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Gil watched her, unbuttoning his shirt. He could sense her smiling. She came over and buried the fingers of one hand into the curly brown hair on his chest, and tugged at it. She kissed his cheeks, then his lips. Then she reached down and started to unfasten his belt. Gil thought: This is morally wrong, dammit. I'm cheating the woman who gave me my children; the woman who's waiting for me to come home tomorrow. But how often does a man run into a sexual dream like this?
Supposing I tell her to get dressed and leave. I'll spend the rest of my life wondering what it could have been like. Anna slid her hands into the back of his trousers. Her sharp fingernails traced the line of his buttocks, and he couldn't help shivering. Gil sat on the edge of the bed and struggled out of his trousers. Then Anna pushed him gently backward. He heard the softest plucking of elastic as she took off her cache-sex. She climbed astride his chest and sat in the semidarkness smiling at him, her hair like a soft and mysterious veil.
She lifted herself up and teasingly lowered her vulva so that it kissed his lips. Her pubic hair was silky and long, and rose up in a plume. Gil kissed her, hesitantly at first, then deeper, holding her open with his fingers. They made love four times that night. Anna seemed to be insatiable. When the first slate-gray light of morning began to strain into the room, and the trams began to boom over Hogesluis again, Gil lay back in bed watching her sleep, her hair tangled on the pillow. He cupped her breast in his hand, and then ran his fingers gently all the way down the flatness of her stomach to her dark-haired sex.
She was more than a dream, she was irresistible. She was everything that anybody could desire. Gil kissed her lightly on the forehead, and when she opened her eyes and looked up at him and smiled, he knew that he was already falling in love with her. Gil looked at her, but at the same time he made a conscious effort to picture Margaret, as if he were watching a movie with a split screen. He could imagine Margaret sitting on the sofa sewing and glancing at the clock every few minutes to see if it was time for him to be landing at Gatwick Airport.
He could see her opening the front door and smiling and kissing him and telling him what Alan had been doing at playschool. Anna drew his head down and kissed him. Her tongue slipped in between his teeth. Then she lay back and whispered, "What about two days? I could take you to Zandvoort. We could go to my house, and then we could spend all day and all night and all the next day making love. Tell them you may be able to sell the good burghers of Amsterdam a few more of your buses.
A day and a night and a day. You can go home on Sunday night. The plane won't be so crowded then. Gil hesitated, and then kissed her. What the hell. I'll call the airline after breakfast. Anna stretched out like a beautiful sleek animal. Gil Batchelor," she told him.
Margaret had sniffled: that had made him feel so guilty that he had nearly agreed to come back to England straight away. She missed him, everything was ready for him at home, Alan kept saying, "Where's daddy? Surely the Dutch people could telephone him, or send him a telex? And why him? George Kendall should have been selling those extra buses, not him. In the end, it was her whining that gave him the strength to say, "I have to, that's all.
I don't like it any more than you do, darling, believe me. I miss you, too, and Alan. But it's only two more days. And then we'll all go to Brighton for the day, what about that? We'll have lunch at Wheeler's. He put down the phone. Anna was watching him from across the room. She was sitting on a large white leather sofa, wearing only thin pajama trousers of crepe silk.
Between her bare breasts she held a heavy crystal glass of Bacardi. The coldness of the glass had made her nipples tighten. She was smiling at him in a way that he found oddly disturbing. She looked almost triumphant, as if by persuading him to lie to Margaret, she had somehow captured a little part of his soul. Behind her, through the picture window that was framed with cheese-plants and ivy, he could see the concrete promenade, the wide gray beach, the gray overhanging clouds, and the restless horizon of the North Sea. He came and sat down beside her. He touched her lips with his fingertip, and she kissed it.
His hand followed the warm heavy curve of her breast, and then he gently rolled her nipple between finger and thumb. She watched him, still smiling. She set her drink down on the glass and stainless-steel table next to her and knelt up on the sofa. She tugged down her pajama trousers so that she was naked. She pushed Gil on to his back and climbed on top of him. He didn't answer, but lifted his head slightly, and licked all the way down that liquid crevice from top to bottom, and swallowed.
The house was always silent, except when they spoke, or when they played music. Anna liked Mozart symphonies, but she always played them in another room.
The walls were white and bare, the carpets were gray. The inside of the house seemed to be a continuation of the bleak coastal scenery that Gil could see through the windows. Apart from the houseplants there were no ornaments. The few pictures on the walls were lean, spare drawings of naked men and women, faceless most of them. Gil had the feeling that the house didn't actually belong to Anna, that it had been occupied by dozens of different people, none of whom had left their mark on it. It was a house of no individuality whatsoever.
An anxious house, at the very end of a cul-de-sac that fronted the beach. The gray brick sidewalks were always swirled with gritty gray sand. The wind blew like a constant headache. They made love over and over again. They went for walks on the beach, the collars of their coats raised up against the stinging sand. They ate silent meals of cold meat and bread and cold white wine. They listened to Mozart in other rooms. On the third morning Gil woke up and saw that Anna was awake already, and watching him. He reached out and stroked her hair.
She took hold of his hand and squeezed it. One more day and one more night? I promised Margaret. And I have to be back behind my desk on Monday morning. She lowered her head so that he couldn't see her face. Gil said nothing. It hurt too much to think that he might never sleep with Anna again in the whole of his life. He eased himself out from under the quilt and walked through to the bathroom.
He switched on the light over the basin and inspected himself. He looked tired. Well, anybody would be, after two days and three nights of orgiastic sex with a woman like Anna. But there was something else about his face which made him frown, a different look about it. He stared at himself for a long time, but he couldn't decide what it was. He filled the basin with hot water and squirted a handful of shaving-foam into his hand.
He hesitated, then he rinsed off the foam and emptied the basin. He must have shaved last night, before he went to bed, and forgotten about it. After all, they had drunk quite a lot of wine. He went to the toilet, and sat down, and urinated in quick fits and starts. It was only when he got up and wiped himself by passing a piece of toilet paper between his legs that he realized what he had done. I never sit down to pee. I'm not a woman. Anna was standing in the bathroom doorway watching him. He laughed. She came up to him and put her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Experiment 1: Lucky Number
It was a long, complicated, yearning kiss. When he opened his eyes again she was staring at him very close up. Give me one more day. Give me one more night. With the same directness she had exhibited in the bar of the Amstel Hotel, she took hold of his penis and clasped it in her hand. His reaction was immediate. One more day, one more night. You can catch the evening flight on Monday and be back in England before nine.
That day they walked right down to the edge of the ocean. A dog with wet bedraggled fur circled around and around, yapping at them. The wind from the North Sea was relentless. When they returned to the house, Gil felt inexplicably exhausted. Anna undressed him and helped him up to the bedroom. She leaned over and kissed him. He lay with his eyes open, listening to Mozart playing in another room and looking at the way the gray afternoon light crossed the ceiling and illuminated the pen-and-ink drawing of a man and a woman entwined together.
The drawing was like a puzzle. It was impossible to tell where the man ended and where the woman began. He fell asleep. It started to rain, salty rain from the sea. He slept all afternoon and all evening, and the wind rose and the rain lashed furiously against the windows. He was still asleep at two o'clock in the morning, when the bedroom door opened and Anna came in and softly slipped into bed beside him.
He dreamed that Anna was shaking him awake, and lifting his head so that he could sip a glass of water. He dreamed that she was caressing him and murmuring to him. He dreamed that he was trying to run across the beach, across the wide gray sands, but the sands turned to glue and clung around his ankles.
He heard music, voices. He opened his eyes. It was twilight. The house was silent. He turned to look at his watch on the bedside table. It was in the evening. His head felt congested, as if he had a hangover, and when he licked his lips they felt swollen and dry. He lay back for a long time staring at the ceiling, his arms by his sides. He must have been ill, or maybe he had drunk too much. He had never felt like this in his life before. It was only when he raised his hand to rub his eyes that he understood that something extraordinary had happened to him.
His arm was obstructed by a huge soft growth on his chest. He felt a cold thrill of complete terror and instantly yanked down the quilt. When he saw his naked body, he let out a high-pitched shout of fright. He had breasts. Two heavy, well-rounded breasts, with fully developed nipples. He grasped them in his hands and realized they weren't tumorous growths, they weren't cancers, they were actual female breasts, and very big breasts, too.
Just like Anna's. Trembling, he ran his right hand down his sides, and felt a narrow waist, a fiat stomach, and then silky pubic hair. He knew what he was going to feel between his legs, but he held himself back for minute after minute, his eyes closed, not daring to believe that it had gone, that he had been emasculated. At last, however, he slipped his fingers down between his hairless thighs, and felt the moist lips of his vulva.
He hesitated, swallowed, and then slipped one finger into his vagina. There was no question about it. His body was completely female, inside and out. In appearance, at least, he was a woman. He climbed slowly out of bed and his breasts swayed, just the way that Anna's had swayed. He walked across the room and confronted the full-length mirror beside the dressing table.
There was a woman looking back at him, a beautiful naked woman, and the woman was him. The eyes were his, the expression was his. He could see himself inside that face, his own personality, Gil Batchelor the bus salesman from Woking. But who else was going to be able to see what he saw?
What was Brian Taylor going to see, if he tried to turn up for work? And, God Almighty, what was Margaret going to say, if he came back home looking like this? Without a sound, he collapsed to the floor, and lay with his face against the gray carpet, in total shock. He lay there until it grew dark, feeling chilled, but unwilling or unable to move. He wasn't sure which and he wasn't going to find out. At last, when the room was completely dark, the door opened, and a dim light fell across the floor.
Gil heard a voice saying, "You're awake. I'm sorry. I should have come in earlier. Gil lifted his head. Unconsciously, he drew his long tangled hair out of his eyes, and looked up. A man was silhouetted in the doorway, a man wearing a business suit and polished shoes. What the hell is going on here? Did you do this with hormones, or what? I'm a man! I'm a man , for Christ's sake! The man came forward and knelt down beside him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.
If I knew how it happened, believe me, I'd tell you. But all I know is, it happens. One man to the next. The man who was Anna before me — the man who took the body that used to be mine — he told me everything about it, just as I'm telling you — and just as you'll tell the next man that you pick. At that moment the bedroom door swung a little wider, and the man's face was illuminated by the light from the hallway.
With a surge of paralyzing fright, Gil saw that the man was him. His own face, his own hair, his own smile. His own wristwatch, his own suit. And outside in the hallway, his own suitcase, already packed. You knew. The man nodded. Gil should have been violent with rage. He should have seized the man by the throat and beaten his head against the wall. But the man was him, and for some inexplicable reason he was terrified of touching him. The man said, quietly, "I'm sorry for you. Please believe me. But I'm just as sorry for myself.
I used to be a man like you. My name was David Chilton. I was thirty-two years old, and I used to lease executive aircraft. I had a family, a wife and two daughters, and a house in Darien, Connecticut. He paused, and then he said, "Four months ago I came to Amsterdam and met Anna. One thing led to another, and she took me back here. She used to make me go down on her, night after night. Then one morning I woke up and I was Anna, and Anna was gone.
The man shook his head. Only one place where he could survive in my body and with my identity. Gil stared at him. He took your body and went to live in your own home? I flew to New York and then rented a car and drove up to Connecticut. I parked outside my own house and watched myself mowing my own lawn, playing with my own daughters, kissing my own wife. He lowered his head, and then he said, "I could have killed him, I guess. Me, I mean — or at least the person who looked like me.
But what would that have achieved? I would have made a widow out of my own wife, and orphans out of my own children. I loved them too much for that. I love them still. Gil said, "Couldn't you have stayed like Anna? Why couldn't you stay the way you were?
The Belly Riders Part 2. – Erotic and sexual stories
Why did you have to take my body? Not even the poorest most downtrodden guy in the whole wide world has to endure what women have to endure. Supposing every time that a woman came up to a man, she stared at his crotch instead of his face, even when they were supposed to be having a serious conversation? You don't think that happens?
You did it to me, when we met at the hotel. Eighty percent of the time your eyes were ogling my tits, and I know what you were thinking. Well, now it's going to happen to you. And, believe me, after a couple of months, you're going to go pick up some guy not because you want to live like a man again but because you want your revenge on all those jerkoffs who treat you like a sex object instead of a human being. Gil knelt on the floor and said nothing. David Chilton checked Gil's wristwatch — the one that Margaret had given him on their last anniversary — and said, "I'd better go.
I've booked a flight at eleven. David Chilton made a face. Your wife's expecting me home. A straight ordinary-looking man like me. Not a voluptuous brunette like you. You may look like me, but you're not me, are you? She'll know you're not me the minute you walk into the house. So will my dog. David Chilton said, "I've taken more than your shape, Gil. I've taken your memory, too. In the middle left-hand drawer of your desk at home, you have a flashlight, most of your credit card statements, a stapler, and the souvenir issue of Playboy when they stopped putting staples through the centerfold.
Your father used to play the bassoon on Sunday afternoons, even though your mother tried to persuade him not to. But there's a diary in the living room, a diary kept by most of the men who have changed into Anna. Read it before you think of doing anything drastic.
He reached out and touched Gil's hair, almost regretfully. You have clothes, you have a car, you have money in the bank. You even have an investment portfolio. You're not a poor woman. Fantasy women never are. If you want to stay as Anna, you can live quite comfortably for the rest of your life.
Or… if you get tired of it, you know what to dp. Gil sat on the floor incapable of doing anything at all to prevent David Chilton from leaving. He was too traumatized; too drained of feeling. David Chilton went to the end of the hallway and picked up his suitcase. He turned and smiled at Gil one last time, and then blew him a kiss. Gil was still sitting staring at the carpet when the front door closed, and the body he had been born with walked out of his life.
He slept for the rest of the night. He had no dreams that he could remember. When he woke up, he lay in bed for almost an hour, feeling his body with his hands. It was frightening but peculiarly erotic, to have the body of a woman, and yet to retain the mind of a man.
Gil massaged his breasts, rolling his nipples between finger and thumb the way he had done with "Anna. He wondered what it would be like to have a man actually inside him; a man on top of him, thrusting into him. He showered and washed his hair. He found the length of his hair difficult to manage, especially when it was wet, and it took four attempts before he was able to wind a towel around it in a satisfactory turban. Yet Margaret always did it without even looking in the mirror. He decided that at the first opportunity he got, he would have it cut short. He went to the closet and inspected Anna's wardrobe.
He had liked her in her navy-blue skirt and white loose-knit sweater. He found the sweater folded neatly in one of the drawers. He struggled awkwardly into it, but realized when he looked at himself in the mirror that he was going to need a bra. He didn't want to attract that much attention, not to begin with, anyway. He located a drawerful of bras, lacy and mysterious, and tried one on. His breasts kept dropping out of the cups before he could fasten it up at the back, but in the end he knelt down beside the bed and propped his breasts on the quilt. He stepped into one of Anna's lacy little G-strings.
He found it irritating, the way the elastic went right up between the cheeks of his bottom, but he supposed he would get used to it. Get used to it. The words stopped him like a cold bullet in the brain. He stared at himself in the mirror, that beautiful face, those eyes that were still his. He began to weep with rage. You've started to accept it already. You've started to cope. You 're fussing around in your bra and your panties and you're worrying which skirt to wear and you've already forgotten that you 're not Anna, you 're Gil. You 're a husband. You're a father. You're a man, dammit! He began to hyperventilate, his anger rising up unstoppably like the scarlet line of alcohol rising up a thermometer.
He picked up the dressing stool and heaved it at the mirror. The glass shattered explosively, all over the carpet. A thousand tiny Annas stared up at him in uncontrollable fury and frustration. He stormed blindly through the house, yanking open drawers, strewing papers everywhere, clearing ornaments off tabletops with a sweep of his arm.
He wrenched open the doors of the cocktail cabinet, and hurled the bottles of liquor one by one across the room, so that they smashed against the wall.
Whiskey, gin, Campari, broken glass. In front of him, lying on the rug, were Anna's identity card, her social security papers, her passport, her credit cards. Anna Huysmans. The name that was now his. On the far side of the room, halfway under the leather sofa, Gil saw a large diary bound in brown Morocco leather.
He crept across the floor on his hands and knees and picked it up. This must be the diary that David Chilton had been talking about. He opened it up to the last page. He read, through eyes blurry with tears, Gil has been marvelous… he has an enthusiastic, uncluttered personality… It won't be difficult to adapt to being him… I just hope that I like his wife Margaret… She sounds a little immature, from what Gil says… and he complains that she needs a lot of persuading when it comes to sex… Still, that's probably Gil's fault… you couldn't call him the world's greatest lover.
Gil flicked back through the diary's pages until he came to the very first entry. To his astonishment it was dated July 16, It was written in German, by a Reichswehr officer who appeared to have met Anna while driving out to Edam on military business. Her bicycle tire was punctured… She was so pretty that I told my driver to stop and to help her …. There was no way of telling, however, whether this German Samaritan had been the first of Anna's victims, or simply the first to keep a diary.
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The entries went on page after page, year after year. There must have been more than seven hundred of them; and each one told a different story of temptation and tragedy. Some of the men had even essayed explanations of what Anna was, and why she took men's bodies. She has been sent to punish us by God Himself for thinking lustful thoughts about women and betraying the Holy Sacrament of marriage….
She does not actually exist. There is no "Anna," because she is always one of us. We fall in love with our own illusions, rather than a real woman. To me, Anna is a collector of weak souls. She gathers us up and hangs us on her charm bracelet, little dangling victims of our own vicissitudes. If I killed myself would it break the chain? Would Anna die if I died? Supposing I tried to seduce the man who was Anna before me… could I reverse the changing process? Gil sat on the floor and read the diary from cover to cover.
It was an extraordinary chorus of voices — real men who had been seduced into taking on the body of a beautiful woman, one after the other — and in their turn had desperately tried to escape. Business executives, policemen, soldiers, scientists, philosophers — even priests. Some had stayed as Anna for fewer than two days; others had managed to endure it for months. But to every single one of them, the body even of the plainest man had been preferable to Anna's body, regardless of how desirable she was. By two o'clock Gil was feeling hungry. The icebox was almost empty, so he drove into Amsterdam for lunch.
The day was bright but chilly, and so he wore Anna's black belted raincoat, and a black beret to cover his head. He tried her high heels, but he twisted his ankle in the hallway, and sat against the wall with tears in his eyes saying, "Shit, shit," over and over, as if he ought to have been able to walk in them quite naturally. He limped back to the bedroom and changed into black flat shoes.
He managed to find a parking space for Anna's BMW on the edge of the Singel Canal, close to the Muntplein, where the old mint building stood, with its clock and its onion dome. There was an Indonesian restaurant on the first floor of the building on the corner: one of the executives of the Gemeentevervoerbedrijf had pointed it out to him. He went upstairs and a smiling Indonesian waiter showed him to a table for one, overlooking the square. He ordered rijstafel for one and a beer. Her breasts are full and ripe, tipped with dark aureoles and stubby nipples. Her belly is firm and flat, her hips are flared, and her buttocks are delectable curves.
Her limbs are slender and well turned with shapely legs and slender ankles and wrists. Her fingers and toes are long and well shaped. Between her legs, the dark delta of her pubic hair is neatly trimmed. And she loves sex. She craves it, hankers for it, demands it, always has since her early teens. I have never been able to match her appetite. Or her aptitude. There was just no way could the servant have denied her, or she him. Now a slow, lascivious smile creased her lovely face. Without taking her eyes off my face, she spoke to her lover. Show him everything you do to me. Let him see.
Let him know! C'mon, fuck me Kneeling above her, the servant grinned, right into my face, then down at her, and flexed his buttocks and thrust deep into her, making her arch and gasp in pure, unfaked pleasure. All I could do was watch numbly. Beneath him, Vidya gasped as his penis surged into her cunt. Her hips jerked up at his and her body arched steeply under his. Her head arched back and her fingers clawed at his sprawling shoulders. Oh that's so good Fuck me, Ashok! Fuck me hard! Ohma uh yes uhhh Ohh Ashok! I watched, mesmerized, as his enormous cock ground in and out of her cunt, appearing and disappearing and shining and glistening with their consilient coital fluids.
Her body jerked and rocked under his thrusts, her swollen breasts jiggling and bouncing sexily. She moaned and gasped her joy, digging her fingers into his bulging biceps, squeezing his buttocks, crushing her own breasts in excitement. My erection was monstrous. Grinning at me, the servant unfolded his legs and bend over her on outstretched arms and knees.
He lifted his hips and, his eyes on my face, with a skewering rush of his hips, his buttocks flexing taut, thrust deep and hard into my wife's flesh. She weep out sharply, arching even more steeply, shuddering, her fingers clenching his bulging biceps. He laughed softly, scarcely out of breath and began moving fast, fucking her demonically.
His hips rocked rapidly up and down, up and down, back and forth, to and fro, his buttocks flexing and unflexing. Under him, Vidya's body jerked and snapped with his thrusts, her swollen breasts bouncing wildly, the gold chain around her neck tossing, her feet locked in the small of his back. Her weep and lewd love-calls grew sharper, higher, and louder. Your cock feels so good!
Shove it in! Shove it right up my cunt! Take my cock! I noticed he didn't use the honorific and more respectful aap, just the familiar tu. I guess it made sense, given the circumstances. And a nice and hot and tight cunt it is, too! He thrust deep into her and she arched and weep out and, as he slid out, moaned in pleasure, her hands sliding down his muscular back, clenching his buttocks, drawing him back deep into her. I love fucking you! All of you! Fuck me! Don't stop! Show him everything! See how she begs like a whore!
Vidya moaned and sucked on his tongue and lips, her arms wound slavishly about his sprawling shoulders, her feet hooked behind his knees, her swollen breasts flattening against his chest. His hips kept rocking up and down, his buttocks flexing and unflexing. He rose again and now I saw him grit his teeth and arch his head and groan thickly. He moved faster now, plunging steeply in and out of her cunt. Her body jerked and rocked under his thrusts, her breasts bouncing wildly.
As if on cue, they slowed and I realised that this wasn't the first time they'd been together.
See a Problem?
They knew each other's moods and desires too well. He slid smoothly out of her and, unbidden, still gasping and panting, she rolled slowly onto her front, facing me, raised on her forearms and knees, her body slanting down away from him. Her breasts hung heavy and pendulous, her gold necklace swung free. Her face glowed with a soft radiance of lust. She shuffled her legs apart and turned her face over her slender shoulder to the servant.
I turned the tables on them. I had my little vengeance. I stepped past them insouciantly, opened my cupboard and pulled out my digital video camera. I turned back to them. They were gaping at me. I grinned, winked and turned on the video camera. A total slut. Keep fucking her, my friend.
She likes that. Always did. Ever since she was On the bed, Vidya moaned, her excitement as visible and naked as the rest of her. She got into the act very quickly and I could see that this new shift was actually arousing her. Fuck me like a bitch! She bit her lower lip in anticipation. He gripped her hips, chuckled, and, in one long, punishing, piercing stroke, his buttocks flexing taut, his hips jamming against her buttocks, thrust deep and hard into her.
She weep out sharply, a call of the purest joy, her mouth opening in a wide O, her head lifting. Oh fuck yes! His hips swung to and fro, his buttocks flexing and unflexing.
As I Walked In
In the camera's viewfinder, I could see his huge cock appearing and disappearing between the curves of her buttocks, grinding wetly in and out of her cunt. Her body rocked and jerked under his thrusts, her swollen breasts bouncing, her gold necklace tossing back and forth. His hands dug into the soft flesh of her hips as he moved faster, his thighs now slapping loudly against her buttocks, grunting and calling loud obscenities to her. Beneath him, she rocked back and forth, her shoulders hunching as her head sank low.
He moved faster and I filmed him thudding into her, making her breasts bounce violently, her necklace tossing wildly. Her weep grew higher and her face contorted in lust, and I saw her squeeze her breasts feverishly, reach back and pull her buttocks further open for him. Oh god yes, Ashok, yes! Oh ma uh yes uhh OHHH! That's it! Take it! She was to do only as she was instructed, and she knew that disobedience would be punished severely. Every step she took with her black stilettos echoed throughout the chamber.
Every voice in her head told her to turn back, to find a way to reopen the black leather doors and escape, but a force somewhere deep inside her young body made her venture forward. The failure of men to grant her the carnal gratification she had long desired had pushed her to where she now stood. She was to be a sexual servant, a female slave to an anonymous man of infinite power and alluringly dark mystery. A shiver came over her, as if the voice had cut through her straight into her soul.
I hope that you have prepared adequately for our visit. I will not be disappointed. She looked upward to see a shadowy, masculine figure standing atop a gnarled wooden staircase.
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