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The Christmas Gift, Pt. 11
🕑 Added 2023-02-28 09:08:04 +0000 UTC
I walked topless to the bathroom, swaying my hips, and feeling the pleasant swing of my breasts set free.
My body was charged with my interrupted orgasm. A female orgasm. Not a pitiful seizing of a cock, a spurt of semen, and a dullness in the head. No — an orgasm that should have erupted in tremors across my flesh, radiating from deep in my clit to the outward reaches of my curvy, alluring body.
One that takes you completely.
The ache of my ovaries was now joined by one deep in my pussy. Even now, if I could tear off these leggings and bury my fingers inside of myself, it wouldn’t be enough. It would take time and exploration to unlock the misspent energy within me, to convert it back to something kinetic and real, something my pussy could ride out to an explosive, fulfilling climax. I clenched my muscles at the vacancy within me, forlorn that my last chance at orgasm had been taken from me. The echoes of the soprano moans it would have drawn from my throat echoed in my ears, taunting me.
I could feel Sam’s presence behind me. His gaze over my figure, my ass, the way I walked. I invited him. I stuck my ass out and strolled to the mirror and turned, settling my butt down on the corner of the bathroom counter. As a man I would have felt the counter digging close to my pelvic bone, but now I had a generous cushion to sit on. I bounced in place, flitting as I spoke.
“So what do I do first?”
Sam laughed. “We don’t have time for you to do anything,” he said as he strolled to stand over his panoply of makeup products at the vanity table that stood at the far end of our spacious master bathroom. “Eddy, sit your pretty little ass down on this chair and let me do the work.”
I nodded and slinked to the chair, bobbing my plump little ass all the more.
It’s not that I wasn’t already pretty. And I’m not sure what I expected. Even as we started the process I uttered, “Make me pretty, Sam,” trying my best to sound reluctant. Acting like I didn’t want this.
But the explorations of the day had whetted my appetite. I settled my cushion into the plush chair and admired myself in the mirror — my face framed in beautiful light and my exposed tits.
I glanced at Sam, whose strong hands moved across the containers and bottles working out where to start. A slight evening stubble was appearing on his chin and across his cheeks, one that made him look even more strong and handsome. One I suddenly wanted to feel moving against my cheek, or better, down my tummy and settling into my cleanly-shaven pussy. Sam broke my reverie by bruskly passing me a hairband, his deep voice booming in my chest. “Put your hair up. Now.”
“Yes, sir!”
Sam smirked.
It felt good to make him smile. He had been so serious since this morning — not that I didn’t like him being serious. God, I fucking loved how sure he was about everything. How firmly he clutched my curves. How insistant he was that I change. But now, at the table, a sudden gentleness appeared in his form, and the pressure of having visitors was relieved for a moment. I was in Sam’s hands. So I uttered again, “Make me pretty.”
Sam dabbed primer to my face and said sweetly. “Oh, honey. You are already pretty.” A blush returned to my cheeks. My nipples began to harden, taken in his sweetness, and touched by the cold air of the bathroom. A strong winter wind was kicking up outside, sweeping the dark branches of the trees behind our house according to its will. They swayed and stretched, fractalled black silhouettes on a dark gray overcast sky.
I relaxed my shoulders and let Sam dab my face, working the makeup in, making me pretty. Powders and creams and concoctions. My hair in a ponytail. My thighs hugged together — but gradually moving apart — my beautiful tits blocking the vision of where they met at my pelvis.
I craned my neck proudly.
I understood sitting there, that for all the talk of society expecting makeup, it was, at its origination, a purely female invention. One borne of competition. A smooth complexion, a little blush, some red of the lips — all of these are representations of vitality. A trick of the senses. A novelty. A play.
And I realized sitting there that, from the moment I changed, I was drawn unconsciously into a competition. On my knees, in the shower, what had I thought about? I had thought about besting my wife. And not only my wife — her friends. And my past girlfriends. I thought of demonstrating clearly to all of them the right way to suck a cock. Having had a cock, I simply knew. So I showed my wife, noting she moaned louder than I ever had in the same scenario.
Yes, I had done it partly for myself, in expectation of return treatment when we changed back. But I had also done it to show her up — my tongue, lips, and mouth engaged to be the best woman in the world at giving head. I had liked having her in my mouth. There was strange power on my knees. The power to please her completely. When she took my hair in her fists, moaned, pulled me in, and came down my throat I knew without a doubt I had been a good husband and lover to her. That's all I have ever wanted. Knowing that, I could swallow her come without reservation.
And what of Andrew and Bridgette? Our soon-to-be-arriving dinner guests?
Well, in regard to Bridgette, I had often eyed her in passing, by no means interested in flirting with my friend’s wife, but simply enjoying her easy manner, her smooth complexion, and long auburn hair. And, if I can admit, her breasts — which right now have been bested in their own right.
I sit up a little straighter, feeling my bust pleasantly filling out the air in front of me, nipples at attention. Wait until Bridgette sees these.
Andrew of course will probably say something stupid about this situation. There’s not much I can do about that. I can simply shrug and say it was Samantha’s idea. Just for Christmas.
“Eddy, honey. Don’t shrug your shoulders. I need you to keep still.”
“Oh, sorry.”
I gazed at my tits in the mirror. Could breasts even be this perfect? A new pride was welling up in my chest. If I had been born female, these would have been my breasts, and, at the moment, they were mine.
Mmm. Wait until Andrew sees these. And in that short-cut, green velour dress, I know he won’t stop staring.
Sam finished and sat back to the table, moving her head from side-to-side, examining my face.
“It’s astounding.”
“What?”
“How sculpted your eyebrows already are.” He unzipped a pouch and produced a pair of black tweezers.
I shuffled in my seat, unsure of how sculpting them more would play out when I returned to my male form. “Are you sure — “
“I just need to pluck a few. Hold still,” he said with his brow furrowed in concentration.
Immediately, a voice that was already too far away, spoke up. It said to me quite clearly that this represented a line that shouldn’t be crossed. There was no win for my male self in this. It did not set an example for my wife. I could go the night without plucking my eyebrows. It was on me, as man of the house, to put up some resistance to this. So rather than cave in, I spoke up.
“Now just hold on a second, Sam — “
“Shhh!”
I sat back and stood still.
Smarting at each pluck.
An obedient wife.
With beautiful eyebrows.
She admired her work. “There.” Sam then powdered my eyebrows, defining the arch, filling them in. My legs widened a bit more. I was heating up again.
“Okay,” Sam said firmly, “It’s time to hold still, Eddy.”
Sam had moved in front of me, obscuring my face from the mirror. Holding eyeliner and mascara. “Eyes open.”
I stood like a statue, nothing moving but my steadily swelling nipples at the apex of my breasts. Sam painted on the eyeliner deftly over each of my eyelids, then switched for the mascara. I felt at a border. At the edge — as anyone does when something is so close to their eye. The mascara brush blurred in my vision and moved, daintily moving across my long eyelashes.
Sam dropped the containers and reached in his pocket.
“Open your mouth slightly.”
Oh my god.
Lipstick.
I pressed my thighs together, feeling a squish of warmth and wetness. Why did I want it so badly?
I did as she told, breath shaking, feeling the makeup on my face. Application. I was getting done up. My hands started to shake. Time slowed and the room spun. What awaited me once Sam moved from my view of the mirror?
“Lips together. Pucker them. Good, Eddy. Good.”
Application.
Sam leaned back. He smiled. He was beaming. He nodded and bit his lip. Then slid to the side.
I melted there.
Melted into my image.
Reaching back and pulling my hair tie free, letting my hair cascade around my shoulders, tickling the tops of my breasts.
I turned, lost in the woman in the mirror. Her movements matched mine. Perfectly. I batted my eyelashes. I pressed my lips forward, admiring the rich crimson hue that coated them.
Sam stepped behind me.
“And last but not least — I bought you these.”
He brought his hand up to my right ear and clipped. “I figured we would keep things painless today,” he said, reaching to my other ear.
They dangled in place. Framed by my long hair. Ornate. Glinting in the light. Tickling my neck. I held my neck very straight, looked directly into my eyes, and drank in my beauty.
I reached my hand out and placed it softly on Sam's thigh.
“I’m so pretty.”
.
.
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