Chapter 1

Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Mult, Consensual, Reluctant, BiSexual, Heterosexual, TransGender, CrossDressing, Fiction, MaleDom, FemaleDom, Light Bond, Humiliation, Gang Bang, Interracial, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Sex Toys, Exhibitionism, Transformation, .

Desc: Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A classic story, extrapolated to modern times.



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... breasts 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.

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