ruthlessness.) A gentleman, true, but... not a
*gentleman's* gentleman.

I knew some of the history of the furniture, and it had indeed come from
Britain. The elderly lady it had belonged to was definitely of Scottish
descent. I could find no solid link to either Stevenson or Tawesson, but
such a connection could not be ruled out.

More interesting. There were hints - just hints, but still - that
Tawesson had been abused as a child. And that was a primary risk factor
for developing multiple personalities, I'd read. And a quick search
found that 'cuilidh' was Scots Gaelic for a 'cellar' or 'secret
place'...

I looked again at the bottles from the drawer. I wasn't ready to admit,
even to myself, what I was starting to suspect. But I was filled with an
unjustified agitation nonetheless, anxiety mixed with a hint of almost
formless hope.

                                  ---

*"...I stood already committed to a profound duplicity of life..."*

I acted on my tension in the way I often did at night, alone, with the
shades drawn. I shut down the computer and walked up the stairs to the
spare bedroom, locking the door behind me. And then I unlocked the
lovely Victorian wardrobe therein and regarded the contents as I began
to undress. In moments I was naked, semi-erect, and my former clothes
were banished from sight in an empty drawer, closed swiftly with a
familiar motion.

I moved differently now, a sway in my hips, my weight shifted to my
toes. A wig - light brown hair, with a gentle wave - settled onto my
head and became my own. Sheer black panties slid up my legs and
concealed my burgeoning erection. Enough to ignore, at least. I stole a
glance at the imposing, full-length mirror on a stand in the corner of
the bedroom.

A garter belt next. Black with red piping, *so* sexy. Then sleek,
genuine silk stockings. You couldn't even see the hair now. Sometimes I
shaved, but I was frightened of being discovered with shaved legs
somehow... no, not important, not now. I turned, admiring the dark line
running up the back of each stocking. No wonder girls in WWII had
painted those lines on when silk ran short. They just *accentuated* the
legs so well, and drew the eye along the curves, up to where they should
be looking.

A corset next, so tight... my waist had that girlish slimness I so
loved. The forms tucked invisibly into the cups of my favorite
brassiere, and with practiced ease I slipped it on and hooked the
straps.

The dress followed swiftly. An evening dress, skirt to the knee, no
cleavage showing but still emphasizing my bosom. Light lace trim, frilly
and playful. High-heeled, strappy shoes.

A bit of makeup, expertly applied. A touch of blush, shadow. Mascara?
Tonight, yes. And now red lips puckered at me in the mirror, blowing a
kiss. Delicious lips. I could see them pressed against a hairy cheek,
nuzzling a neck with an Adam's apple... wrapped around a stiff cock. Oh,
yes, they were *perfect* for *that*.

The opening rites of the ritual were complete. There she was in the
mirror: Sherry Dulce. Sweet, sassy, strong, intoxicating. The shoes gave
me such a walk as I sashayed across the room, poised yet seductive.

No one, not my small remaining family, not my handful of friends,
certainly none of my customers, knew about Sherry. Only once had she
gone out in public. A buying trip to a less staid city, where I could
not possibly be recognized. I had dressed in my hotel room and dithered
for almost half an hour before sneaking out the back stairs and hailing
a cab to a bar I'd read of.

I entered with trepidation inside, but Sherry would never feel that way
and outwardly I was collected and confident. I could see others like me
scattered about. Some were better-disguised than others, a few I
couldn't even be sure about. It was clearly the right place.

I had a few drinks at the bar, and a man even asked me to dance. I did
well, I think, despite only having practiced in the mirror. Sherry would
have enjoyed it, but I still felt awkward inside, an imposter. I gave no
sign; he even asked me if I wanted to go home with him.

In reality, things had gone no further. I had chickened out, unable to
live up to Sherry's ideal. I wasn't gay, in all truth. Dressed up, in my
bedroom, I'd have all kinds of wild notions. But in my daily life, I'd
never been attracted to a man. I'd eye the ladies, enjoy their charms,
and examine their clothes for ideas. Not once had I pictured myself with
any of my customers. That night I'd made my excuses and gone back to my
lonely hotel room.

But now, in my spare bedroom, in *Sherry's* room - in my own world - I
did go home with him. He was much more handsome, a gentleman. He had led
me into the bedroom and kissed me gently. I could almost feel his hands
gliding over my body, appreciating the ladylike curves he found. He
pulled me close, and held me tight.

My breath increased its pace as my phantom lover handled me with
escalating roughness, squeezing me, playing with my breasts, sneaking a
hand between my thighs. (Somewhere else, my hand stroked my penis
through the dress, but that was irrelevant compared to my imaginary
loveplay.)

I let him draw me toward the bed. (On that other level, a vibrator
emerged from the wardrobe, and was quickly lubricated...) He threw me
down on top of the bedspread and held me down, proud kisses muffling my
moans of pleasure. I helped him hike up my skirt and push my panties out
of the way. I was so wet, he slid in so easily.

Oh, I was such a naughty girl!

I groaned and came when he did, shivering within my passage. It was
heavenly, fulfilling, wonderful. I basked for a period in the afterglow,
whispering endearments to the man who had possessed me.

Now that I had come, the glamour receded in increments. My stomach was
wet and sticky, my anus dripping and aching slightly. Guilt grew to
replace the dreamy satisfaction of before.

I had never found a woman I could share this with, that I could even
dream of taking such a risk on. The scandal, if it got out... I'd be
ruined. People expect a certain dignity in an antiques dealer. And so,
here I was, a lonely middle-aged man playing dress-up at night. My face
burning with shame, I cleaned everything thoroughly, put the clothes in
the wash and the toys away, and went to take a shower before bed.

                                  ---

*"...a side-light began to shine upon the subject from the laboratory
table."*

Sal Travis was a friend of mine, one of a few. A chemist at a testing
firm. As I said, I only have a liberal arts education so when he tried
to explain his work, it mostly went over my head. But he enjoyed
antiques, too, which was how we'd met. He'd helped me out a few times,
checking the age of some items of questionable provenance.

We would meet once in a while somewhere and have dinner. It had been a
few months since the last time - he'd gotten over his divorce and
started dating again. But he was happy to hear from me and readily
agreed to get together.

We met at our most frequent haunt, Fleming's, a tasteful midtown
restaurant that served fine steak with excellent Cabernet Sauvignon. As
we were wrapping up the meal I finally broached the subject I'd been
patiently avoiding.

"Anyway, I found these bottles locked away in a bureau. I was hoping you
could take a little time and tell me what's in them. Or, at least, what
*was* in them. I don't think they've been touched in a century or more."

Sal looked them over doubtfully. "Huh... not much left. And this red
stuff here is definitely organic. If they're that old, they'll have
decayed badly by now. Why do you care, anyway?"

"Honestly, at the moment I'd rather not say."

He peered at me, somewhat confused. "Seriously?" he half-smiled.

"I'm afraid so. If I told you what I think it might be, you'd... I don't
know. Laugh at me for sure."

"Now you've got me curious."

"Well, apply that curiosity to what's in those bottles. I really want to
know what's in them."

"I guess I could run them through the chromatograph and such at work,
that'd tell me something."

                                  ---

*"...scientific discoveries had begun to suggest the most naked
possibility of such a miracle..."*

A week later (a week that felt very long to me) we were again having a
final glass of wine over the remains of an excellent meal. Sal, sensing
my burning curiosity, had nevertheless put off his report on his
findings until then.

"Okay, the red mixture is weird. Lots of different things, some are
impurities, leftovers from the chemistry back then. They just couldn't
make stuff as pure as we can now. It's also broken down pretty far, but
not so completely that I couldn't figure it out. Basically a bunch of
simple organics. There's a small amount of a plant-based MAOI, but
there's more Melanopsin and Melatonin - those come from the pineal
glands of birds. So far as I can tell, that's where most of the
impurities come from. Whoever whipped this up seems to have chopped up a
bunch of bird brains and filtered out the fluid."

"So... what does all that mean?"

"Wait, it gets better. Most of the solvent evaporated by now, but all
these substances were once dissolved in DMSO, Dimethyl sulfoxide. An
organic solvent." He smiled again. "DMSO glides through most body
tissues like they aren't even there. You get a little on your fingers
and suddenly you can taste the stuff. It's that fast. It can carry other
chemicals along, too."

"Forgive me, I'm just a BFA." He grinned. Like most technical types he
had a bit of a superiority complex over those who didn't pursue the
'harder' subjects. It didn't make him a bad guy but he did enjoy ribbing
me. The good news was I could exploit it to keep him talking.

He paused. "DMSO was expensive then - there's a reason it's there... but
I'm getting off-track. Overall though, the stuff is pretty benign. The
most you might get out of drinking it would be an upset stomach."

I paused, wondering, and embarrassed to be a little disappointed. "And
the white powder?"

"There wasn't much left, but I was able to get a good reading. It's more
complicated, but it's basically a hydrochloride, a salt, of a
medium-size organic molecule."

Now his smile was very wide. "I'm dying to know who the heck brewed this
up. If you mixed them, you'd get a quick reaction that would combine the
precursors to produce a variant of Dimethyltryptamine - DMT. He must
have been trying for a powerful, fast-acting hallucinogen, at least with
the MAOI - Monoamine oxidase inhibitor - that's in there. It's been used
for centuries in tribal rituals and the like."

Now I worried that the 'change' had been all in Tawesson's head. "Well,
I *can* tell you the guy I have in mind had done some travelling in
Africa."

"Must be where he got the idea. A little goes a long way. I nicknamed it
Shaman's Hangover. Partly because it shouldn't have worked."

"What?" My confusion was unfeigned.

"I said he was 'trying for' a hallucinogen. But it'd be the wrong form.
Most organic molecules have multiple forms, diastereomers or etaniomers,
mirror images or partial mirrors..." He finally noticed my blank
expression. "Anyway, the form produced would be biologically inactive.
Except for a contaminant in the salt."

My mind flashed back to what I'd read. *"I am now persuaded that my
first supply was impure, and that it was that unknown impurity which
lent efficacy to the draught."* Trying to be casual, I asked, "What
'contaminant'?"

"The salt itself has a few etaniomers. Looks like he got lazy separating
them out. Or maybe he just couldn't tell the difference, a lot of this
wasn't understood well back then. In any case, it was a lucky break. The
mixture of both produces an active variant of DMT. This might be the
first designer drug; you've found a Timothy Leary for the 1800s."

His eyes got a faraway look. "Mixed with the MAOI... they would've gone
on a *hell* of a trip. Not sure what the Melatonin and such would add.
Descartes thought the pineal gland was the 'seat of the soul' but now we
know that it regulates bodily rhythms and such... Anyway, with the DMSO
carrying the Hangover, the effect would be practically instantaneous -
faster than crack. It'd rocket across the blood-brain barrier. I'm not
sure, but I think it'd also metabolize faster. It might be like the
whole trip was compressed into a few seconds. But pharmacology isn't
really my field, I'm guessing at a lot of this."

The moment of truth. "Could you whip up a fresh batch?"

He stared blankly for a moment. "That is just about the last thing I
expected *you* to ask." A long pause. "Why should I?"

"I... I'm not in a position to say yet. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have
asked."

Sal looked thoughtful. "As they say, 'Friends help you move. Real
friends help you move bodies.'" He considered a moment more, then shook
his head. "Sorry, Carl, you're not quite that good a friend."

"Look, I never should have..." I began.

"Wait, let me finish. I can't make this for you. I won't be legally
responsible for you killing yourself or ending up in a padded room." A
smile broke the thoughtful expression. "But hey, I don't care how people
get their jollies. It's not that hard to make - the raw ingredients are
legal and fairly easy to come by, and you don't need much equipment. A
stove, a professional timer and thermometer, a couple of graduated
beakers and a few other instruments..."

"I think I see," I said with a smile of my own.

"I can always say 'I just told him how the guy would've made it.' I
thought I was only helping your research..."

                                  ---

*"But the temptation of a discovery so singular and profound, at last
overcame the suggestions of alarm."*

Much later that night I sat at my desk, my elbow propped on the edge,
chin resting on my hand. Sal's handwritten notes lay next to Tawesson's
papers. The website of a chemical supply firm was displayed on my
computer.

So. Did I really believe it could work? Or was I just a lonely pervert
driven half-crazy by desperation, willing to risk poisoning myself? But
still... I reread a few lines from the 'confession': *"...I began to
perceive more deeply than it has ever yet been stated, the trembling
immateriality, the mist-like transience of this seemingly so solid body
in which we walk attired..."*

That sounded a lot like the modern new-age 'Quantum Consciousness' stuff
you heard nowadays, just expressed in 19th-century terms. Sal was
ruthlessly derisive about such 'cranks'. He said they were badly
misinterpreting Quantum Mechanics.

But now, I couldn't help but wonder. What if he was wrong? What if they
were onto something? And then, a bit further: *"I not only recognised my
natural body for the mere aura and effulgence of certain of the powers
that made up my spirit, but managed to compound a drug by which these
powers should be dethroned from their supremacy, and a second form and
countenance substituted, none the less natural to me..."*

If the 'Quantum Consciousness' types were right, then a drug that mucked
with the self-image, that allowed buried aspects of the personality to
become dominant in the right way...

On the other hand, I didn't want to be a murderous sociopath. I wanted
to be... I wanted to be Sherry. My eyes alighted on another passage I'd
read and reread before. The one that had made me take the bottles to
Sal: *"Had I approached my discovery in a more noble spirit, had I
risked the experiment while under the empire of generous or pious
aspirations, all must have been otherwise... The drug had no
discriminating action; it was neither diabolical nor divine; it but
shook the doors of the prison-house of my disposition; and like the
captives of Philippi, that which stood within ran forth..."*

Yes, I was going to try it.

                                  ---

*"...endowed besides with excellent parts..."*

Preparations took two and a half weeks. The supplies came quickly enough
but several days were wasted as I learned how to do organic chemistry by
trial and error - mostly error. Sal's directions included warnings and
tests at the critical steps but I hadn't done anything like this since
high school. I closed the store early every night, rushing home to play
mad scientist into the wee hours.

Eventually, though, one Tuesday night I had proper amounts of the
reddish potion and the salt, and they had the right density and such.
Even then I hesitated; but I'd come this far.

I went upstairs with the components and dressed myself, taking my time,
making everything perfect. First a bath, and this time I shaved
everything, even shaping my pubic hair. Pink toenails and fingernails; I
never did that on a weeknight, it was too much trouble to clean them,
but tonight... The lacy stockings felt wonderful on my smooth legs. High
heels, my very favorite dress, flowing hair. Complete makeup - my lashes
were *that* long! Jewelry too - a lovely broach, rings. The sole
compromise was the clip-on nature of my earrings. Shaved skin I could
cover, pierced ears I could not. But when I was done I was just
scrumptious.

I was hard and throbbing as I admired myself in the mirror, but I tried
to imagine it as an empty ache, lower down... a tiny sharp clit, soft
lips... breast with hard, sensitive nipples...

I poured the crystals into the potion. It bubbled furiously for several
moments, then settled down, turning purple. Seconds passed and that gave
way to a light green. On the edge of orgasm, I downed the mixture in one
swift chug, like a sorority girl doing shots at a party.

It tasted horrible but that barely had time to register before I went
into agonizing spasms. Every bone in my body felt like it was being
*twisted* and a wave of weakness and nausea washed over me. But, even
stronger than the physical symptoms, there was a sense of profound
horror, of both oblivion and awakening.

It passed as quickly as it had come, and I felt myself swiftly
recovering. But I still was pained and uncomfortable; my chest was being
crushed. I yanked down the top of my dress and tore off my brassiere and
the forms that had been squeezing my breasts. The wig fell to the floor,
freeing the hair that now spilled to the small of my back. Only then did
I finally regard myself once more in the mirror.

Looked at objectively, the girl in the mirror should have been
laughable. The dress and stockings and even the shoes were too big for
her. The top of the baggy dress was bunched under her breasts and a bra
dangled from her hand.

No one could have looked at her objectively, however. Dainty feet with
mischievous toes. Long shapely legs surmounted by the curviest, sexiest
hips. A tiny wasp waist, flat tummy... firm, high, ample, absolutely
symmetrical breasts with perky nipples that cried out to be touched,
licked, suckled. Sleek, smooth, feminine arms tipped with hands of
obvious, supple dexterity. Long, flowing, light-brown hair that framed a
fine-boned, ideally-proportioned face, with wide but sultry eyes; full,
luscious lips slightly parted as she stood panting, an enticing hint of
the white teeth and nimble tongue visible within.

And the way she *moved*... animal, wanton, a blatant invitation. All she
had done so far was shift her weight, lower her arms, cock her head
slightly. It was still more erotic than any porn I'd ever watched.

There was nothing about her that was remotely masculine. She was
fantastic. A beauty that demanded ravishing. She was a *sexpot*.

I laughed out loud in recognition. Here was the Sherry that Carl had
always imagined, the Sherry he'd so crudely imitated all these years.
His little dress-up games had produced an image no more true than a
scarecrow was to a real person. It didn't feel like a discovery so much
as a recollection; everything was new but somehow familiar, like deja
vu.

My age was... indeterminate. I could have been a teenager, but I was no
older than the late twenties. That was at least twenty years younger
than Carl, and I felt every second of that. My skin was smooth and
unlined, my muscles toned, my joints limber. I was full of the kind of
vitality you only notice after it goes away with age.

And again, the mental and emotional changes were greater still. I was
hornier than I'd ever been, on fire body and soul. The most wicked and
depraved notions filled my mind; images and sounds and smells welled up
constantly in my imagination. And shame and guilt - conscience itself -
had vanished. That little voice of judgement everyone hears inside had
been completely silenced. I felt pure, unalloyed. Distilled to an
essence like a fine sherry.

I wasted no time tearing off the silly clothes. Even the corset was too
big for me now! In a twinkling I was naked, devouring my new form with
my eyes and hands. The novel erotic sensitivity of my nipples dragged a
moan from my throat as my fingertips brushed and tweaked them. Then I
was turning my back to the mirror, leaning forward, spreading my legs
and craning my neck to see. My ass was incredible, round and padded yet
still defined, with the cutest little rosebud hole. Seemingly of their
own will, one hand remained to glide over my breasts as the other slid
down my belly to my exposed pussy.

My pussy... it was beautiful, drawing hand and eyes with equal power.
Sweet dewy pink folds that my fingers greedily explored. My thumb
brushed my clit, diamond-hard amid all that moist softness, and I came
instantly, dropping to my knees, my fingers curving into my vagina,
screaming out my joy for what must have been minutes. A female orgasm is
an amazing thing. Everything gets involved, even the uterus contracts.

Eventually I let the pleasure subside and stood up, a bit shakily. I
struck a few poses in the mirror, enjoying my delectable form. But that
was a momentary amusement. With a confidence, an arrogance almost
unimaginable to most people (except perhaps sociopaths) I *knew* that I
was the most gorgeous creature in the world. I enjoyed it but had no
need to confirm it to myself. Not a trace of self-doubt remained.

So I marched determinedly over to the wardrobe and prized the vibrator
from its hiding place. Then I jumped onto the bed with a giggle and
squirmed myself into a comfortable position on my back.

My senses appeared to be much sharper now; I didn't just hear the buzz
of the toy as I switched it on, I didn't just feel it in my hand. When
I'd been a little boy (a memory that seemed completely alien to me now),
at the end of every haircut the barber would take an electric razor to
the back of my neck. It never failed to raise my hackles, my whole spine
stiffened and my skin tingled where the shaver was about to land.

Now my entire body had a similar sensation... but with a critical
difference. It was lustful anticipation, it was feverish tension. Every
bit of my skin could sense it, was tingling with how it shivered in my
hand. I brought it down to my cunt, my juices almost spilling from
between the lips. I stroked it back and forth along the slit, each
square inch of my vulva more sensitive than the whole of my unlamented
cock had ever been.

I found my entrance and gradually pushed it in. The buzz wasn't just on
my skin, it was inside me now, my whole body was trembling. The walls of
my pussy were stretching, melting, dissolving. I clamped down with
muscles I'd never possessed before, trying to pull it further within. It
was wonderful, it was ecstasy. (There was a sensation that I didn't
register as pain then, but I later realized was me pushing through my
own hymen.) I began to move the toy out and in, over and over, more and
more powerfully. My other hand started rubbing my clit and I was
screaming, my back arching, my breasts jiggling on my chest.

Over the next hour or so I brought myself to orgasm repeatedly. But I
knew I needed more, much more. I rolled off the bed and began to search
through the clothes for something that would fit well enough.

                                  ---

*"The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise..."*

I bolted from the house before the taxi I'd called had finished parking
in the driveway. I was impatient to get going, but what if I were pulled
over? Sherry had no license, no ID of any kind.

I went straight to the front passenger seat and hopped in with a
flounce. I was wearing the best-fitting dress I could find (cinched
closely at the waist) and a pair of strappy high-heeled shoes similarly
pulled tight... and nothing else. I didn't need lacy underwear or
jewelry to feel like a woman now! The only purse I had didn't go with
the dress but I needed to carry some money.

The driver was stunned. According to Tawesson, people had reacted to
Cuilidh with a unique, visceral disgust, sensing the purity of his evil.
I've since witnessed Sherry evoking an equally strong reaction, too, but
of a different nature. She is literally an incarnation of Lust, and all
are fascinated and attracted to her often despite themselves.

I enjoyed his stupor for a moment. He was a middle-aged, vaguely Eastern
European man. Not particularly good-looking, rather unkempt. He needed a
shower. None of that mattered, I was delighted with his stubble, his
paunch, his odor. I licked my lips and gave him a slow smile. "Aren't
you supposed to ask me 'Where to'?" I asked with wide eyes.

He jerked, and stammered. "Wh... wh... where..." I knew I was going to
have *such* fun with him. I couldn't wait anymore to get started.

"Tell you what. You just head downtown... while *I* go to town." He
pulled out into the street and started heading toward the main road.

He kept stealing glances at me, mostly at my breasts with their rampant
nipples. I loved the attention and the way he was squirming in his seat.
I leaned in close and reached for his crotch, knowing exactly what was
making him uncomfortable. I grasped his stiff cock through his pants and
he groaned.

"Here, let me help," I said smirkingly as I started to undo his belt. He
didn't fight at all, he just kept driving. Driving slowly, I noticed.
Soon I had his pants undone, and he hunched his ass into the air,
letting me slide them down. He had a raging hard-on. I squealed like a
little girl who'd just opened her favoritest present, it felt incredible
in my hands. Without the slightest hesitation I leaned down and began
sucking happily.

"Bozhe Moi!" he exclaimed, panting and groaning. For my part I was
transported; cocksucking was an utter sensual delight. I slowed down as
it twitched a little in my mouth; I couldn't have him coming too
quickly, I was having too much fun. With a skill that I still don't know
the source of, I held him straining at the brink of orgasm for more than
ten minutes.

Finally even I couldn't stop him anymore. He exploded, delicious cum
surging into my mouth for many seconds. I'd been having my own low-grade
orgasm for a while and it peaked with his. My hips shivered and bucked,
and my muffled moans blended in with the sounds of horns honking behind
the taxi.

I sat up, wiping my mouth and sighing with temporary release. I looked
around and realized we were on the edge of downtown. The driver had
started moving again, passing under the light that had long since turned
green. Still breathing heavily, he was babbling some kind of thank-you
but I interrupted him with, "You can just let me off here."

He pulled to the side of the street and I hopped out, blowing him a
kiss. I laughed as he hurriedly tried to yank up his pants, and strolled
off into the city to seek my fortune.

                                  ---

*"...an unknown but not an innocent freedom of the soul."*

As I walked down the street, everything seemed alive and excited and
there just for me and my own amusement. I drew stares from men and women
alike and relished the attention. There were frequent whistles and
catcalls that I gaily acknowledged as my due. A few times I literally
stopped traffic. For my part, I surveyed everyone with a
sexually-charged appraisal, continually visualizing myself engaging in
manifold perversions with *him*, or *him* over there, or *her*, or
*them*...

It wasn't long before I came across a simple, unassuming sports bar
tucked in a side street. Clearly a gathering place for students, and
young and athletic was just what I had in mind.

In the movies, there's a cliche: A beautiful woman walks into a bar, and
there's a sudden lull in the conversation. I doubt that happens much in
real life, but it did then. As I stepped in the door and looked around,
the noise level faded swiftly. I was the focus of dozens of stares.

I strutted to the bar and asked the bartender for a girlish cocktail. I
probably should have been carded but I had such a *presence* I doubt it
even occurred to him. Conversation had resumed by then and I glanced
about, evaluating the patrons like a butcher examines a bull to be
slaughtered. It was that callous; I had needs and they would be
satisfied, regardless of anyone else's feelings in the matter.

I was not surprised that a strapping young man was already zeroing in on
me. "Let me get that for you," he declared, paying the bartender. I
looked him over hungrily; tall, well-muscled, short dark hair. Yummy.

"My hero," I purred, leaning close. "I'm Sherry. Who do I owe the
pleasure?"

"Mike. Mike Pryzowski," he said. He was putting up a brave front but I
could tell he was trying to figure out if I could possibly be for real.
"I'm sure I haven't seen you here before," he essayed.

"I'm new in town," I smiled. "So, what does a girl do around here for
fun?"

"Well, come with me and find out." He led me over to where he and his
friends were having a few beers and playing pool. He was obviously the
alpha male of this little pack of five, but I was attracted to all of
them in their own ways. Even the shy chubby one. Their accuracy dropped
precipitously when I joined the game.

Their eyes were all over me - every eye in the bar, really - and I
willingly gave them plenty to see. I bent low over the table as I made
shots; my tits were almost spilling out of my dress as it was, and the
skirt rode up high in the back. The way I stroked my pool cue was
clearly distracting them terribly. Mike's hands were almost trembling as
I had him hold the bridge for me on a difficult shot. As I leaned down,
one leg idly rubbing against his, I looked back over my shoulder and
caught him regarding my rear with awe. He sheepishly averted his eyes
but my chuckle made him look back.

I favored him with a slow wink and a knowing smile as I cocked my hips,
inviting a more thorough appreciation. I could feel his eager gaze
sweeping over my body as I turned back and took my shot. As I came up to
watch the balls rattle about I leaned back into Mike, enjoying his
smell, the feel of his chest against my back. His fingers brushed my
ass, testing the waters, and I smiled and pushed it back into his hand.

I wasn't particularly good at pool but that wasn't the game I was
playing. Mike and his friends were the game, and I was winning. It was
wonderful being the center of all that male attention. They were falling
over themselves to be helpful and I could not pay for anything.

Mike and I sat the next round out, me perched on his lap, driving him
half-insane. His arm supported me around my waist and that was driving
*me* crazy. Flirting and seducing was almost as much fun as screwing.
Almost, but I was no longer interested in half measures. I nodded at the
table and nuzzled his ear, saying, "Those aren't exactly the balls I
want to be racking, you know."

"Let's head to my place," he proposed, almost drooling. He ran his nails
along my bare leg and I shivered.

"No. I can't wait," I declared, my voice husky. I hopped off his lap and
pulled him to his feet. "Come on, let's go."

He followed me like a pet on a leash into the men's room. He was about
as dazed as any guy would be if he'd stumbled into the world of the
Penthouse letters column. But once we were in a stall with the door
closed he wasted no time pinning me against the back wall and mauling me
with hands and mouth.

I moaned with voracious passion, helping him hike up my dress. He got a
hand on my pussy and I nearly passed out, it felt so good. I pumped my
hips and he finger-fucked me while he fumbled with his belt. Finally I
broke free and jerked the dress over my head, throwing it to the ground,
heedless of the messy floor. I knelt and tugged at his belt. In moments
I had his pants down. Since it was right there, I took the chance to
lick and stroke his generous cock for a moment.

He groaned, and his hips bucked a little, but I wanted something new. I
jumped up and locked my lips with his. He roughly picked me up and
slammed me into the wall again. A few seconds of confused coordination
and I was slipping onto his dick. It was bliss: complete, hedonistic,
animalistic satisfaction.

My legs were wrapped around his waist as he pumped into me. It sent
shooting bolts of pleasure everywhere each time his dick pistoned up
into my channel. He was warm on my front, the tile was cold on my back.
My hands roamed over his meaty shoulders, his back, his butt. His mouth
mashed with mine, and traced wet kisses over my neck and shoulders. I
let out repeated, uninhibited screams and moans.

It was practically a continuous orgasm for me, and even Mike, who struck
me as the silent type, let out an occasional throaty groan. Soon enough
he gave voice to something like a roar and came violently, his cum
joining my own juices, making a delightfully slippery mess and sending
me to new heights of pleasure.

I came down slowly. Mike made a few more powerful thrusts and then
seemed to deflate. That was the first time I encountered that difference
between males and females. I felt alive, energized, ready for more - but
he was obviously exhausted. He set me down and worked to catch his
breath. I was panting, too, but with excitement.

I bent over to pick up my dress. Mike was pulling up his pants as I,
still naked, opened up the stall to find my discarded purse. I must have
been a sight: bare, my boobs jiggling on my heaving chest, jism leaking
down my leg. It sure pole-axed the guy coming into the bathroom.

It was the plump one, Rich or Rick or something. He stood there gaping
at us... or more accurately, at me. Mike's annoyed glare caused him to
mumble something like, "I really have to go..."

"So go," Mike spat, and turned back to me. Chubby made his way to a
urinal and shortly I heard his piss splashing away. It was distracting;
the sound kept reminding me there was an exposed dick nearby.

Mike had collected himself somewhat and was staring as much as Chubby
had. "Wow," he exhaled. "That was awesome. You are the hottest piece
of... of anything I've ever seen." Shakespeare he wasn't, but in my
sexually-charged mood it was music to my ears. I gave him a kiss, my
nipples rubbing against his shirt.

Chubby was sneakily ogling me; he'd partly turned to get a better view
as he was tucking himself away, so I got a peek in the mirror at what
was between his hands.

"Oooh, it's not circumcised!" I cried with undisguised delight, whirling
around. "Let me see, let me see!" I demanded, reaching for his pants. He
was too shocked to stop me and in a flash I had his jeans and underwear
pulled down.

Just as I'd thought, it was uncut. The flesh over the tip was so cute,
just begging to be pulled back to reveal what lay within. So I did, of
course. There was a heavenly smell, which I've since found to be unique
to the uncircumcised. Both sets of my lips moistened immediately.

The subject of my examination, already semi-erect, commenced rising to
its full extent. I giggled and gave it a kiss. It tasted as good as it
smelled. Chubby was dumbfounded, and looked up at Mike. Then his eyes
closed involuntarily as I took him into my mouth. The feel as it
stiffened against my tongue was mesmerizing.

Mike might have said something at that point, but if I so I didn't care.
He was no longer relevant. His cock wasn't hard, and the one I had now
was.

Blowing Chubby was different, the foreskin glided with my movements and
made for a new and delightful experience. I held it retracted with my
hand as I drew back and flicked my tongue at his head. The tip was
different, too; the skin was softer, more like a giant clit. He wriggled
as I snuck the end my tongue into the hole.

Then I wrapped my lips around him again and slid him deeper than before,
to the back of my throat. Wine tasters have a term, "mouthfeel". Every
dick has its own, just like every wine. I knew I was going to be a cock
connoisseur. Or at least a gourmand.

Chubby never made a sound as he came, except perhaps a breathy hiss. I
wasn't really paying attention, I was evaluating the flavor of his cum;
again every man has his own unique vintage. Some are tastier than others
but none of them are bad.

I happily sat back on my haunches and became aware that I now had an
audience. The rest of Mike's crew had come back; I suppose they were
wondering what had happened to us. So now I had three new guys looking
at me with open mouths.

"Well," I asked, a smug expression on my face, "who's next?"

Precedence was settled quickly, then position, and after a remarkably
brief interval I had a fresh prick in my mouth while another labored in
my pussy. My legs were locked straight up and my hips cocked back while
the guy I was sucking off helped support my upper body. More delight, I
was shivering at the flood of sensation, surfing on waves of flesh,
riding a storm surge.

I strung the blowjob along but the guy fucking me didn't have a lot of
stamina. He shot his wad after only a couple minutes. Of course, I
reflected that I really couldn't blame him. I *was* the sexiest girl in
the world, after all. And I knew there was a reservist waiting in the
wings.

The next guy started pushing his dick into my asshole. I broke off my
blowjob and turned to glower at him. "You carrying some lube, boy?" I
demanded harshly. He haltingly admitted he wasn't. "Then go get some or
aim lower," I admonished, and returned to the cock before me. There was
a brief pause and then I felt his prick sliding into my folds.

I wasn't the least bit reluctant to get cornholed in principle. Indeed,
I was idly wishing that I had remembered to pack some lubricant in my
purse. But *my* pleasure was paramount. A little pain was fine; it could
even be hot. Raw, sore, potentially bleeding tissues were not.

Fortunately this was only a momentary distraction. He seemed to be
enjoying himself in my cunt, and the dick in my mouth tasted as divine
as the others had. By the time those two were done, Mike was ready for
another round, but our time was rudely cut short by the killjoy
bartender breaking up the party. I toyed with the notion of seducing him
- I was utterly confident I could do it - but I decided a more
comfortable venue wasn't a bad idea anyway.

I stopped conversation on the way out of the bar just as thoroughly as
I'd quelled it on the way in. Mike and his crew came with me, of course,
and we repaired to a nearby hotel for a few hours of play.

The boys were worn out and asleep as I slipped out of our room at about
four in the morning. The desk clerk summoned a taxi and I enjoyed a
short wait in the night air. The spring breeze on my skin felt like a
caress and I glowed with satisfaction. It had been a very good birthday
celebration, I thought.

Again, the taxi driver was male, and therefore my ride home was free -
or at least, paid for in trade. About the only difference from the
earlier ride was that he was Arabic and cried out "Allahu Akbar!" at the
critical moment.

I was a touch sleepy as I made my way up to my room. I undressed again,
and admired myself one more time in the mirror. There was semen by my
mouth, my pussy, my breasts, but I rather liked it. It seemed only
right, like warpaint for a conqueror. I regarded the bed for a moment
and then came to a realization. Why should *I* waste time sleeping? I
could make Carl do that stuff. It took no time for me to mix up a dose
and drink it.

                                  ---

*"...plunged into a kind of wonder at my vicarious depravity...*

As I came back to myself, to my *original* self, I felt an incredible
mix of powerful emotions. Awe, terror, exaltation, shame, arousal, and
more. I could not believe, couldn't even *comprehend* what I'd been
doing, thinking, feeling.

I had been a completely shameless slut - literally like an animal in
heat. I had sucked and fucked seven men, had been the focus of a
gangbang in a bar men's room... and I had thoroughly and without
reservation enjoyed the entire experience. It was mortifying. Even with
my 'hobby', I hadn't imagined such raw desires lurked within me. Yet I
was powerfully tempted to take another dose immediately, despite my
now-crushing fatigue.

I mastered the impulse and staggered off to the shower. I needed to feel
clean again; cumstains were not nearly so charming back in my normal
frame of mind. My thoughts remained a confused muddle until I dropped
into a deep slumber almost the moment I laid my head on the pillow.

The next two days were quite difficult. I argued with myself constantly,
parts of me wanting only to down a fresh dose and head out for a night
of debauchery, others fretting about the risks and dangers involved. Not
only did Sherry have not the slightest concern for my well-being as
Carl, she was quite incapable of moderating her behavior. Guilt was not
part of her makeup; trying to explain why she shouldn't do what she
wanted, when she wanted, would be like trying to explain color to the
blind, or music to the deaf... or Deconstructionism to a cat.

She could not be raped in a conventional sense - virtually no sexual
activity was against her will - but she might inspire violence among
others competing for her attentions. And what if she caught some
disease, or became pregnant? I ran the store in a halfhearted way,
returning home each evening to struggle with myself. But my timidity was
sufficient to keep me from transforming.

                                  ---

*"...in my case, to be tempted, however slightly, was to fall."*

Friday night, though... my resolve could not hold. When Sherry
re-emerged, she had big plans. I remained as her for the whole weekend -
and a very busy, and expensive, weekend it was. The first thing she did
was take a taxi ride back to the store, paying in her customary fashion,
and open the safe. (Like many small business owners, I kept a moderately
substantial supply of cash readily available for an unexpected crisis.)
The second thing she did was go clothes shopping.

My own clandestine purchases had familiarized me with the costs of
women's fashion. Later, as myself, I was dismayed but not surprised that
Sherry was able to spend nearly twenty-five hundred dollars in the space
of four hours at the mall. She'd recruited with ease two guys to help
her carry her purchases, and they drove her back to our house.

Before anything else she made sure to procure a bottle of olive oil from
the kitchen. She had the guys strip and chose the boy with the largest
equipment - perhaps not surprisingly the black one - and took loving
care anointing his tool and making it quite slippery. Then she bent over
the side of the bed and presented herself for mounting. Anal was
everything she'd anticipated. Some pain, of course, but that simply
added spice to the affair. Feeling him come inside her ass while the
white boy manhandled her tits was inspiring. That was only the
introduction; a long night ensued as she modeled several of her new
outfits for them. She enjoyed every minute of the process, and didn't
mind that many of her brand-new clothes were so quickly torn or stained.

After she'd worn the boys out to the point of uselessness, she idly
masturbated herself to sleep. Sherry's dreams are surreal and, of
course, highly sexual. An endless stream of porn done by Salvador Dali
and David Lynch.

Early Saturday, after a brisk morning romp with her companions, she sent
the pair on their way. Her first shower brought to her attention the
scandalous lack of a massager, something she resolved to correct as soon
as feasible. Then she took a taxi to a local adult novelties store and
spent over a thousand dollars. The clerk closed up early, loaded
everything into his own truck, and gave her a ride to a nearby Lowe's,
then home. She gave him several rides once they got to my house,
breaking in a few of her new toys, including the shower massage she had
him install.

From the clerk she got an introduction that afternoon to the owner of an
area strip club, the 'Corinthian Lounge'. Of course Doug 'Dawg' Simmons
hired her on the spot. He was upset about the issue of her lacking any
official identity, however. Not out of any moral qualms, of course - he
didn't even evince much curiosity about her situation - but apparently
tax people paid particular attention to businesses like his. Fortunately
this was not a permanent obstacle; it would only delay her start date.
Dawg evidently had some extralegal acquaintances that could make such
arrangements. Sherry convinced him to front the money for the new
identity and take it out of her earnings.

By then it was early Saturday evening. She couldn't be an official
dancer yet, but an impromptu 'audition' was held on the center stage and
she was a smashing success. There was a certain amount of resentment
from the other dancers, but she had clearly won the hearts of the
patrons. Sherry enjoyed watching the other girls as much as any of the
men there, and her earnings were quickly distributed among their
g-strings. (She wasn't heterosexual or homosexual or even bisexual; she
was pansexual, omnisexual. Freud had claimed that everything was really
about sex. For Sherry, that was literally true.)

She left the club with a particularly rowdy bachelor party. The six guys
took her back to the best man's house in the suburbs. She'd never been
in a Hummer before, and took full advantage of the ample space to
partake of one of the groomsmen on the way. She sat in his lap and the
vibration and jostling of the ride added some excitement to the
festivities. The stares they drew at a few stoplights were utterly
priceless.

Once they arrived Sherry decided she wasn't in the mood for a gangbang.
They were fun, of course, but she felt like focusing and take her time.
She appropriated the master bedroom and instructed them to send in one
man at a time. She lay on the bed, idly toying with the tassels on the
throw pillows, a pleasant anticipation building in her loins.

She wasn't surprised that the best man came in first. The house showed
that there was a Mrs. Best Man, but he had demonstrated earlier that he
was no stranger to strip clubs. And he'd seemed put out that he had to
drive, so Sherry couldn't do much with him on the way from the club. She
had him sized up as a macho, take-control type... or, at least, a
wannabe. So she gave him what he was looking for.

As he paused at the door, sizing her up himself, she put on a
half-fearful, half-anticipating expression. A little tentatively, she
asked, "So... whaddaya got in mind?" Her tone, her delivery was just so;
it said that he would be able to do make her do whatever he had in mind,
and he would be able to make her love it.

He paused uncertainly for just a moment, then strode briskly toward the
bed. "What I got in *mind* is for you to get your ass off that bed!" She
jumped to comply, and he began pulling off her clothes. She didn't
directly help him but he didn't run into any trouble. Soon she was
naked, standing shyly but with erect nipples and a modicum of color in
her cheeks. He turned her about, and slapped her ass appreciatively.

He shoved her down onto the bed so she was bent over it, her rear facing
him. His hand insolently explored her pussy, fondling lips and clit. She
yelped and shivered but made no attempt to pull away. Her juices
drenched his fingers. "Oh, yeah, bitch, that's a nice tight box."

Then, peremptorily, he stepped back and waved at himself. "Your turn.
Go." Sherry leapt hungrily to the task, and stripped him as well, but
much more respectfully. She started with his shirt and worked down, so
she was kneeling in front of him in a most convenient position as she
pulled down his underwear.

She started to kiss his tool but he jammed his dick to the back of her
throat. She coughed theatrically. (Not sincerely, though; Sherry had
total control of her gag reflex.) Then she began sucking and licking,
moving her mouth up and down his shaft, letting out little moans and
hums of appreciation.

"You like that, huh? Yeah, suck it just like that, you little slut!" He
was acting out his own little porno movie, complete with bad dialogue,
but Sherry was happy to star in it. After all, she *did* like it, and
she *was* a little slut. She sucked him harder, looking up into his eyes
as she savored the taste. Then she pursed her lips and pulled back,
kissing just the head as her tongue flickered across it inside. With a
smacking sound she released him. One hand glided smoothly up and down
his saliva-soaked cock as she ran her tongue along his scrotum, lifting
and dropping each ball in turn. It was his turn to let out a choked
groan.

Her other hand ran her nails gently up and down one of his legs. She
brought her mouth back to his tool and resumed servicing. He grabbed her
hair as he grunted approvingly. "Uuuh, yeah, that's it, you bitch, you
whore, take it all!" Sherry found his words exciting, arousing, nasty in
the best way. He stiffened and pulled her head back by the hair as his
other hand grabbed his cock and began stroking. An instant later his cum
began spilling onto her face and breasts. She extended her tongue to
catch some of the sticky rain.

Sherry was wet and turned on by the whole experience. His shudders
subsiding, Best Man seemed a little sheepish now that his little drama
was over. He gruffly thanked her and put on his clothes as she went to
the bathroom to clean up. He was gone by the time she returned.

Next in was the groom himself, pushed along by the the other members of
the bachelor party. His reluctance was not a surprise - he'd seemed
embarrassed by the entire bachelor party and Sherry thought he was
probably fairly shy. He seemed to mostly be going along with his best
man's plans. More, she had the idea that he probably genuinely loved his
bride-to-be and didn't want to cheat on her.

That just made things a challenge for Sherry, though. She didn't care
about his feelings except insofar as they involved getting her rocks
off. The groom seemed to sense this, too. He stepped forward like a man
entering a she-bear's cave. "Look, really, no offense, but I'd rather
just..."

"Shut up," she snapped. "Get over there by the bed." Best Man wouldn't
have recognized her; the submissive toy was gone, replaced by a forceful
dominatrix. The groom meekly though apprehensively obeyed as Sherry
marched to the closet.

She searched for a moment and came out with several neckties. Groom's
eyes widened as she stalked toward him but the look in her eyes kept him
frozen. "On your knees!" she barked, and he complied. Roughly she hauled
his arms up and deftly tied them to one of the short posts at the foot
of the bed. A second tie went around his neck as a leash.

"Now, let's see what I've got to work with." He tried to mumble some
words of protest as she began to take off his pants but again her glare
quelled any actual rebellion. Her hunch was confirmed as his dick was
freed; he was getting hard. "Yeah, I figured you were whipped," she
sneered, giving his dick a pinch. He looked away from her but his cock
stiffened further in her hand, as if it was eagerly admitting the
charge.

She deftly stripped him from the waist down. She stepped in front of
him, legs spread. and grabbed his head by the hair. Bending over, she
dragged his red-flushed face to her feet, his arms straining and
stretched. "Worship me. Now."

He balked for an instant, and she icily hissed "Now!" once more. Groom
commenced licking her toes and rubbing his face on her feet. She was
almost dripping with the intoxicating power she felt. A few guiding tugs
on his 'leash' and he started to gradually work his way up her legs.

Once he reached her thighs, she lost patience and directed him
insistently to her crotch. "You should know what to do. Get to work!" He
began mediocre cunnilingus, but Sherry would have none of that. "Get in
there and *lick* boy!", she commanded imperiously. At that, he started
pleasuring her in earnest. He wasn't particularly skilled but she was
direct and insistent about what she wanted and soon enough he was doing
a creditable job. Without for a moment diverting attention from the
experience at hand, she amusedly reflected that she was probably doing
his bride a favor.

It went on like that for some time, Sherry being in no hurry. Eventually
she came, quietly but very intensely, only a sharply-drawn breath
indicating the violence within. He might have heard her, or sensed the
tremors - he began to slack off. But a firm hand yanking his head
forward restored his vigor. Once the climax had fully passed, she
released her grip and let him pull back.

His dick was rock-hard, waving gently in the air as he caught his
breath. She bent over and stroked it with just her fingertips. He froze
and the tip swelled... *Slap*. "Not yet, you pansy. I'm not finished
with you."

She loosed him from the bedpost and used his leash to drag him onto the
bed. First one hand, then the other, was lashed to the headboard. His
apprehension grew visibly when she constrained his legs, too, in a
spread-eagle arrangement. He tried to sputter an actual protest as yet
another necktie was formed into a gag, but by then it was too late.

His struggles to free himself only increased his anxiety as Sherry
ambled unconcernedly to her purse, since her knots held fast. But actual
terror filled his eyes when he saw what she pulled out of it. She began
strapping a dildo onto her crotch, finding his muffled shrieks terribly
cute. It was rubbery and flexible, with a longish base that would offer
her pussy excellent stimulation during its use. She'd been wanting to
try it out all day.

"You don't have a choice about this, boy. But if you quiet down, I
promise to use this," she teased, waving a tube of lubricant in her
hand.

Once that sank in, he lapsed into silence, save for the racing breath
through his flaring nostrils. As she approached she noted that drops of
sweat had broken out on his forehead. His tool had deflated markedly,
but not completely, she was pleased to see. She sat down on the bed next
to him and, with a superior expression on her face, began masturbating
him. In no time he was stiff again; his eyes kept being drawn to the
phallus wobbling slightly in front of her hips.

"Yeah, that's right, you've probably even fantasized about this, right?
Being humiliated, being totally *owned*?" The throbbing of his prick
showed her words struck home. "Does *she* know? Is *she* into that?" His
downcast eyes gave her the answer. "Didn't think so." If anything, his
embarrassment seemed to excite him more. "Oooh, you're getting wet..."
Drops of fluid had started emerging from his meatus.

She stood and, as he stared, she drizzled lube onto the shaft at her
crotch. She made a show of spreading it around, then climbed onto the
bed between his legs. Groom was breathing very fast now, and his muscles
strained against his bonds fruitlessly. Her hand guided the tip of her
instrument to his anus. She left it there for a few seconds, milking the
tension. Then she gradually pushed forward and slid it inside. A muffled
moan escaped from Groom as she did so.

"You even *sound* almost like a girl," she sneered. "I do that, too,
when a *real* man takes me in the ass." She started to move, slowly,
back and forth. "Better relax down there, or this'll hurt."

Somehow it didn't seem to be hurting him - or at least, the pain was
being outweighed by something else. His cock waved ineffectually in the
air as she thrusted; she was careful not to give it any direct
stimulation. But one hand snaked forward under his shirt to pinch his
nipples. He didn't seem to experience that as pain, either. By now, she
knew, his balls would be aching with pressure. He'd been feverishly on
edge for almost half an hour now without any relief.

For Sherry's part, she was thoroughly enjoying the exquisite rubbing on
her clit as she worked him mercilessly, and revelling in the domination.
Her own orgasm arrived, and she tweaked his cock as she began ramming
into his ass as hard as she could. His own climax was practically a
seizure, shaking the bed. She was impressed with how far his cum sprayed
up onto his torso, staining his shirt.

When all was done, she unstrapped the tool and left it inside him. Then
she untied one of his hands, and ordered, "Clean that up. And yourself.
And send in the next one." She rolled off the bed as he began to untie
himself, inspecting the dressers and cabinets for anything useful. His
face burned with obvious shame as he went to the bathroom holding the
dildo. In a few minutes he was dressed, and he left without a word.

The next groomsman was tall and skinny and not nearly as fetishistic,
which suited Sherry just fine. She got things going with a minimum of
preliminaries; her pussy needed some serious plumbing. They fucked
happily on the bed, with her on her back this time. He rode her high and
hard, and kissed her deeply as he pounded into her cunt. She screamed as
she came three times before he finally exploded himself.

Once he'd left, another groomsman came in. He was older and on the short
and thick side. There was a vague resemblance to Carl, which turned her
on in an odd way. She took charge again, though less forcefully, and had
him sit on the bed while she performed extended fellatio. He reacted
much as Carl would have - with disbelief, wonder, and in the end almost
pathetic gratitude.

The revelry continued through the night in that fashion, the men taking
their turns with her - except the groom, who devoted himself to drinking
with a vengeance and eventually passed out. At least, that's what Sherry
heard; she never ventured out of the bedroom. It was quite late before
the exhausted group finally gave up and slept.

                                  ---

*"...within I was conscious of a heady recklessness... a solution of the
bonds of obligation..."*

Sherry was awakened by a frantic hand jostling her shoulders. "Oh, shit,
wake up, wake up!" She smacked the hand away and sat up, rubbing her
eyes.

"What the fuck is your problem?" she snapped, recognizing Best Man.

"You've got to get out of here. I didn't set the alarm, my wife'll be
home any minute. She can't fucking find you here!" Best Man looked
worried.

Sherry thought for a moment, then slid out of bed. "Okay, fine. I'll
just get a shower and go."

"No, you stupid cunt, it's almost nine! She'll be here *any minute*!
I've got to clean this place up!" He grabbed her arm and tried to drag
her toward the heap of her clothes in the corner.

Sherry refused to be budged. Best Man glared in her eyes for an instant
but then froze as he met what Groom had encountered the night before.
His hand fell away from her limply.

"I'm covered in cum. I don't mind that, but when it dries it itches. You
clean up, whatever, I don't care. But I'm gonna take a shower." Best Man
stared desperately after her as she strode unhurriedly to the bathroom.

She peed, and then took her time in the shower. It was not out of any
malicious impulse, she was simply indifferent to anyone's desires unless
they matched her own. Cleaning out her vagina was both necessary and
fun, and Mrs. Best Man apparently enjoyed shower massagers, too.

When she turned off the water she heard someone outside the stall. She
opened the glass door to reach for a towel and beheld Tall Groomsman
vomiting into the toilet. She stepped past him and dried herself off. He
finished and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up at
her miserably.

She was wrapping her hair up in a towel as she remarked, "There's
another bathroom, you know."

"Occupado. Jerry's in there. I told him to take it easy on the tequila."
She vaguely remembered that had been Groom's name. Tall was hovering
over the toilet, as if waiting for more.

"Guess you should have, too." She located what looked like Mrs. Best
Man's toothbrush and went to work.

Apparently satisfied he was done for now, he sat back on his haunches
and grabbed some toilet paper. "Hell, I've drank more'n that before.
Don't even have much of a headache. I hope I didn't catch what my kid
had..."

Sherry left him in the bathroom and walked out into the bedroom, where
Best Man was had tossed the dirty bedclothes in a corner and was
frantically making the bed with new sheets. He shot her a murderous look
as she began putting back on what little clothes she had been wearing.
Skimpy panties, a short dress, and some shoes comprised the entire
ensemble, so she was dressed, though hardly decent, in seconds.

Best Man had just started pulling the comforter onto the bed when a low
hum thrummed from somewhere else - the garage door opening. "Fuck fuck
fuck!" he cried. "Look, get out the back, I got Don, he'll give you a
ride." He started bustling her down the hall.

Now that Sherry was clean, she didn't mind leaving, even in a rush. A
confrontation would be tedious and possibly even annoying. Their haste
was in vain, however, as two women came into the kitchen from the garage
as they tried to pass by. One of them called out, "Tell Jerry to hide!
We're just gonna..." Sherry's presence finally registered, and she
trailed off.

There was a tense pause, and stormclouds gathered on both women's faces.
"Who is she?" the other one demanded frostily.

"Uh, honey, this is..." Best Man fumbled for words.

"I'm Sherry." She smiled. "I was just leaving." It didn't mollify them.
She had seen hints of this before. Women tended to get defensive of
their men in her presence. Though, certainly, the present circumstances
didn't help.

"What the fuck is she doing here?" Mrs. Best Man shouted. "What is she,
a stripper? A *hooker*? You said it was just going to be 'the boys',
not..."

"I'm not a stripper yet." Sherry interrupted. She realized she could lie
at this point, and possibly smooth things over. But she was getting
bored and she just did not care what happened after she left. "Like I
said I'm leaving now anyway." She turned to Best Man. "Where's Don?"

"You're goddamn right you're leaving, bitch," spat out Mrs. Best Man.
She couldn't seem to decide who she wanted to glare at more, Sherry or
Best Man.

"Where's Jerry?" asked the other woman, apparently the bride, in a tone
that foretold doom. "If he fucked you, I'll kill him. *And* you," she
pointed at Sherry.

Now she was not bored but actually irritated. "Shut up. He didn't fuck
me," she said as she rummaged in her purse. "You might want to ask Jerry
where this's been, though." Then she tossed something underhand at the
bride, who caught it reflexively. Then she dropped it in shock as she
recognized the strap-on. She looked back up at Sherry with confusion and
mounting horror.

"Go ahead, keep it," Sherry smirked. "Might come in handy with him." As
she'd expected, that was a conversation-stopper, and she was allowed to
depart unhindered.

Don turned out to be the Carlish guy. She had him drop her off at a
nearby mall. She breakfasted in the food court, and got in some shopping
time. At noon the court was much more crowded. Her food was purchased by
a car salesman on his lunch break, who ended up calling in sick for the
day while he drove her to a nearby hotel.

Regrettably, though, his reach exceeded his grasp, so to speak. Inside
of an hour he was too tired to continue. Sherry donned a swimsuit she
had bought at the mall (that was right on the borderline of legal) and
went down to the pool to 'advertise'. It was the work of minutes to pick
up some travelling businessmen and she moved between three rooms as the
afternoon proceeded.

By Sunday evening, though, Sherry was feeling more than a bit queasy.
She concluded that the vomiting groomsman had not had a hangover after
all. Given the volumes of bodily fluids she'd exchanged, infection was
practically inevitable. In her usual selfish manner, she did the only
logical thing - she returned home and changed back to me, intending to
leave me to suffer through the symptoms. But as the wracking pains of
the change subsided, I realized that I felt fine. I was tired, but I
wasn't nauseous.

Later experience has borne out what I theorized then - a side effect of
the transformation somehow eliminates diseases. I'm uncertain as to the
mechanism. Perhaps some aspect of the change kills germs. Or perhaps
being sick isn't part of my 'self-image'? However it works, that little
byproduct wiped away my last major worry about Sherry's lifestyle, the
last hurdle that might have kept me from my current predicament.

                                  ---

*"...the situation was apart from ordinary laws, and insidiously relaxed
the grasp of conscience..."*

Monday the store was closed as I cleaned the house, laundered the
sheets, and attempted to organize the rooms for their new second tenant.
I was hooked, being Sherry was intense and exhilarating and
irresistible. I knew that I would be Carl only part of the time from now
on.

Monday night saw Sherry in a photographer's studio doing some
promotional shots. Dawg had called and sent her there - he was spending
a goodly amount on advance publicity for the debut of 'Sherry Sweet'. He
knew a sure thing when he saw it.

The shutterbug was a guy in his forties who was apparently a friend of
Dawg. He was black, and a veteran of some kind; she didn't really care
about the details. His girlfriend was there, watching the shoot; she was
also a dancer at the club. Sherry enjoyed the process, posing among a
pile of pillows and cushions in various outfits and assorted states of
undress. Imagining guys stroking off to her image was incredibly hot.
Eventually, she was naked and masturbating openly, taking pictures that
could be used for the club's "members only" website.

The girlfriend had been watching with awe. Sherry was distinctly aware
of her gaze... and equally aware that she herself hadn't fucked a woman
yet. "Hey, Jesse? Wanna get a few shots of me and Mercedes?"

"Hell, yeah," Jesse breathed. Mercedes didn't need much convincing to
join her in front of the backdrop. At Jesse's insistence Sherry put on a
thong and a frilly negligee. They started by looking into each others
eyes, and then moving close. "Yeah, just like that," Jesse called,
"you're in love and you can't hold back anymore."

Sherry ignored him and kissed Mercedes gently on the lips, one hand on
her shoulder. She was a thin black girl, but full-chested with a
wonderful caboose. Her hair was straightened and lightened to a tawny
brown. She wore a pink cutoff t-shirt, jeans, and sandals. Sherry
thought she looked delectable. Mercedes was breathing faster, now, as
she leaned in for a hug and a longer, slower, juicier kiss. Sherry
reached forward and pulled the other girl's shirt up over her head. The
camera clicked wildly.

She leaned forward and nuzzled the offered breasts. They were implants,
of course - few skinny girls could have such a bosom naturally - but
they felt wonderful, and the stiff nipples tickled her face and lips
and, as Jesse took shot after shot, tongue as well. Mercedes was
trembling, unsteady on her feet, her eyes squeezed shut.

Sherry stepped back and bent forward, undoing the other girl's jeans.
The dusky girl remained still, eyes closed, but she spread her legs
slightly to help as the brown-haired beauty eased the pants down.
Mercedes was wearing a red thong that flashed invitingly as she stepped,
one leg at a time, out of the pants.

Sherry stood up, and Mercedes opened her eyes. She reached forward and
lifted the negligee off as Sherry raised her arms, presenting her own
bosom for best display. The girls moved close, kissing and embracing.
Sherry found Mercedes' soft smooth skin to be eminently touchable, and
her full lips felt too wonderful on her own.

Jesse had fallen silent. It was clear that no direction was needed.
Mercedes was fondling Sherry's breasts now, and the girls sank down
gently to lay upon the scattered cushions and pillows. Sherry eased her
hand down between Mercedes' legs and deftly slipped past the strip of
fabric. The dancer was quite wet, and she squirmed, moaning through the
kisses as Sherry explored her pussy. Sherry commenced gently humping
Mercedes' leg through her thong, voicing deep moans as well.

The moans peaked - just shy of screams - as the girls both experienced
passionate orgasms. But there was no slowdown as Sherry helped Mercedes
remove her thong. She lay on her back, propped up on an overstuffed
pillow as Mercedes' head dipped between her legs and began to lap at her
sopping cunt. The sensations were enchanting; a girl really did know
what a girl liked. Sherry admired what she could see of the dark-skinned
body for a few moments, before the exuberant slippery probing at her
lips and clit demanded her full attention. She yelped joyfully and rode
the surge of excitement to a quick series of climaxes.

The stripper came up with a pleased expression on her face, that Sherry
quickly showered with kisses. The smell and taste of herself on the
other woman was piquant and provocative. She had to taste the other
girl's musk at once. She laid Mercedes onto her back and, with easy,
acrobatic grace, flipped herself about to enable them to 69. She buried
her face in the girl's shaved and succulent pussy. There was a hint of
stubble - not something she'd encountered before - but it made a nice
contrast to the smooth slippery convolutions of her labia and channel.
She loved the contrast between the dark skin of the labia and the pink
sweetness within them.

Matters continued like that for some time, each girl exploring the other
intimately. No words were needed as they coaxed repeated ecstasy from
their conjoined flesh. The first actual sentence in over an hour was
Jesse, hoarse with lust, saying, "That's it. I don't have any more film,
or cards." Sherry had forgotten he was even there. Mercedes had consumed
her total attention.

And the pair had obviously consumed Jesse's attention. His pleading
expression made Sherry giggle and it took her a few moments to compose
herself and invite him in with a wave. Scarcely another moment passed
before he had dived onto the haphazard softness they were playing upon.
Mercedes got to work on stripping his lower half while Sherry took
charge of the upper half; she was slower because it was more difficult
to pull off his shirt while kissing him.

The contrast was striking and enticing. Jesse was urgent, forceful.
Mercedes was passionate, too, but the dynamics were different. Not
exactly less selfish, but less... *using*. More aware of what Sherry
wanted. Of course, what *Sherry* wanted from a man was generally that
very male aggression, so in practice she got what she craved. That was
the case now, as in short order she settled onto his dick with a sigh
while Mercedes sat on his face. Her hips moved in sinuous flow while she
kissed and stroked the other girl.

Jesse didn't last more than a handful of minutes. His cock pulsing
inside her triggered yet another profound detonation. They remained
pleasantly conjoined for a while in the afterglow, and presently
Mercedes squeaked through her own crescendo.

The girls returned to a sixty-nine while Jesse worked to rebuild his
strength, but this time they were side-by-side. Assertive licking and
knowing, gentle teeth soon dragged another climax from her partner, but
knowing that Mercedes was licking cum out of her drove Sherry wild. She
knew she had to taste that herself. So she took the part of 'fluff girl'
and went to suck off Jesse. Under her administration, Jesse erected his
tower in record time. Then Sherry sat back on some pillows, Mercedes on
hands and knees before her, eating her out. Jesse mounted his girlfriend
from behind, staring avidly as Sherry tweaked her own nipples and eyed
him languidly.

When he ejaculated with a yell a few minutes later, Sherry pounced. She
switched positions with the other girl and began lapping at her twat
with glee. Spunk and pussy juice made a delicious cocktail indeed.

                                  ---

*"...a body that seemed not strong enough to contain the raging energies
of life."*

Again I managed to go two days as myself, but on Thursday, Sherry had a
message from Dawg on my answering machine. That night she went to the
lounge to pick up her new bona fides. He presented her with the driver's
license, birth certificate, and Social Security card for one 'Charlene
Ann Dolchay', age 21. She wasn't at all troubled by the misspelling.

She left and went clubbing with her new ID. While certainly not an
experienced dancer, she had an instinctive talent for moving her body
and a gift for mimicry. Naturally she became a center of attention. When
the club closed at 1 am (Boston's liquor laws are rather old-fashioned)
she was invited to a rave and gleefully jumped at the chance.

The rave was wonderful, with exposed, gyrating, sweaty flesh everywhere
she looked. She became the nucleus of a 'cuddle puddle' and happily
turned it to her own ends, seducing and ravishing several partygoers
over the course of the night. When it finally wrapped up, she
accompanied two aspiring studs to their dorm room and proceeded to fuck
them silly until almost morning. Then she annexed one of the beds and
slept until noon.

When she awoke, the boys took her down to the cafeteria. Sherry didn't
care about my store in any way, and never even considered relinquishing
control of our shared form for the day. A coed dorm was practically a
candy store for her; she was far more impressed with the selection of
students at the tables than the food that was available.

Over the course of several hours she visited at least ten different
rooms, and had sex with over a dozen young men and one adventuresome
young woman. (Sherry almost fainted with pleasure when the girl fit her
dainty hand entirely inside Sherry's passage.) It was late Friday
afternoon before she finally organized a ride back to our house. After
'tipping the chauffeur' in her usual way, she had him wait downstairs
while she cleaned herself up and selected an outfit for her debut at the
club.

                                  ---

*"I began to profit by the strange immunities of my position."*

Sherry was backstage getting ready for her first official dance. There
wasn't a trace of fear within her, of course, but she was tense with
excitement nonetheless, like a thoroughbred itching to race. A few other
girls were milling around the cramped space. Almost all of them *were*
fearful to some extent. Sherry was unquestionably serious competition
and directly threatened the established pecking order. Adding to their
resentment was her sheer unassailable indifference to their subtle (and
sometimes not-so-subtle) snubs and jibes.

The one friendly face there was Mercedes. No doubt part of that was from
the excellent fucking Sherry had given her. However, Mercedes also had
been low in the previous hierarchy and saw a chance to move up by
allying herself with the newcomer.

"You look awesome!" she gushed as Sherry finished applying the last of
her makeup. Her garb was not elaborate. High heels and fishnet
stockings, of course. There was a skimpy thong, barely concealed for the
moment under a skimpy skirt. A lacy bra half-visible under a translucent
blouse. Sunglasses and fingerless gloves, just to have something else to
take off. She intended the focus to be on her body, not props.

"Thanks," she replied idly. A last review of her appearance in the
mirror, and then she turned and strode to the small alcove that led to
the stage. From there she was able to discreetly signal that she was
ready. For a few moments she examined the audience, peeking through the
curtain.

It was a goodly-sized crowd. Dawg's advertising had been effective, even
on short notice. The current girl, her act complete, was gathering up
her money and discarded clothes. She brushed past Sherry without a word.
Unfazed, she kept gazing at the patrons, anticipating the thrill of
baring her incomparable flesh as they watched longingly...

The house lights dimmed. Loud music began to play, with a sensuous beat
and lots of low, pumping bass. (She had asked the DJ for suggestions
earlier, choosing the one with the rawest, most sexist lyrics.)
Spotlights began waving back and forth. "Gentlemen, the Corinthian
Lounge is proud to introduce to you... for the first time on any
stage... Sherry Sweet!"

She strutted out onto the platform with a brash, saucy excitement that
proved swiftly infectious. Hoots, whistles, and catcalls arose
immediately and were unceasing throughout her performance. She had not
planned out any routine, trusting to her instincts. They did not fail
her.

She commenced a slow walk about the edge of the stage, eyeing the
audience with a sultry gaze. Her gait alone was quite enticing, and then
she whirled and fell into a split, displaying her uncanny, limber
flexibility. A hearty cheer sounded from the crowd, which continued as
she rolled onto her stomach and thrust her ass into the air. In that
position her skirt provided no cover of any import.

Sadly, few strippers find much enjoyment in the actual process of their
work; their motivation is much more tied up in the rewards for their
labor. And not many of those who take up the profession possess the
requisite acting skill to effectively conceal this. There are men who
prefer this state of affairs; having the power to force a woman to abase
herself is what they're after.

But *very* few men, even the misogynists, are immune to the charms of a
well-shaped and willing woman who is clearly enjoying the attention of
men. The roar of the crowd grew to almost drown out the music. She rose
and began to unbutton her shirt coquettishly; when she whipped it off
and hurled it into the audience, a brief scuffle broke out over who
would keep it.

Imagining the forest of stiff cocks that surrounded her drove her half
mad with lust. She spun around the pole, hair flaring out behind her,
gyrating with liquid dexterity.

The first song of her set was drawing to a close when she belatedly
realized that she hadn't actually collected any money. That was far from
her top priority, but the way strip clubs worked, she had to pay a rate
for her time on stage, while she kept the excess. As the second song
began, she shifted her rhythm and began milking the wolfpack surrounding
her. There was no need to choose, bills were being urgently waved at her
from every direction.

By the middle of the second song she was nude, but she could have sewn
several dresses out of the cash littering the stage. When she almost
slipped on some, she moved to the pole and entertained herself (and
everyone nearby) with it until her set was finished. She didn't realize
at the time just how unusual it was for a stripper to receive a standing
ovation.

While she collected and stowed her cash, she was hounded by a surfeit of
requests for personal dances in the VIP room. With plenty to choose
from, she picked one of the sexiest guys and led him away. He actually
came in his pants without her having to touch him. She did two more sets
that night, and at least a dozen private dances, with similar results.
At the end of the night she went home with a high-roller and probably
spoiled him for other women.

Over the next few days she had an absolute blast. She proved to be a
versatile and enthusiastic ecdysiast. Saturday night she was a
not-that-innocent schoolgirl in pigtails. Sunday night she wore a
leather dominatrix ensemble. Monday she was a MILF. Tuesday a
haughty-but-naughty fashion model graced the stage. The combination of
her superlative physical charms and her obvious, sincere zeal for
arousing her audience made her practically irresistible.

Staying within the bounds of the law was difficult for her, of course.
The legalistic distinctions between stripping and prostitution did not
hold her interest. so she violated the strictures on a semi-regular
basis - much to the joy of her clientele. Fortunately, an undercover
vice cop sent to investigate her was swiftly compromised by her
irresistible allure. Once Sherry had her way with him, he could not
report her without implicating himself; and by then he had no
inclination to abort her career anyway.

                                  ---

*"That part of me which I had the power of projecting, had lately been
much exercised and nourished..."*

It was a hot, wet summer for Sherry. Four nights a week, Thursday
through Sunday, she performed at the club, almost always going home with
someone for the night of their lives. Sometimes she teamed up for a show
with one of the other girls, usually Mercedes.

A handful of the dancers still displayed infrequent, residual cattiness,
but her dominance was unquestioned. It went without saying that she had
Dawg's full support, but in truth, the rising tide of Sherry's
popularity was lifting all their boats. She brought in big crowds, and
everyone's take was better than ever before.

She even did her part to support the troops. At one point a squad of
National Guardsmen came to the club the night before they were shipping
out. She left early with the soldiers and gave them a going-away party
the USO would never have authorized. It had nothing to do with
patriotism, of course; eight horny, macho, and well-conditioned young
men were frankly irresistible.

And then one Wednesday morning I was sitting in my desk at the store,
idly reminiscing about the two Puerto Rican brothers who had tied Sherry
up and used her mercilessly the night before, when the phone rang. I
recognized the number; it was Sal. I suffered a pang of guilt at that
point, because I hadn't even thought of him once since I'd successfully
mixed up the concoction. I answered the phone with genuine warmth.

"Hey, Sal, how have you been? Sorry I haven't called, things have been
pretty busy lately."

"I'm fine, thanks. How are *you* doing? You've cut back the store's
hours, I heard..."

"Well, yes, but I'm still doing all right."

"So, what are you up to instead of working?" I could hear the skepticism
mixed with concern in his voice.

"Oh, no need to worry about me. I'm not abusing... anything. The truth
is, uh, well, I've got a girlfriend now."

"*Really*? Well, we definitely have some catching up to do then. How
about tonight? Fleming's again? Bring her along if you like."

"Well... actually, she, uh, works nights. But I can come." Part of my
willingness was just a desire to see my friend. But also I wanted to
allay his suspicions. If he started poking around... he'd be about the
only person in the world who could possibly suspect the truth.

So that evening I arrived just slightly late at our favorite restaurant.
The hostess knew me as a regular and escorted me to the quieter back
room. Sal was already there, and waved as I was led through the door.

I said before that I wasn't gay, that I didn't eye men on the street or
anything like that. But when I caught sight of Sal, of a familiar face
from my old days, I was suddenly aware that part of me was checking him
out. I realized that I had been lecherously evaluating men as well as
women lately, asking myself what Sherry would do with them.

And I realized that Sherry liked Sal very much. She wanted see how this
distinguished-looking older gentleman appeared without those tasteful
clothes. How well-hung was he? He'd been around. He'd know what to *do*
with his cock, and... I cut that line of thought short with an effort.

I forced a smile and walked to the table, ignoring the odd sensations I
felt as we shook hands, then I sat down across from him. For a moment,
we were both silent.

"Well, I feel better already," Sal finally said. "I suppose you knew
what I was worried about. But you look all right."

"Thanks, I guess." I said ruefully. "I feel fine. I'm actually enjoying
life a lot more these days."

"Let's hear about this girl of yours. Sherry, you said? How did you
meet?"

"She's, er, quite a handful. I... uh, I've known her for a while, but
we've been spending more time together lately." Before I could continue,
our waiter appeared.

I might have made it through the meal and got away, were it not for a
spot of bad luck - he was new, but I recognized him. Sherry had gone
home with him a couple of weeks ago. Unbidden, memories of riding his
dick reverse-cowgirl style flooded my mind. He'd been a good lay,
reaching around and tweaking my nipples as I'd bounced up and down,
squeezing his pole with my pussy walls.. No, *Sherry* had....

Something of my distress must have shown on my face. The waiter (I
suddenly remembered his name was Patrick) said, "Is something wrong,
sir?"

I reestablished control of my thoughts and replied, "No, I'm sorry, it's
just that you look remarkably like someone I knew long ago in college.
It's almost uncanny." I smiled. "Your name isn't Ron, is it?"

"No," he smiled back. "It's Patrick. I'll be your server tonight. Would
you like to start off with an appetizer?" I worked strenuously and
mostly effectively to forget his active tongue in my mouth.

After he left with our orders, Sal pressed me again. "You were telling
me about Sherry? You never mentioned her before."

"Well, we didn't have that kind of relationship. She's pretty amazing,
though. Beautiful, smart, knows what she wants."

"I hear the store hasn't been open much lately."

"It's just, she takes up a lot of my time." I shifted uncomfortably.

"High-maintenance, as they say?"

"Definitely."

"If you're cutting back hours, can you afford a woman like that?" He
looked me straight in the eyes. "Are you selling something new?"

"It's not like that, really. I wouldn't do that. I'm a dealer, but an
*antiques* dealer." I sipped my water. "Sherry helps. Together we make
enough to get by."

"You're living together?" His gaze was piercing, probing. I avoided his
eyes... partly because on one level - *Sherry's* level - I wanted to
stare into them.

"Yes." I was trying not to volunteer information, but that seemed to
make him more suspicious.

Patrick returned with our wine. As he left I felt my eyes drawn to the
young man's rear, but I suppressed the impulse and focused on the
conversation. Sal shifted topics, and brought up what I'd been dreading.
"Did you ever end up trying the stuff?"

I paused, choosing my words carefully. "Yes. It actually helped me get
to know Sherry a lot better. But it's not really my main focus these
days."

"Hmmm. Maybe I should mix some up."

I couldn't tell if he was serious or not. "I wouldn't advise it. If you
didn't know what you were doing, the results could be..." I searched for
a word. "...unpredictable. My situation is, well, kind of special."

"In what way, exactly? What does that stuff do, anyway?"

"It... um... breaks down inhibitions, I guess you could say." I
considered a moment how to phrase things safely. "It... brings out
repressed parts of the personality."

"I see. That *could* be dangerous." He took a sip of wine. "Why isn't it
dangerous for you? What if you hurt someone, or yourself?"

"My repressions... well, they weren't of a violent nature."

"Might I inquire as to what nature they actually were?" Sal asked with
exaggerated politeness.

"Uh... well, Sherry's in my life now." I took a sip of wine.

"Ah. I see." Sal seemed thoughtful. I didn't think he was any less
suspicious, though.

"But enough about me. What have you been up to? Still seeing
whatshername, Donna?" After I asked I realized I was more interested in
his love life than I should have been.

"Not anymore. We just didn't click, I suppose." The conversation moved
to safer topics for a time, though I had the strong impression Sal was
still evaluating my reactions. But his intense regard wasn't just making
me nervous, it was making me horny as well. A substantial fraction of my
personality wanted him to pay attention to me.

As I said, I might have made it if not for the waiter. But the
combination of thoughts of him, and my unwanted but undeniable new
attraction to Sal, upset my equilibrium by too great a degree.

When Patrick returned with our meals, I was struck by his poise and
strength carrying the heavily-loaded tray. This time I could not keep
myself from examining his ass as he served Sal. Flustered, I sat quietly
after he left, pretending to be absorbed by my meal, making occasional
encouraging sounds as Sal continued his report on his dating situation.
But now, I could not help but notice his deft hands as they handled the
silverware, and his mouth and lips as he ate. It was too much.

"Excuse me," I broke in and stood up. "I have to go to the men's room.
I'll be right back." Sal looked after me with a concerned expression as
I hurried away.

I rushed to a stall in the bathroom, pulled down my pants, and sat on a
toilet. I immediately began to masturbate, hoping to relieve the tension
and be able to finish the dinner. Stroking my shaft, I fantasized about
Patrick, how it had felt riding him. But I couldn't help myself. In
moments I was fantasizing about *Sal*; then I felt a shudder and the
pangs of change swept over me.

My last thought as Carl was the realization that I hadn't had an orgasm
as myself in months... and then Sherry was rubbing and grunting through
an intense climax. The ecstatic spasms ebbed and she sat for a moment in
the stall, catching her breath. This was a bit of a problem. It wasn't
too much of a surprise, though - involuntary changes had happened to
Tawesson as well.

She was attired in a man's suit far too big for her slim frame. We
always changed at home; there were no spare clothes in the car and the
formula was at the house, miles away. If Sal saw her dressed like this,
he'd know something very strange was going on, and that would not do,
not at all. There were things that needed to be done before he suspected
the truth.

Deciding to take a cue from Cuilidh, she dug out Carl's wallet. She
could imitate his handwriting perfectly, so she penned a quick note on
the back of one of his business cards. *"Sal - not feeling myself, had
to go home. Meet me there, all will be revealed. Carl."*

She heard someone coming in, and stepped out into the men's room. A very
startled old man gaped at her, jaw sagging. With total insouciance,
Sherry said, "I need you to do me a favor. There's a really cute guy in
the back room, mid-40s, touch of gray at the temples. On the left. Give
this to him, okay? And tell him a *man* gave it to you; it's very
important he doesn't know it came from me. Can you do that, sweetie?"

He nodded mutely. She smiled and gave him a quick smooch. "Okay, hop to
it! Let me know when he leaves!" She turned and went back to wait in her
stall; best to avoid a disturbance. Her impromptu lackey, completely
bemused, went back out the door.

It wasn't a very long wait, but Sherry was not given to patience. She
gave some consideration to the nature of her attire. She hadn't thought
of dressing in men's clothes before. Her next set at the lounge would
definitely be in drag. Moreover, she could likely pick up some nice
femme lesbians like that. Of course, the butch ones had their
advantages, too. And those in between...

Perhaps fortunately, the old man came back in at that point, before she
could work herself up further. "Excuse me, uh, miss? That, uh, gentleman
just left." She emerged from the stall and brushed past her befuddled
bravo. She blew a kiss behind her as she walked out the door.

She was used to the lull in conversation when she appeared in a crowd,
but never before had she engendered complete silence the way she did
now, on her way out of the restaurant. Sherry, heedless, rushed out onto
the street and off to the car. There were plenty of gawkers on the trip
to the parking garage, but no one got in her way. Carl's cell rang as
she was starting the car. When she checked the number, it was Sal. She
let it go to voicemail.

It wouldn't have worked in most cities. But Boston - at least the city
center - was never designed for car traffic. (Indeed, it was never
designed at all.) Sal came from a different direction than us, and we
knew where he habitually parked. It was on the wrong side of the
restaurant - that is, for reaching our side of town. With the maze of
twisty, one-way streets and perennial construction, he would take at
least fifteen minutes longer to reach our house than she would - despite
our cars being parked less than a quarter mile apart.

                                  ---

*"...I had voluntarily stripped myself of all those balancing instincts
by which even the worst of us continues to walk with some degree of
steadiness among temptations..."*

So it was that Sherry arrived home comfortably ahead of Sal, and had
exchanged the ridiculous trappings for a garment that was more suitable.
One that invited an entirely different kind of attention. She waited on
a couch in the front room until the doorbell rang.

Opening the door, she was pleased to note Sal's double-take: the nearly
universal human reaction to encountering Sherry's raw, animal aura.
While he worked to recover his composure, she stole the initiative. "You
must be Sal," she purred. "Carl told me to expect you." She stepped back
and waved him in.

He entered rather dubiously. The dress she wore had a plunging - indeed,
dive-bombing - neckline, and slits ran up both sides of the short skirt.
"So, I take it you're Sherry?" Sal was trying to keep his eyes from
roaming over her body, with strictly limited success.

"The one and only." She smiled in a satisfied way. There would be no
trouble getting what she wanted, she was quite sure of that now. "Can I
get you something to drink?" She led him to the living room.

"Not just yet." He looked around; the ground floor of the house hadn't
changed noticeably since Sherry had 'moved in'. "Where's Carl?"

She sat down on the couch, leaving plenty of room for him to join her.
"He's resting upstairs. He tends to be worn out when I'm through with
him." She smirked. "Didn't he tell you about me?"

"I... think I'm beginning to understand." He stood uncomfortably,
clearly having trouble focusing on the business he'd come for. "I
thought you worked nights?"

"I got off early tonight." Another smile. "Are you disappointed?"

"Uh, no, not at all. But I'd really like to check on Carl."

"Oh, you just had dinner, give him a break. *I'd* like a chance with
you. I've heard so much about you." She patted the cushion next to her.
"Come, sit."

He did, carefully, a few inches further away than he really needed to.
"What do you do for a living?" he asked.

"I'm a dancer at the Corinthian Lounge."

"Ah. Really." He absorbed that for a moment. "How did you and Carl meet?
"

"We've been... intimate for years now." She stretched a little, drawing
his attention to the benefits of intimacy.

"I never would have suspected that." He sounded doubtful.

"I think he was worried that associating with me would sully his
reputation." She tossed her head and swept her hair back, grinning
mischievously. "He was quite discreet."

"Apparently so." He looked away. "What changed? Why tell me about you
now?"

"I'm a much more important part of his life these days."

"So I gather." He cleared his throat. "I have to admit, you don't seem
quite the type I'd have pictured for him."

"He's been fantasizing about me for a long time."

"I can well imagine." She could see him struggle with his duty. "Forgive
me for the way this question sounds, but... I wouldn't picture Carl as
being *your* type. What do you get out of the relationship?"

"He... takes care of me."

"Why can't I get a straight answer out of either one of you?"

"I'm sure it sounds strange, but it's simply that our relationship is...
complicated." Now she leaned forward and shifted closer. "But it's a
very open one."

"That doesn't sound much like Carl." Sal seemed to be having trouble
figuring out what to do with his hands, fidgeting and backing up
slightly.

"I know what you mean, but you'd be surprised how much he's changed."

That seemed to shore up his determination a little. "I might be
responsible for that. If I'd known about all this, I wouldn't have..."
He moved to stand up. "I really think I should see him."

Sherry put her hands on his shoulders, holding him down. It didn't take
all that much effort. "You're a good friend, Sal," she stated, hiding
her exasperation. "Now, will you be *my* friend? Will you help me move a
body?" A sinuous ripple of her form as she slid close left no doubt
whose body she referred to. "After, you can see Carl if you want. I
promise."

Still he hesitated. "Believe me, you'd be doing him a favor, too," she
pleaded earnestly. "Carl wants this."

She saw the war inside him. He was Carl's friend... but he was also a
man, and she was Sherry. She leaned forward the last few inches,
pressing her chest to his and kissing his lips sensuously. His eyes told
her the battle was won.

He didn't say anything. Instead, he put his arms around her and kissed
her in return, drawing her close. Some of her enjoyment came from the
perverse, wicked pleasure of fucking an old friend, someone who'd known
Carl. But she'd been right, too. Sal did know how to treat a woman. He
used his hands and tongue skillfully, and most importantly he didn't
rush things.

While their tongues wrestled his fingertips roamed across her back, her
sides, her hair, her cheeks. One sought lower, and ran along her thigh,
following the split in her skirt. Then it slid back up and cupped her
rear. He pulled her close, turning her onto his lap.

Gently he brought his hands up to her shoulders, and even as their lips
remained locked, he eased the dress down over her shoulders, liberating
her only nominally-constrained breasts. Sal sat back and paused, dazed
at the splendor before him. Sherry was literally too good to be true.
Her smug wink spurred him to further action. He brought his lips to the
side of her neck, trailing feather-soft kisses down to her chest. Her
breath caught in her throat. He took a nipple gently between his teeth
and tickled it with his tongue, prompting a shiver and a gasp.

Meanwhile, his hands kept wandering about her body; the one stroking her
back as the other moved from her rump around under her skirt, to her
crotch. There it found no cloth, only the lubricious signs of a very
ready female. He teased her for a few minutes, splitting his kisses
between her breasts and her lips, while he played his fingers in and
around her pussy.

Sherry repaid him with impassioned kisses and strokes over his form; but
she did not reach for his cock, not inclined to interfere with his
efforts. Eventually he shifted to a more direct and forceful mode, and
called forth shrieks of joy from her.

Once this overture had come to completion, they moved in concert to
ditch their clothing entirely. Sherry's insubstantial outfit was
speedily dispensed with, but she took her time disrobing Sal. His suit
progressively revealed its contents to her probing hands. Sal, for his
part, displayed admirable patience as she labored.

Once finished, she lay back on the couch, one leg stretched to the
floor, the other pulled up, her breasts bobbing gently with her fevered
breath, and drank in the sights. He was in good shape for his age. A bit
of fat, but on him it looked distinguished. She was reminded of an older
wolf, one who had beaten rivals by strength before and still was canny
enough to remain head of the pack. An attractive mate. His prick was of
average size, but she was untroubled, confident he'd wield it properly.

Sal, too, had paused to admire the view from his perspective. His gaze
was hungry but controlled; a general surveying territory he planned to
conquer, working out a lengthy campaign. She experienced it as an almost
physical caress, anticipation stoking inner fires. Then he strode
deliberately forward, laying hands on her to guide her into the position
he'd selected. He eased her back onto the couch, and kneeled by her
hips.

She was on her side as he penetrated her, one leg tucked between his,
the other wrapped around his waist. Many women would have found it
uncomfortable but she accommodated it easily with her pliant, supple
joints. Her back arched and she let out a loud low moan when he began to
stroke in and out. She shrieked happily as one of his hands reached down
and his fingers tickled her nub. "Oh, fuck, Sal, fuck me! Fuck me!" He
complied with increased vigor. He'd made a good choice; he could excite
her easily in multiple ways while still having a commanding view.

One hand helped support her and the other probed her anus, a double
penetration far easier to allow for than two cocks, and much better
coordinated. Her juices were flowing liberally so he had ample chance to
make his fingers slippery. She hissed with pleasure, muscles stiffening.
After a sharp explosion, he backed off to simple penetration for a time,
then made another move, thrusting more aggressively.

A hand darted to her clit, maximizing her stimulation. Absently but
approvingly, she noticed that it was not the hand that had recently been
in her backside; that was a mark of experience, not wanting to leave any
discomfiting infections later. She was immune, but he didn't know that.

After that, however, she left off appraising his technique and simply
enjoyed the results of it. He continued to change things up, never quite
letting her get used to any one mode. She came, enthusiastically,
several times, before she decided to show off some of her skill. She
commenced a spectacular display of muscular control, massaging him
inside her with ripples and clenches and waves. He maintained control
for a while longer than she expected, but finally gave in and shot a
intense load within her.

Breathing deeply, he pulled out of her and sat back on the couch. Sherry
sat up and put a hand to her pussy, twirling a little cum onto her
finger. As he watched, she brought it to her mouth and licked it up.
"Mmmmmm. I knew you'd taste good. As good as you fuck."

"I'm pleased to have been of service," he said, dignity maintained even
as he panted. "You are truly an expert in the field."

"Oh, you can't say that now," she pouted. "You haven't seen anything
yet." It was her turn to advance on him.

"Sherry, I'm flattered, but I simply cannot..." he trailed off as her
talented mouth met his penis. His recovery was not instantaneous, but
she was able to clean him off and coax a handsome erection faster than
Sal had apparently believed possible. When she sensed he was getting
close to his summit, she abruptly disengaged, to his unmistakable
disappointment.

He was mollified in short order, however, as she shimmied up his body
and began positioning herself atop his pelvis. In truth, he was also
distracted by the sudden, immediate proximity of her spectacular tits.

She paused there, her vagina hovering inches above his stiff prick.
Gazing into his eyes for long moments, not sighting her target at all,
drops of her wetness fell unerringly onto the head of his dick.
Languorously, and again unerringly, she descended to capture him inside
herself. Both of them let out gentle appreciative gasps as docking was
achieved.

Then she initiated a serpentine wriggling of her entire body even as her
almost superhumanly-controlled internal muscles quivered around his
member in a startling manner. He gasped again, this time in sheer
disbelief. He regarded her with nearly superstitious awe; she laughed
and intensified her motion.

Sal was panting heavily, struggling to maintain some kind of control,
holding onto the couch with a deathgrip. Sherry bent forward, never
slowing down, placing her bobbing rack directly in his face. Trying to
delay the inevitable, he rocked his hips lower, attempting a partial
withdrawal. But instantaneously she matched him, offering no respite. He
groaned and closed his eyes, the war evident on his face.

At the last possible moment, she froze. He hovered for a time, right on
the border of coming, then began to recede from the brink. She let it
happen, but not very far. Within seconds she was moving again. Sal was
helpless, dragged again and again to the razor's edge of release and
then carefully ushered away.

There came a time when she did not stop. She clenched tightly and
rippled her body and laid herself upon him and moaned loudly and Sal
felt his cock tear itself violently apart in a cataclysm of ecstasy.

Sherry watched, amused and pleased, while Sal regained consciousness.
His eyes fluttered open as he drew in heaving gulps of air. "That was...
the most incredible thing that has ever been done to my dick in my
entire life." He shuddered with reaction. "I thought my heart was going
to..." he trailed off.

Sherry chuckled. "*Now* you can call me an expert."

                                  ---

*...the horror of my old friend perhaps affected me somewhat...*

They lay intertwined on the couch, resting, neither speaking. It took
Sal about ten minutes before he remembered why he'd come to our house in
the first place. He worked to pull himself out from under her with a
serious expression on his face. "I'm sorry, but I think I need to talk
to Carl. You said he's upstairs?"

Sherry resisted his attempts to extricate himself. "What's the rush?
He'll keep." She wriggled enticingly. "Besides, aren't I a lot more fun?
"

"Sherry, please. I..." He gulped as she groped at his equipment. "This
is all very strange. I need to talk to Carl."

Sherry pouted. "Oh, come on. Just one more..."

It seemed that his suspicions were aroused again. "Later, perhaps. Right
now I need to clear up a few things."

She sighed and rolled off of him. "So, do you *really* want to know
what's going on?" she smirked. "Or will you take my word that Carl's
never been better?"

"I'd like *him* to tell me that."

"If that's how you feel." She stood and motioned for him to rise.
"Follow me."

"Excuse me a moment." He quickly put on his pants and shirt while Sherry
watched with unveiled amusement, not bothering to clothe herself. Then
she led him upstairs to her room. Unlocking the wardrobe, she revealed
the supplies and premade doses of the concoction. Sal watched wordlessly
as she poured a premeasured amount of the powder into a vial of the
precursor. The reaction proceeded as usual.

"Enough of this," Sal bit out, angry. "I want to see Carl *right now*."
He nodded at the mixture in her hand. "I don't need to see..."

She interrupted. "I'm showing you Carl, I promise." She looked him up
and down one last time, lasciviously enjoying the sight.

Sporting an evil grin, she toasted him with, "Here's to us." She downed
the philtre; the pangs of the transformation waxed and waned; I looked
over to see Sal backed up against the wall, sheer horror pasted across
his face. For a long time he couldn't speak, and I had nothing to say. I
rapidly covered myself with a nearby robe, and didn't realize for
several seconds it was one of Sherry's frilly peignoirs. Unfortunately,
nothing more appropriate was at hand.

Our discussion after that was strained and awkward, as you might
imagine. I haltingly explained most of what had happened, what I
theorized, what I suspected. I began to apologize but the words died in
my throat in the face of his blank stare. In all truth, what *could* I
have said?

He left fairly soon thereafter. I remember thinking how tired, how much
*older* he suddenly looked. I never heard from him again. Barely two
weeks later, when I listened to the message on my answering machine
informing me that he had died , I realized I had almost expected it.

I don't know if it was really just the shock of seeing the
transformation. A very similar fate had befallen one of Tawesson's
friends. I wonder if perhaps there's some kind of 'psychic fallout' or
radiation or something if another person is too close during the
transition? Neither of us have ever been tempted to find out since.

I went to the viewing but I didn't stay long, and I couldn't attend the
funeral. I just wasn't sure I would be able to keep Sherry from
manifesting herself, even in so somber a situation. Instead I sat alone
in the store and drank a glass of wine in his memory.

                                  ---

*"I have more than once observed that, in my second character, my
faculties seemed sharpened to a point..."*

About five months had gone by since Sherry's "birthday". Fall was
approaching, and she had become something of a phenomenon in the Boston
area. The club was filled to capacity every night, and she was clearing
tens thousands of dollars a *week*. Much of that cash was immediately
spent on clothes and partying, but even she couldn't outspend that
income. Had she bothered with cocaine or heroin or that ilk she could
likely have done so, but she wasn't tempted. Sex was her addiction, and
she never ran out of fresh suppliers. (Although Sherry did keep a stash
of Viagra and Cialis on hand; very few unaided men could keep her
satisfied for terribly long.)

I was spending less and less time as myself; Carl no longer existed at
night anymore. The store wasn't open more than three days a week, which
took a toll on business, but with Sherry's earning power I couldn't
manage to be terribly concerned. And truth be told, Sherry didn't feel
the guilt that I did over what happened to Sal. Other people have
drowned their sorrows in drink before; I simply took that to new
heights. Or perhaps depths is a better term.

As I noted, her profile was skyrocketing. After an eventful night that
led to the arrest of several of the Red Sox (and subsequent divorces for
two of them), one of the larger area churches decided that a useful
object lesson might be made. So it came to pass one Friday night that
perhaps two dozen parishioners from Rock Baptist Church were picketing
near the club when Sherry arrived. They were carrying signs citing
verses of Scripture and generally denouncing sexual licentiousness.

She waved a hello to Dawg on her way backstage but then noticed his
frown and slowed down. "What up, Dawg?"

"It's what's down. The damn crowd. Those fucking Jesus-freaks are
scaring people away!"

"Oh," she replied. Sherry hadn't really noticed; she didn't care about
mundane business details unless they affected her. She didn't even care
about the money she made except insofar as it let her do what she
wanted. She gave a "so what" shrug and started to turn away.

Dawg was uncharacteristically worried, and snapped at her. "It ain't
just them outside. I found out that they're gonna try to do some kind of
zoning shit, close us down!"

That got Sherry's attention. "When?" This was the closest club to her
house; if it closed down she'd have to drive at least ten extra minutes
to get to another one.

"I dunno for sure. They gotta talk to the city council, all that shit.
But I hear they're serious."

She thought for a moment. To her, the solution was obvious. "Call the
news types, get them out here to cover it."

Dawg practically exploded. "You dumb bitch, that'll fuck up my business
even more! Those assholes *want* publicity and shit!"

But he'd forgotten who he was dealing with, and he was suddenly taken
aback by her intense glower, falling silent. "Shut the fuck up," Sherry
said, redundantly but very deliberately. "You don't get to call me
'bitch' unless you're fucking me, got it? I'll handle those shitheads.
You just get a crew here." She turned on her spike heel and marched to
the back. "Let me know when they get here," she called over her
shoulder.

Sherry had finished one set and was entertaining a gentleman in the VIP
room when a girl came in to let Sherry know that a news crew had arrived
on the scene. She wrapped up her dance and hurried backstage to change.
In a very brief time she was clad in sandals, a t-shirt, and cutoff
jeans. Dawg hovered impatiently nearby as she dressed, not quite daring
to say anything. When she finished, she turned to look at him. "They
still out there?"

Sullenly: "Yeah."

"Get me Phil's boom box and one of his CDs."

"What the hell..." Dawg began heatedly, but then moderated his tone
under her murderous stare. "Uh, which one?"

"I don't care. Something I can dance to."

Minutes later, she emerged from the lounge carrying the DJ's portable
stereo and ambled nonchalantly across the street toward the protestors.
Two were being interviewed by the reporter. The man who was speaking
trailed off into silence as he caught sight of Sherry. His companion's
jaw had already dropped.

The reporter turned at that point, and had his own jaw-sagging moment.
He waved his hand urgently toward the approaching vision, and the
cameraman focused on her as she arrived. Smiling openly, she called out,
"What's going on here?"

The representative from the church stammered for a few moments, then
collected himself, struck a heroic pose, and began holding forth. "We
are here to protest this sinful and immoral establishment that is
corrupting the morals of our community!" He stopped to inhale. "We do
not accept the degradation of culture that the purveyors of..."

"Whoa, there," Sherry broke in, grinning. "I'm sure you've got a whole
speech planned, but you're way off base." She looked earnestly into the
camera. "We're not corrupting anybody. It's all grownups here at the
Corinthian Lounge. We just want people to have a good time. It's about
fun, not 'degradation' or whatever."

"Treating women as objects, selling sex and depravity? That is
degradation and sin, not just of the women who dance but the men who..."

Sherry interrupted again. "How would you know? Have you ever *been* in
there?"

Angrily, he began, "I don't have to..."

Not letting him finish, Sherry overrode his incipient tirade. "I didn't
think so. Ever seen an exotic dancer *anywhere*?"

"No, but..."

"Okay, let's fix that now." With that, she took a few steps back, bent
over (making sure her ass was aimed toward the camera), and put down the
boom box.

"Wait, what..." Alarm had crept into his voice.

"I just figured you should have some idea what you're protesting." She
turned on the music. It wasn't as loud as the speakers in the club, but
it carried well enough. She whirled back to face the crowd and began a
striptease.

Her dancing, and the whole persona she projected was... not exactly
innocent, but not malicious. Playful is perhaps the best term. She was
saying, with her smile, her body, "Isn't this fun? Don't you want to
join in?" It was also, in the way of everything Sherry did, highly
arousing.

None of the protestors could ignore it, but different people responded
in different ways. Some were enraged, screaming epithets. Others prayed
and averted their eyes, unable to bear the temptation before them. And
many were mesmerized, staring raptly at the tantalizing display. (Nor
were all of these ardent observers men.)

Sherry wrapped things up as the song drew to a close. She had revealed
the immodest but legal bikini she'd been wearing underneath her clothes,
but no more. This time when she bent to turn off the music, much more of
her hindquarters were visible. Smiling, she waved to the camera. "If you
want to see more than that, you'll have to come inside!"

The reporter and cameraman, protestors forgotten, followed her back
toward the lounge, requesting an interview.

The resulting footage was television gold - plenty of sex as well as
humor. Sherry had been careful to reveal nothing that the FCC could
legitimately file a complaint over, so the protest was the lead story on
the late news that very night. The protestors, with their comical mix of
reactions, came off as complete buffoons. The item appeared on cable
news over the weekend, and by Sunday it was one of the most-viewed clips
on YouTube.

There was some talk of charges being pressed, but no one could name
anything Sherry had done that was illegal. She hadn't collected any
money, or stripped fully nude, or done anything but dance in public. The
talk quietly withered away.

It was a PR disaster for Rock Baptist. They had not merely failed to
harm the club, they had given it a massive publicity boost and damaged
their own reputation in the process. They couldn't move forward in the
political arena without opening themselves up to further derision. A
change of strategy was called for.

                                  ---

*"...leaping impulses and secret pleasures..."*

Thus, the following Wednesday, Mrs. Patricia Palmer walked up to the
front door of the club in the late afternoon. The wife of the head
pastor, Michael Palmer, she was a formidable woman, as befitted one of
the leaders of a church with several thousand members. In her late 30s,
she kept herself in shape and well-groomed, though her dress maintained
the modesty of her station. Her gentle manner was disarming, but rivals
at the church had learned that steel lay beneath the surface, and her
husband's position owed no small debt to her adept political guidance.

The jaundiced eye of the bouncer up front looked her over doubtfully,
but she was unfazed. "Is Sherry Sweet in? I'd like to talk to her."

"Is that so? What for? You applyin' for a job?"

"No," she replied patiently. "I'd just like to talk."

A moment of thought. "What about?"

"That's really between me and her, isn't it?" she said brightly.

The bouncer wasn't too fleet of mind. Another moment or two passed.
"Well, you pay cover to get in, I'll let her know you're here."

"I'd really prefer to talk to her out here..."

"Then you'll be waitin' out here all night." He smiled unpleasantly.
"And she's usually got somebody with her when she leaves. Good luck
talkin' then."

Reluctantly she brought up her purse. "If I must."

Shortly thereafter she sat at one of the back tables, surveying the room
with thinly masked disapproval. The place was much busier this early
than she would have thought - and in the middle of the week at that.
Confirmation that things had gotten out of control, and that her mission
here was vital.

Patty didn't anticipate a total, immediate triumph, of course. Few
people were saved on their first exposure to the Gospel. But she had
faith that closing this den of iniquity was God's will, and she was
confident that He could use her to help accomplish His purpose. So she
had come to talk with the woman who had so thoroughly embarrassed her
church and parishioners. If she could discourage her from supporting the
club, it would be of help. And who knew? If the girl were saved, she
would be a powerful witness... in the religious *and* legal senses.

They would offer her financial assistance, scholarships, housing, drug
counseling, whatever she needed to get away from this immoral lifestyle.
Patty couldn't imagine a woman wanting to do such things unless there
were pressing circumstances. In many - perhaps most - cases, she would
doubtless have been correct.

But she hadn't watched the video of the protest, so Patty was unprepared
when Sherry appeared from backstage. She was striking, not just for her
beauty but her personality. Something about her spoke of - and directly
to - the id. Patty drew a sharp breath, and began to suspect that this
would be an even more challenging meeting than she'd anticipated.

Sherry strutted over to her table, acknowledging the hoots and whistles
of the patrons with gay aplomb, and sat across from Patty with easy
grace. She was topless, wearing only heels and lewdly meager panties.
"What can I do for you, Mrs. Palmer?"

Forcing a smile she did not truly feel, she called out over the thumping
music, "Call me Patty, please. I'm from Rock Baptist Church."

Sherry face betrayed a shift from mild curiosity to bored annoyance.
"Oh, crap. Look, I don't think we have anything to..."

Patty interrupted. "Please, I'm not here to condemn you or anything like
that. That's really not what we're about. I'd just like to talk."

A smidgeon of curiosity had returned to her expressive face. "So, talk."

"If you don't mind, I'd rather we discussed things somewhere else." A
pause for breath; she wasn't quite shouting, but it was a very loud
environment. "Perhaps we could meet for lunch tomorrow?"

Sherry considered that for a moment. Then she seemed to focus carefully
on the pastor's wife, looking her up and down. There was no doubt what
kind of study she was engaging in. Patricia had been ogled like that
before, though never by a woman. Then Sherry looked her in the eye and
said, "Why not now? You had dinner yet?"

Mrs. Palmer was now convinced that Sherry was under the influence of a
sexual demon. But she reflected that all things worked to the Lord's
purposes. If a perverted attraction was what He would use to lead this
woman out of sin, so be it. "I don't want to get you into trouble with
your job..."

Her answering grin was positively wicked. "They need me a lot more than
I need them. Besides, it's only Wednesday. C'mon, let's go." Then she
looked down at herself and giggled. "Well, okay, let me throw on some
clothes first."

Not long thereafter Sherry drove them to a nearby restaurant. Patty was
somewhat discouraged by the expensive sports car the girl was driving;
financial assistance might not be the incentive she'd hoped. She didn't
begin her pitch the moment they'd sat down at their booth. Being too
pushy would turn people off. Instead, she gently pumped her for
information; some intelligence would help her tailor the approach.

"As you know, our church doesn't exactly approve of the Corinthian." She
essayed a rueful grin. Then, earnestly, "But please don't think that
means we hate the people there. Far from it. All we want to do is help
them avoid what we view as a mistake."

Sherry smiled back. "Fair enough. But you understand, I kind of disagree
about the 'mistake' part. Like I said, I think you have it all wrong."

"Okay, then. How should we 'have it'?" Patty asked, trying to convey
trustworthiness, an absence of judgement. She was quite skilled.

With that, Sherry began a monologue about life as a stripper. It was a
tissue of lies, but truth was not her objective. The seduction proper
had begun.

Mrs. Palmer would never have succumbed in ordinary circumstances. Her
sexual tastes were quite in line with her moral beliefs. Sherry was
certain that Patty found the idea of sex with another woman
incomprehensible, distasteful, even disgusting. And her instincts in
such matters were practically infallible.

But Sherry was astronomically far from ordinary. She was Eros
personified, and her every thought and faculty and talent and ability
was devoted entirely and unreservedly to sex and enticement and arousal.
She could intuit, and exploit, the desires of anyone she set her sights
on.

It started gradually, Sherry using the way she moved, the tone and pace
of her voice, her choice of words, when she made eye contact and when
she looked away. For Patty, there probably was no clear dividing line.
As they talked, her subconscious attitude easily moved from "She's so
pretty, it's a pity she's wasting her life so," to "No wonder the men
fawn over her... what does she do with them?" to "What would it feel
like to do those things with a man?" to "What would it feel like to do
them with *her*?"

Sherry reached out and took the woman's hands in her own, gently
stroking. Patty's heart leapt at the touch, and she was suddenly,
finally aware of how excited, how *wet* she was; how she'd stopped
talking herself, listening entranced to Sherry's almost hypnotic voice;
how her thoughts had turned so completely to "I *want* to do things with
her, *dirty* things, again and again..."

Sherry could see all this clearly, as it happened, with an exquisite
animal sensitivity that was nearly telepathic. (Given her origin,
perhaps on some level it was.) This was a critical moment. Patty was
horrified at the extent of her own raw lust, and Sherry didn't want this
'Church Lady' to regain control of herself.

"I... I really... should..." Patty stammered.

Sherry put on a concerned expression, shading it just so, innocent and
open, knowing it would entrance her victim even further. "Is something
wrong, Mrs. Palmer? You look... I dunno... flushed or something."

"It's... I can't..." Words wouldn't come. Sherry continued to rub her
hands, and it felt as though they were connected directly to her
nipples, to her *pussy*, to her *soul*...

"Man, I think you need to lie down for a bit." A cute little frown. "My
place isn't far."

Patty shivered, her heart galloping at the thought. But she despairingly
(and greedily) understood that if she went home with Sherry, she would
do... anything. Everything. And that was wrong... wasn't it? She
gathered the scraps of her willpower, and pulled her trembling hands
away.

"I really shouldn't," she stated with little conviction. "I mean, what
would people think..."

"I understand," Sherry smiled sadly. "After all, Jesus never hung out
with sinners."

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that... and He did..." She trailed off,
confused, trying to get hold of herself. She had come to try to convert
Sherry, and now... But she was a fine, upstanding citizen, she
couldn't...

Patty realized no one would 'think' anything. No one would believe what
she wanted to do, even if Sherry tried to tell anyone. The storm was
inside her and *she* didn't believe it. Her sin would be hidden... "I'd
love to go home with you." Sherry's deep eyes, her sudden sweet smile...

                                  ---

*"...drinking pleasure with bestial avidity..."*

Patty walked into the house in daze. She was more than half convinced
she was asleep. She couldn't *really* be doing this, feeling this way,
could she? And Sherry herself... something about her was so *uncanny*,
so otherworldly, as if she belonged more to a dream than reality.

The stripper closed the door, and turned to face her directly. Patty
started to mumble something. "You have a lovely home. I wouldn't
have..." She trailed off. The girl's eyes were boring into her own. She
couldn't think, looking into those eyes. Sherry came nearer, nearer. Not
saying a word.

She almost said something then, but Sherry's hand brushed her face and
left a warm trail behind, warmth that spread everywhere. Her breath was
coming so fast, she leaned back against the wall. But the woman she'd
come to save stepped forward and leaned in. Their breasts touched
through their clothes, and for the first time in her life Patty found
that inexpressibly erotic. Sherry's face was inches away, hovering. It
was too far away. Compelled by forces she could scarcely acknowledge,
she brought her lips to Sherry's.

The kiss might have appeared gentle, even tentative to an onlooker. But
it was in that moment Patricia was lost. Sherry's lips, so tender, but
still insistent... not like a man's, urgent but not needful...

The kiss deepened. So different from Michael's... her impudent,
unashamed tongue... and now her hands, stroking... approving of what
they found, but somehow not possessive... lustful but not territorial...

There was no resistance left in her, and reluctance had vanished long
before she'd walked through the door. The two were embracing, exploring
each other with impassioned caresses. She discovered with faint surprise
that they had moved to the living room, and they had shed their purses
and shoes. Sherry deliberately worked at Patty's dress, unzipping it,
then easing it up and away. Patty stood, her only motion a shivering
with desire, as the girl removed her bra with equal deliberation. It
fell to the floor as Sherry's lips fell to the newly-revealed breasts.
She gasped as an acrobatic tongue performed lazy somersaults across her
nipples for several minutes.

Sherry stood up again and gazed once more into her eyes. This, too, was
different - taking one's time, savoring the moments, not rushing. She
realized that all she was wearing were her panties. Sherry could see all
of her, but she could not see Sherry's body. That was suddenly
intolerable. She reached out and began undressing the girl with the
compelling eyes.

The dress came off with a little work. Sherry's waist was so tiny, her
clothes had to be custom tailored. But with a modicum of gentle tugging,
she was released. Her breasts, firm and high despite their generous
size, invited touch, and taste. Patty found herself suckling and licking
another woman's nipples, and revelling in it. But then she looked
further down.

Now she saw Sherry's underwear again. So small, but it covered what she
needed to see. Patty knelt down, and reached forward, grasping the
spaghetti straps across her hips, and pulled them down, and away.

She had never really seen an adult vagina, not even her own. The hair
was fine, and seemed to naturally limit itself to a neat triangle; the
labia were clearly visible. She felt herself drawn forward. She was
conscious of the smell of Sherry's arousal, the same as her own, yet
subtly different, too. In her keyed-up state it was darkly tantalizing.
The thighs parted gently, invitingly. Before she was even fully aware of
the impulse she was exploring that delightful pussy with her mouth.

It was exotic and enthralling. Patty was licking clumsily, hungrily,
insatiably. Her nipples rubbed against Sherry's legs and she absently
thought she could feel the juices from her own vagina dripping through
her conservative panties. Sherry's hand stroked her hair, and she let
out gentle sighs from time to time.

Then the dancer shuddered, crying out softly. After a time she stepped
back and knelt down herself, and they traded impassioned kisses. Patty
was frenzied, completely out of control. She fell slowly to the rug and
laid on her back under Sherry's easy guidance. Then she felt the other
woman pulling off the last of her clothing. Animal-like in her balanced
poise, she dipped between Patty's legs and suddenly the world lurched as
a woman's mouth touched her inflamed pussy.

It had been years since anyone had licked her down there. When she and
Michael had been younger, early in their marriage, they had experimented
more, but after a while... Sherry's lingual ministrations were
stimulating her clitoris beyond endurance. Michael had nicknamed it her
'kitten' but now it was a tigress, roaring exuberantly, alive and hungry
as never before.

Moments stretched, apart from time. As if she'd been carried along a
raging stream but now had been thrown out over Niagara Falls, dropping
down to the water so far below. She could feel the orgasm coming, like
the ground rushing up to meet her, and she knew it would break her as
completely as a literal impact.

And then she hit the wall. A hole was burned into her personal reality,
the universe warped as she experienced literal convulsions of pleasure.
Only afterward did she understand how violent it had been, by the aches
in her joints, in her throat raw from screaming.

Her thoughts were streaking along in channels she'd never suspected
lurked within her mind. She'd already come but Sherry wasn't *stopping*,
she kept *going*, and it was going to happen *again*, she couldn't
*stand* it, Michael always stopped but Sherry wouldn't *stop*, that
*tongue*, and now oh God was that a finger in her *asshole* and oh God
she was coming *again* oh God oh God oh *God*...

Sherry liked women for their stamina. They didn't have pricks, sure, but
they didn't run out of steam as fast as men. And an uptight prig like
Patty, who barely knew how to fuck and hadn't had a decent screw in her
life... she had a lot bottled up. She'd last a while.

That was proven almost immediately. Following climaxes like those, any
male would have been reduced to jelly for an extended period. But
scarcely half a minute had passed before Patty was attacking her again,
begging to be allowed to try fingering Sherry's rosebud.

It went on like that for hours, Patricia acting like a fawning, adoring
puppy eager to do any trick her mistress commanded. She did things she'd
never heard of, never *conceived* of, played with *dozens* of
marvelously twisted, *disgusting* objects, and Sherry made her love
every depraved second of it, doing things in front of, and with, and to
this pagan goddess, this succubus.

                                  ---

"*I must here speak by theory alone, saying not that which I know, but
that which I suppose to be most probable.*"

Dawn found the two women still fucking furiously, at that point on the
staircase leading up from the foyer by the front door. They had screwed
in almost every other room in the cottage by now. Sherry was sitting
with her legs spread, leaning back on the stairs. Patty knelt on a lower
step, eating Sherry out while she busily frigged herself, working around
the harness of the strap-on dildo she was wearing.

She was lurching in the throes of yet another volcanic orgasm when she
heard the chiming of her phone. The ringtone was "Household of Faith",
the song she had danced to with Michael at their wedding. An icy chill
ran through her body, cutting short the pleasure. She stumbled down the
stairs and picked up the purse she had dropped the night before. She
pulled out her cell phone as the music died; there were fifteen
unanswered messages.

The chill intensified as she looked down at the phallus jutting out of
her own crotch. What had she been *doing*? What would Michael be
thinking? He would be frantic, and she hadn't thought of him in hours,
hadn't thought of anyone but herself and...

"Everything okay?" Sherry called down, casually. Even in the midst of
her sudden, crushing guilt, when Patty looked up the stairs she was
amazed at how sexy the girl was, at how much she still craved to just
put the phone down and march back up to her... To sin again, and
again...

She jerked herself away. "I... I have to get home."

"Oh," Sherry replied, unperturbed. "You're gonna need to call a cab, I'm
going to bed. Phone book's in the kitchen." She stood up and ambled away
in the direction of the bedrooms. "See you around, maybe?" Patricia
snapped back to herself as Sherry moved out of sight - she realized
she'd been staring, hypnotized, at the stripper's magnificent rump.

She tore the obscene tool from her body and made her way unsteadily to
the kitchen. She called the first taxi company in the book. The
dispatcher seemed unaccountably excited and amused by the address she
gave. Then she numbly went to gather her clothes, trying not to think
about the woman in bed upstairs. If she did too much of that, she would
find herself in that bed too.

The taxi arrived with amazing promptness. She hadn't even found all of
her things before it pulled up to a screeching halt in front of the
house. Patricia was grateful that it was early morning and no one was
about to see her leaving. The taxi driver pushed open the door next to
him, and appeared to be very disappointed when she got into the back
seat instead. At her direction, he headed off to the club in a surly
fashion.

Away from Sherry, the spell was wearing off further. Patty was suddenly
aware of her disheveled appearance, of what the driver was seeing with
his sneaking peeks at her in the rearview mirror. She summoned her
dignity and stared resolutely out the window until they approached the
club.

The parking lot was nearly empty since the club was closed. Finding her
car was easy, a police cruiser was parked next to it. Two uniformed
officers were examining it. "Wait, stop here!" she cried to the cabbie
before he could turn in. She got out paid him, not able to look him in
the eye. Then she started the long walk to her car and the waiting
police. Michael must have called them, she suddenly realized. Of course
he would have.

Her *nipples* were pierced. How could she face Michael, how could she
face her *children*? She was an abomination, a harlot with pierced
nipples and shaved pubes and no panties and every inch of her skin stank
of sweat and *pussy*, even her *hair* smelled like *cunt*, and every
hole was sore and aching... and she still wanted *more*. More from the
very Whore of Babylon herself. Patty sagged down in the middle of the
lot and sobbed brokenly. She cried out to Jesus for strength, for
forgiveness, not caring about the police coming towards her. She'd never
prayed more fervently; and she'd never prayed with so little faith God's
answer would be "Yes".

/Popular Pastor Takes Leave Of Absence From Rock Baptist Church, Cites
'Personal, Family Issues'/

                                  ---

*"...habit brought -- no, not alleviation -- but a certain callousness
of soul, a certain acquiescence of despair..."*

No church ever directly challenged the Corinthian again after that.
Before long Sherry was gone, anyway. There had been some preliminary
discussions already, but the news story sparked a tempestuous bidding
war among the various adult video companies and when the dust settled
she had moved to L.A. That was over a year ago now. I sold off the
store; she only let me bring a few of my possessions along.

A porn star's life suits her perfectly, of course. Filming takes up only
a few weeks of each year. The rest of the time, she's stripping on
stages around the world, or dancing in clubs, or fucking anything that
moves, or doing photo shoots. (Nor are all of those for porn magazines;
the more respectable media has taken notice of her, too.)

She won almost a dozen AVN awards this year, and her salary is closer to
that of mainstream celebrities. (So, too, is her fame.) Her future seems
extraordinarily bright; she's one of very few porn stars who look good
in HD. And certainly no actress has ever been as... accessible to her
public.

Unlike stripping, porn requires gynecological exams. Sherry's first trip
caused something of a stir; it turns out she has a male chromosome or
something. Her 'ovaries' are like failed testicles. Apparently most
women like that don't even undergo puberty, but that's pretty obviously
not the case with Sherry - the docs say she's "hypersexualized". They're
calling it "Atypical Swyer Syndrome" if I remember correctly, though
they promise not to use her name when they publish.

She's quite undisturbed by it - as far as she's concerned periods and
pregnancy would just interfere with her activities. Personally, I'm
quietly grateful. I wouldn't want any child to have Sherry for a mother.

I do have some small power over her, a 'nuclear option'. I'd kill myself
if she molested a child, and she knows it. Fortunately children aren't
exactly common in the circles that she travels, and she *must* 'bring me
out' at least every few weeks. Otherwise, she'd have a truly legendary
collection of STDs. Still, she hates to give up valuable fucking time,
so I spend most of my few scattered hours making up doses of the potion;
she doesn't have the patience. It's not much of a life but it's
something.

Rereading this account, I have to admit that the risque details I've
included might seem excessive or merely titillating, but I couldn't help
including them. Chalk that up to Sherry's influence; she's a part of me.
The strongest one, now. Even as I write this, I can feel her stirring
inside. My 'turn' is running out. I just want there to be a record, some
kind of trace that Carl was here. She'd probably want to destroy this
account if she thought I would try to publish it, but she's pretty
focused on her own pursuits. She'd never waste time going to look for it
so long as I don't do anything to jeopardize her lifestyle. Maybe I'll
hide it in the bureau this all started with. We brought it to L.A. with
us.

Some of this is extrapolated, like poor Mrs. Palmer's thoughts. But the
fact that she did what she did means that Sherry read her pretty well.
She babbled enough about herself and her mission in the course of that
night; I don't think she's misrepresented.

To anyone reading this at some future date, who may be tempted to follow
in the footsteps of Tawesson and myself, heed our warnings. The id is
more powerful than we, with our millennia of civilizing influences,
might credit, and ta

Poor Carl dear, you waited too long, didn't you? It's all right, I won't
destroy your little confession. I know you'll hide it; you wouldn't dare
spoil my fun. But I like the ideas you didn't want to write down. I
agree... take some submissive, work them up into a frenzy of sexy
obedience, and make them drink the potion... Why, you'd have the perfect
slave!

I think I'll go hunting tonight. Someone who won't be missed... Thanks
for providing me some extra doses!

                              Love, Sherry
                                 XOXOXO
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