Tired No More

TIRED NO MORE

By Katharine Sexkitten

Surrounded by our children and some of her family members, she died on a Wednesday morning.

The most heartbreaking aspect was that after her initial diagnosis, when all seemed lost, she was allowed to participate in the trial of a new experimental drug, which at first proved surprisingly potent, and not only decreased the size of some of her tumors, but stopped the remaining ones from growing.

We had such hope then.

Seven months later, her success faded. Then it stopped altogether.

Then it reversed.

Mercifully, the end came quickly for her, and without too much pain. The tumor meds didn't do their job for her cancer, but the pain meds did theirs.

When she initially found the lump in her breast, we were living apart, in the same house. Months before that day, we'd agreed to separate. We'd agreed that neither of us was the person the other thought they'd be, and while there was decades of love and respect and affection behind us, we weren't in love with each other anymore. The kids were grown and out on their own, starting families of their own. Empty-nesters, people called us.

Turned out we were both tired, of the pretense of being happy.

We hadn't even told the kids that I was looking for a new place to live, even while working and taking care of the house. Because, throughout our entire relationship, I ended up doing the lion's share of the housework, and the yard-work, and the laundry, and the cooking, and the decorating. From day one. She helped, don't get me wrong, but as my Grandfather used to say, "each to their own abilities", and I seemed to take to all of it far more than she. And don't get me wrong again, I enjoyed it. All of those chores were ones I took pride in, and felt happy and contented to do. She had stresses and issues and a lot of her free time was taken up helping her sister's not-so-successful catering company. So it was fine by me to be the house-husband while I wasn't at the office, where I was a Project Co-ordinator for an engineering and consulting company.

After her initial diagnosis and her painful decision to have a mastectomy, I informed my workplace that I'd be spending a lot of time supporting my wife. My department head, who was a bit of a boot-licking toadie, objected in principle, although smarmily trying to make it sound like he was most concerned for me. I knew differently. He was just pissed that he'd have a lot more work to do with my absence, work that he didn't always know how to do correctly.

When further scans revealed a lump in her other breast, she'd agonized with the decision to have a double mastectomy, fearing she'd lose some of her femininity. Everyone including me reminded her over and over that breasts were not what made her a woman, and she was still a vibrant lovely feminine human, and if she needed it for her self-image she could have reconstructive surgery later on.

On the day of her operation, the surgeon walked into the operating room, took one look at her most recent x-rays and scans, and immediately cancelled everything. Then he took us in to his office, and grimly showed us that she had tumors in her lungs, and on her liver, and on her spine.

The word devastating doesn't even come close to describing how we felt.

I went to my office the next day and walked into the Human Resources department, and informed them I was taking a sabbatical. My boss was called, and vehemently objected. Luckily, the managing partner was nearby, and once hearing the news he summarily granted me a paid sabbatical.

Which didn't surprise me. I was grateful, more so than at any other time in my life. But it was totally in keeping with his character. He is a very generous man, and I could see in his eyes that the horrible news I was facing was far more important than the day-to-day machinations of an engineering company. His loyalty to me, and his humanity and empathy, were impressive, but completely 'him'.

The experimental drug, we'd been told by the surgeon, was showing great promise. It also cost twelve thousand dollars. A month. That was a stunner. But on the drive home, before I'd gone to my office, we'd agreed to sell our cabin, by the lake. About four hours drive from home, one of only a few structures on the lake; it had been our tried and true summer vacation spot for almost our entire marriage. The kids loved it there, and we'd promised them it would be there for their children too, but the money we'd get for it would pay for the drug for more than a few months. We had some savings too, of course, and that would help. But in the back of my brain, I did for at least a second or two do some quick calculations, and I could see bankruptcy in our future.

Thankfully, it wouldn't be our immediate future.

At one point, the HR director asked about the drug, and I found myself fighting to keep my emotions in check when I told everyone what it was and how much it cost.

I'd been keeping the lid on my emotions the entire time, since her initial diagnosis. I had to be strong, I'd decided. For her. And for the kids. And for me too. I had to keep it all together, day and night. Personally and professionally, I had to act in a mature, sober, responsible manner. That was my over-riding drive.

But with the managing partner and the HR woman and my supervisor looking on, I felt my eyes filling with tears, and the tell-tale signs in my spine of shudders coming on, and it was all I could do to not break down in tears in front of the room.

It was Waddah, the managing partner, who stood up and walked around the desk and came to stand in front of me, and promise me that the company would do anything it could to help me, and then, after placing his hands on my shoulders, he looked down into my liquidy eyes and smiled and insisted that the company would pay for her treatments.

When the shock of it wore off, I again realized he was a most wonderful and generous person, and then the tears just started rolling. I sobbed and sobbed and tried to form the words of thanks he deserved, but I didn't have that in me. Instead, I stared up at him and felt his humanity pouring into me through his eyes.

Egyptian-born, raised in England, educated at Oxford and then Yale, he was in his early sixties, with a thick head of curly dark hair, dabbed here and there with an occasional grey strand. He had a commanding voice and a commanding presence, stood nearly six foot three inches, and probably weighed two hundred pounds or more, all of it kept trim and svelte. His skin was darker than mine by a long shot, and his hands were huge, and he wore several rings.

He and his silent partner had purchased the firm ten or so years before, and while I didn't ever have day-to-day interactions with him in my less-than-managerial capacity, I can honestly say he's the best boss I've ever worked for. I found him eternally optimistic, supportive, and collegial. He always had good things to say about people. I never heard any stories from other staff about him scolding them, or acting badly, in public or in private. He treated everyone with respect, knew all our names and family situations, personally hosted social events throughout the year and encouraged everyone to attend, and was the most gracious and respectful person I'd encountered, in all my years.

So I sobbed and blubbered and cried and tried to find a way to say 'thank you', and when he realized I was struggling with all of that, he simply pulled me into him, and enveloped me in a hug. My face came to rest on the lapels of his tailored suit jacket, and I was struck by how soft the material was. His arms wrapped around me, and he whispered in to my ear with his accent of combined Arabic, British, and North American influences.

"We are not your immediate family, but we are your family too. Your pain is our pain. And you must be with your wife, and fight with her. If you need anything else, anything at all, you will call me personally, yes?"

I nodded into his chest. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt safe. I felt warm.

I felt loved.

During the months that followed, Waddah called me on several occasions, out of the blue, just to find out how I was doing, and if there was anything he could do for me and my family. It never failed to raise my spirits, even on days when I went through the misery of watching my wife suffer, through the pain and the vomiting and the agony of it all.

Her long slow march to the hospice meant my days were spent driving back and forth to see her and be with her for as long as they'd let me, but many was the night I spent alone, in our big old house, surrounded by the memories we'd made together. I could see her in every square foot of each room, from one time or another, and the variety of different hairstyles and clothing styles she wore over all those years.

After she passed, our two kids stayed with me for a few days, where they did their best to be strong for me and I did my best to be strong for them. Both of them worried for me, just as much as I worried back. At the airport, I bade them both a safe trip back to their own lives and their own new families, and we promised each other over the tears and sobs that we would keep in regular touch.

Then I went home to my empty house, a widower.

For the next few days, I poured myself into simple household tasks. Keep busy work. I vacuumed, and cleaned, and painted. I did some fix-ups on little things that had fallen by the wayside, things she'd have never noticed. I mowed lawns and weeded gardens and when I found myself falling into a morose mood, I'd start a new project. Clean out the shed. Clean out the attic. Clean out the storage room in the basement. Redecorate the guest room, make it more welcoming.

I may have been hoping the kids would visit more often.

My supervisor called after the funeral, but before the kids had jetted off, and tried to convince me that it was in my best interest to come back to work right away, and pour my energies into that. I politely turned him down. I knew the company had a bereavement policy, and I intended on taking all the time I was allowed.

Exactly one week after I interred her, I received a phone call from Waddah. He very politely asked if he could have my permission to drop by the house, to, as he put it, "see how you're doing", and "lend some emotional support". Naturally, his genuine concern and empathy overwhelmed me, and even though I wasn't in the most social of moods, I was more than happy to say yes to him. We arranged a time for the next day.

At precisely the minute, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find him standing there, a plate of food in his hands. My surprise must have registered with him, because he smiled, almost apologetically, and nodded at the plate while saying, in that deep voice, "where I come from, at a time like this, it is customary to bring something to be eaten together, to be shared, so that the joy of it is spread out, and the pain of the moment is lessened".

I was more than pleasantly surprised.

"You made me food?" I asked.

Waddah made a noise that was almost snorting, and he chuckled out loud.

"You would not want to eat anything I cooked, my friend," he said, as I led him into my house. "I should have paid more attention to my mother as I was growing up, but the truth is my culinary skills are less than acceptable." Entering the kitchen, I took the plate from him and set it on the counter. He took a very long look around.

"Your kitchen is so bright!"

I smiled, and thanked him. He was right. I'd overseen a renovation of it barely three or four years ago. I offered him something to drink, and went down the list of the usual suspects. Coffee, tea, water, iced tea, soda, wine, beer, or alcohol. He asked what I was drinking, and I responded with coffee, and he smiled and said he'd be pleased to have some, and not to go to any trouble on his behalf.

I looked him in the eyes, which were dark and blazed with life, and honestly told him I'd be happy to make him anything he'd like, anything at all. Then I asked what his food would go well with, and he wistfully grinned and said wine, but that many people might think it too early in the day for that.

Asking him what his schedule was like for the rest of the day, he told me he'd left the entire afternoon empty, dedicating himself to seeing me.

So I cracked a bottle of an Australian Shiraz, and poured us some wine. We took his plate of food and our wine and I led him to the patio, where there was some very comfortable furniture and the warmth of the early-Autumn day.

I zipped back into the house to grab some smaller plates we could eat off, and some napkins. I was quite happy to be doing things for him, to be serving him this way. It reminded me of good times, with my wife and kids, being the provider and the care-giver.

We sat, and talked happily about some unimportant things. He brought me up to date on a couple of projects that were proceeding at work, things that I'd had some input into. He made what I thought was a very subtle dig at my supervisor, which I realized was the first negative thing I'd ever heard him say about anybody.

Then we fell into a brief silence, until he finally looked at me with seriousness.

"How are you, Christopher?" he asked. "Really."

Those same emotions that had bubbled up in his office came rising up again, and I felt my eyes fill with tears.

"It's so hard, Waddah," I said, my voice quiet, "and I'm so tired."

He nodded, as if he understood.

"Time is a great healer, my friend," he responded, "and I would be honored if you didn't hold back for my sake, or propriety. Please," he almost whispered, "tell me what you're going through."

So I did. I did my best to hold everything together, and talked about my sadness, at her loss, and the loss of our marriage, and how that had been decided before she got sick, and he murmured how sorry he was for me, telling me that he too had been through a divorce, in very similar terms. They'd grown apart, and after their three children had left home, they went their separate ways.

I talked about my fears, of moving forward alone, of not being sure I knew how to do that, and I talked about being so very tired.

"Of what, exactly?" he asked.

Choosing my words carefully, I nonetheless respected him so much that I didn't lie. "I'm just tired of so much of it, this life we lead. I'm tired of the rat race, tired of the commuting, tired of the politics of dealing with my supervisor, tired of the need to be strong for my kids. All of it. I was tired of pretending to be a happily married man, when I wasn't that at all, and then she became ill, and I threw myself into caring for her, being there for her. And I loved it! I loved taking care of all the little things, the basic things. I loved providing for her, feeding her, cooking, cleaning, and making everything around her perfect. I suddenly wasn't tired anymore. Does that sound strange?"

Waddah shook his head slowly. I got the sense he was perhaps admiring me, in some way.

"And now," I continued, "now that she's gone, and the kids are back to their own lives, now it's just me, and I'm back to being tired, in so many ways."

Neither of us spoke for a few minutes.

Finally, he reached his hand over and placed it on top of mine, on the table, holding my wine glass.

"Surely you know that there are people in this world who care for you? Who send you their strength and their love every minute? Yes?"

I nodded, slowly.

"You have close friends to lean on, for emotional support?"

I shook my head, slowly.

"Not really."

Waddah looked at me, concern and something resembling annoyance on his face.

"Then, if you do not object," he propositioned, "I will become that close friend, who checks in on you frequently."

The warmth of his hand on mine, combined with the enormous warmth of what he was offering to me, took me by surprise, and I felt my eyes filling with tears again.

"That's so generous of you," I said, my voice quivering, "but you must have your own life and family to worry about, not to mention the business..."

Waddah shook his head.

"Nonsense!" he scoffed. "I will be your rock, your solid ground, your supporter and your confessor! We all need that person, in our lives, from time to time, and I am now yours!"

The smile on his face was contagious.

I rotated my hand, and allowed us to touch palm to palm. His hand was so much bigger than mine, in keeping with his overall size, which was bigger than mine. I marvelled at his heat.

"Thank you."

It was all that need be said.

We snacked on the food he'd brought, which he confessed was made for him by his housekeeper, and we sipped on our wine, and he promised me that one day he would make me real Egyptian-style coffee, which was the only thing in the kitchen he could do well, and which was much stronger and bolder. I accepted his offer immediately.

At one point, I commented on his many rings. He explained that in the Middle East, it was common for men to wear them. He went on to say that he'd known me for ten years more or less and he'd noticed that I'd never worn a ring, not even a wedding ring. I explained that where I grew up, men often didn't get a ring, or wear one.

I looked at my fingers, and imagined them adorned with gold and precious stones. I wondered what a big diamond would look like, on my ring finger.

Soon, he mentioned that he should get back to work. At the front door, he once again asked me if there was anything I needed, and I thanked him again and shook my head and said I would be okay, especially with this new friendship in my life.

At that, he beamed a smile, and pulled me into his hug again. He leaned his head down, and touched his cheek to my forehead, and whispered that the best part of being friends was 'being there' for each other, and that it wasn't just him supporting me, and that I made him feel better too. I had my arms wrapped around him, and I realized I was pulling tightly on him because I was just adoring being held like that.

The best part was that he seemed to enjoy it too, and I felt him wrap himself tighter around me. For a few minutes, there was no noise, except our breathing. We held each other, silently, enjoying the touch and warmth of another human being.

Finally, he raised his head from mine, and looked down into my eyes. His eyes were alive with energy, and his smile was from ear to ear. We stared at each other, and while it might have been awkward with other people, it just seemed so right for me. I loved looking up into those dark pools of his. I found myself lost in his eyes, and filled with energy, and positivity, and perhaps even love.

For just a second or two, I had the most amazing feeling wash over me. I felt like he wanted to kiss me. And what was even stranger, I realized that if that's what he wanted, then I would love to kiss him back! I mean, he's a man, as am I, and I'd never had any of those kinds of feelings ever, in my fifty-four years. But the idea of standing up on my tiptoes and giving him my lips to be kissed sent me reeling!

And I realized that standing there, being held by him and holding onto him, and imagining myself being kissed by him; I'd suddenly developed a serious erection. My brain went into panic mode, and I eased my grip on him, hoping against hope that he wouldn't feel my little lump up against him.

Waddah graciously promised to return soon, and gave me his personal cell phone number, if I needed to talk about anything, at any time. Then he hugged me again, briefly, before gazing at me silently and then moving out the door to his car. I stood by the door, and waved him away after he'd backed out of the driveway.

Like a housewife would, for her husband leaving.

The next day, even though I was dreading it, I began the difficult and emotional chore of going through her things. I started in her 'crafts' room, and spent a good three hours boxing up all the stuff from her various phases of knitting and card-making and sewing and painting. I'd pre-arranged with a local group and delivered all those supplies to them, to be used by people who couldn't afford the supplies. It made me feel good, as her hard work was helping those less fortunate.

Later that day, I began boxing up her clothes.

That was very hard. Very emotional.

I had to stop shortly after starting, and sat on the patio drinking wine and crying my eyes out.

Then I thought of Waddah, and his support, and his genuine care for me, and it made me smile.

It gave me the strength to go back to the chore at hand.

It was still very hard.

Every piece of clothing I pulled out of a drawer or a closet, I instantly saw on her, from one time or another, the images in my head so real and vivid and haunting that I was having a hard time throwing any of them away. No, I reasoned, I can't get rid of that sweater, or that blouse, or that skirt. It would be like throwing out a piece of my own past!

The box I'd set up was almost empty, even after a couple of hours. Everything I touched made me sob. I'd hold them to my body, as if I was holding her in them. I couldn't bear the thought of discarding them. NO! And each piece of clothing reminded me of the pain she'd gone through, the suffering that the bastard cancer had caused her.

I saw a sexy red dress hanging in the closet. I instantly went back to the party several years ago, when she'd walked out of the bedroom the first time, and I was waiting at the front door to leave. She knocked my socks off with that dress! And she knocked the socks off of every man at our social event that night. I can't begin to describe the joy and sexual energy I felt surreptitiously watching men eye-balling her, in that dress. There was no way I was going to let that go.

It would be like letting go of her, and of me.

I boxed up some old socks and some boring P. J.'s and some frumpy sweaters, and a couple of pairs of flat shoes she'd had, and that was it. I just sat on the bed, surrounded by piles of memories, clutching one of her little black dresses to my chest, and zipping back and forth in time, from one memory to another.

Then the phone rang. Through my tears I looked at the caller display and saw the name Waddah.

My heart jumped! Many of the bad memories went away, and I was filled with his graciousness and friendliness and charm and manners. I could almost smell him, that particular cologne he wore.

I could almost feel his arms around me.

I answered right away, of course, and didn't hold back when I told him how very happy I felt seeing his name. His voice was deep and rich and soft and he thanked me again and again, and told me it made him warm inside to hear it in my voice that he was doing anything at all to lessen my pain, during this time of sadness for me.

Then he mentioned that he had an upcoming appointment 'not too far' from me, and if it wasn't an imposition, and I felt like company, perhaps later on he could...

"YES!" I interrupted him, "OF COURSE! I'D LOVE TO HAVE YOU OVER AGAIN!"

He chuckled on the phone, and his rolling laugh made me laugh too.

"How does four o'clock sound?" he asked.

"It sounds wonderful!" I answered.

After we ended the call, I realized I had two hours to get ready.

Though the house was its usual tidy place, I spent the first hour dusting and cleaning and making everything sparkle. Then I realized I wanted to be a good host, so I prepared a tray of nibblies for us, including some warmed-up Brie, with some baked garlic cloves, some very expensive crackers I'd bought, a pile of fresh grapes, and some chocolate-chip cookies that I remembered were in the freezer, a dozen I'd made when I was tending to my wife.

Ten minutes before he was scheduled to arrive, I looked at myself in the mirror and was disappointed in how I was dressed. I wanted to look nice for him. I wanted to look alive, and celebratory of our new friendship.

I whipped into the bathroom and used my electric razor to shave, and then brushed my teeth and combed my hair. Pulling off the ratty old t-shirt I'd been wearing, I walked into the bedroom, to find a nice shirt to wear.

There, on top of one of the piles of her clothes, was a most lovely shirt. Long-sleeved, with pearl buttons, and the softest creamiest shade of taupe, and I flashed back to several times in the past when she'd worn it. I always thought it looked spectacular. The fabric itself shimmered in the light, and to me it just said 'classy'.

And yes, it was a woman's shirt. A blouse. It had bigger cuffs than a man's shirt, and a bigger collar.

But I found myself wanting to wear it. I remembered my wife telling me that women's clothes were usually of a finer material than men's, and part of the reason women wore them was because they felt so good against their skin.

I wanted to feel that good.

I slipped the blouse on me, buttoning it up with my back turned to the mirror. I wanted to see it for the first time complete, not undone. I tucked it into my jeans, and then slowly turned to look.

I watched my nipples get hard, from the material. I watched two little bumps form, from nothing but nothing to detectable lumpy points. My heart started beating faster. I was suddenly breathing faster, like I'd just rushed to do something. I could feel everything inside of me awaken, as if being roused from a sleep.

I didn't feel tired anymore.

From wearing a woman's blouse?

Then the doorbell rang.

I rushed to him, and I know I jumped a little on my toes after I'd whipped the door open, seeing him standing there, a briefcase in his hand and a smile on his face.

"Christopher," he boomed, "you look radiant today!"

"Please come in," I replied, and moved to the side to give him space.

As he went past me, our bodies just minutely touching, I closed the door, and when I looked back to him, he was standing close by, his smile brightening the hallway.

It was unspoken by both of us. He gently bent and put his briefcase down on the floor, and then his arms came up for me, and I moved to him, for a hug.

This time, instead of wrapping my arms around his thick torso, I stretched them up, and put them on either side of his neck, and then felt his body move into mine, as his arms wrapped around me and held me close, his fingers and palm lightly moving back and forth across the delicate silky material of the blouse. His warmth and vitality fairly oozed out of him, and he sighed a long beautiful sigh, which triggered a long "mmmmmm" from me.

I could hear his voice rumbling in his chest.

"It is a pleasure to see you again, my friend."

I shook my head against his chest.

"The pleasure is all mine, Waddah. I can't tell you how wonderful you are, and how wonderful it feels to see you again in my home."

He squeezed me a little tighter, and I realized that I had an erection again. Being held again by this man, and I was sexually excited? Again? Perhaps, I instantly reasoned, it was simply because I was the subject of lovely human affection, but I also knew that I was having feelings stirring in me that I'd never felt before.

When he squeezed me again, my lower half moved just a fraction of an inch more, and put me up against his groin.

I felt a very big something there.

"You seem in much brighter spirits today," he said, his voice above me, "and I hope it doesn't embarrass you, but this shirt you're wearing is lovely! It feels so soft and delicate."

I backed off our hug slightly, and looked up at him.

"It feels that way to me, too. I don't know, there's something about it that just puts me in a happy place."

"Wherever did you buy it? he asked.

Shaking my head, I replied, "I didn't."

Then I looked him in the eyes, much more seriously.

"Can I tell you a little secret?"

His smile reappeared, and it looked playful.

"Of course!"

"You promise you won't think of me badly? Because it might be a little bit, um, unusual."

He shook his head and his look became delicious.

"I could never think badly of you. Whatever it is, I know you to be who you are, which is a lovely human being. Go on," he encouraged, "tell me your secret."

I paused a little, and then worked up the courage to say it.

"I didn't buy it. It belonged to my wife."

He didn't say anything. He just looked at me more directly.

I felt like I should explain.

"I have been cleaning out her things, slowly. Today I was working on her clothes, but the truth is," I paused, choosing my words, "I had the hardest time throwing much of it out. So many of her clothes, they, they just made me feel like they are a part of me. They make me feel, well, special. And then I worried that if I threw them out, I'd be throwing out my life with her. That sounds silly, I suppose?"

Waddah shook his head strongly.

"No, my friend," he cautioned, "no. Anything that makes you feel special, that makes you feel excited and glad to be alive, you must grab onto it, and never let it go. If wearing her blouse brings you closer to her, then there's not one single thing wrong with that, and I'll have a serious talking to with anyone who says otherwise."

I smiled up at him. Here I was confessing something out of the ordinary, a man wearing a woman's blouse and loving it, and he was doing his utmost to make me feel as if it was the most natural choice in the world, and that I had his unwavering support.

Then we just looked at each other, each radiating positive energy at each other. And though my eyes never left his, I could see, in my periphery, his full lips, and again I wondered for a few seconds if he was going to kiss me.

Then I wondered if I wanted him to kiss me.

Then I knew my answer.

I sure as hell did.

But he didn't kiss me. Our stare and hug lasted for a few more moments, and then we let each other go. I welcomed him to the patio, and asked him if he'd enjoy some freshly-made iced tea, and he said he'd love some. I brought out a huge tray with the tea and the food, and he sat up in his chair and helped me put it on the table top.

"You didn't go to all this trouble for me, did you?" he asked.

I looked at him and smiled.

"I wanted to."

His complexion became a little bit ruddier.

"I don't deserve such blessings," he said, softly.

"Of course you do," I replied, "you brought me food yesterday!"

He laughed. "Which I asked my housekeeper to put together for me. I'm not skilled in those areas."

"Well I am," I giggled, and poured us both some tea.

"You're too good to me."

We chatted for almost an hour and a half. He told me stories of his upbringing in Egypt, and moving to England in his teens. I learned about his family, and his children, and his grandchildren. I told him more about my kids, and related some of the best times from my marriage.

At one point, his eyes were studying me very closely. I was talking about something mundane, I suppose, but it stopped me mid-sentence.

"What?" I asked him.

He smiled.

"You seem so much better today, so much more alive. I'm so happy for you."

I blushed.

"It's all to your credit, Waddah."

He shook his head.

"Christopher," he said, softly, but with resolve, "you are very kind, but any part I play in your improved mood is minor, surely." He looked at me, his dazzling eyes closing slightly. "I dare say," he continued, "perhaps in this case, it is the beautiful blouse you're wearing that is making you feel better, eh? Perhaps in this case, the clothes do maketh the man."

We both smiled at his mis-use of Shakespeare.

I turned a little red.

"You mean the man who wears women's clothing?" I said, no small measure of embarrassment in my voice, looking away.

"Christopher," he said, seriously, "please look at me."

I turned to greet his eyes, which were flickering with energy and there was the slightest tinge of redness to his cheeks. He seemed sincere, and honest.

"If wearing one lovely blouse, which you admitted feels divine to you, and I agree, having felt it myself," he almost whispered, "if it makes you glow, like you are now, and have been since I walked in here, then why would you not enjoy it? Why wouldn't you delight in it? Revel in it, my friend. People say it all the time, and it's a cliché, but it's true. This life is short. When you opened the door I said you looked radiant, and you do! Considering all you've been through recently, you more than anyone deserves to feel wonderful."

I felt a tiny amount of tears well up in my eyes. This man was continually impressing me with his sensitivity, and his respect, and his genuine care.

Then he smiled, from ear to ear.

"Perhaps," there was a playfulness to his voice, "you might feel even more radiant if you wear more of her clothes."

Waddah watched my eyes, to see my reaction.

I found the idea instantly intriguing.

"I hadn't thought of that," I replied.

He moved his head to one side, respectfully dismissive of any offence he might have caused.

"No matter," he said, "it is just an idea," and then finished off his big glass of iced tea. Looking at his watch, I saw surprise in his eyes.

"My goodness, Christopher," he said, startled, "I've been here for almost two hours! I hope I'm not intruding on your social life."

I shook my head, and said the first thing that came into my mind.

"Now that my kids have left," I said softly, "you are my social life, Waddah."

I was serious, and I stared at him to let him know that. And I threw in a huge helping of making sure he could also see that I was very happy for it.

"You honor me," he whispered.

We stayed silent for a bit, and enjoyed the last of the nibblies. Out of the blue, I asked him if he'd like to stay for dinner, that I'd made most of the dinners during my marriage and I enjoyed cooking for others. He looked at me as if I was the nicest human being he'd ever met, and was about to say something, when I watched his eyes go far away, and then he reached for his phone, and hit the screen a few times and his eyes darted back and forth.

Then I watched him get a sad look on his face.

"Unfortunately, I must take a rain check on that, if such a thing exists?"

I nodded, and said, "of course! Anytime!"

"Looking at my Day-Timer," he apologized, "I find myself somewhat late for a meeting already. Please accept my apologies for my abrupt departure?"

I nodded again.

Walking him to the front door, I looked back at him at one point and caught him. He was staring at my rear end. My behind.

My ass.

I thought, well sure, my jeans are a little tight, but, am I imagining it, or is he actually looking at my ass?

I looked away. I didn't want to give him any reason for embarrassment.

The last few steps to the door, for reasons I still can't explain, I found myself with a slight sway in my hips.

Waddah bent to pick up his briefcase, and then changed his mind, and stood up erect. His head leaned to one side, and the most masculine smile erupted on his face, and his arms began to move out, towards me.

"Though I sadly now must go, I still have time for another hug," he whispered.

I couldn't launch myself fast enough. My arms around his neck, his around me, both of us pulling the other inward. My meager erection came back in a roar, and as our groins touched, I felt his had too.

Looking up, I watched him looking down.

For a long, long time, seconds on end, we just stared.

There was a tiny voice in my head, getting louder by the second, that kept screaming, "KISS ME!" I was overcome with it. I wanted it. I wanted this wonderful man to kiss me.

But then I wondered, am I insane? What the hell is wrong with me? I'm not even gay! And Waddah, well, he's a perfectly wonderful man, but why would he want to kiss another man? He told me all about his wife and children and grandchildren, so he's obviously a heterosexual!

What are you thinking?

Then the skies opened up and my world filled with wondrous light, and he leaned down and I felt his lips softly touch my forehead.

I breathed out the biggest, longest, happiest sigh I'd ever had. My eyes closed, and I leaned forward more, into him, nestling myself in his grasp, his body heat warming me, his lips searing the most sensual joy that spread across my head and down my body. He squeezed me just a little bit tighter as he kissed me.

That's when I really felt him. Up close. His hardness. His erection. It almost shocked me, the size of him. Trapped as it was in his clothes, leaning to his left, I quickly took a gasp of air, and had to swallow, my mouth instantly filling with saliva. I realized I was shaking, inside. Giddy, even.

Never having been in this position before, being held by a man, and feeling his sexual arousal, I was momentarily unsure what to do.

It awed me. It filled me with wonder. It opened a door into aspects of life I'd never once contemplated.

Could I be changing, somehow? Inside?

His lips stayed on my skin for the loveliest of long times, but it still felt like I was being ripped off when he pulled back, and I'm sure he heard the disappointed mewl coming out of me. Opening my eyes, I looked up into his, and his face had an enormous smile on it, his skin dark and rosy and full of life.

"I am so happy for our new friendship," he whispered.

"Not as happy as I am," I replied, and giggled.

I giggled.

Parting is such sweet sorrow, as the Bard said, and I felt saddened watching him drive away, waving goodbye to him. My day had been so emotional, and even though it was early evening, I cleaned up and decided to go to bed.

I was tired again.

I stripped off my shoes and socks and jeans and boxers, and was about to take off the blouse, when I stopped, and realized I didn't want to. I loved the softness and the feel of it so much, and I didn't want to lose that.

Then I remembered that she had several nighties, made specifically for sleeping in. And, I reasoned, just like the blouse, they were made for women and therefore softer and silkier than men's clothes. Filled with the joy of the feelings her blouse had given me, I quickly sorted through a couple of piles before I found one.

It was bone-white. It had spaghetti straps, and always flattered her cleavage when she wore it. It came down to below her crotch, and I flashed on how she'd always wear a pair of panties under it.

My eyes scanned another pile before I saw them.

They were white as well, although more eggshell than bone. Almost but not quite a G-string, they nonetheless were sexy as hell, and looked as soft and silky as the nightie.

I sat there, motionless, for minutes on end. Debating.

No, not debating. Just cautiously wondering, if I could somehow be embarrassed by wearing her panties and nightie? Would anyone see me? And the answer was obvious. Of course not! Unless there was some sort of emergency where I had to flee the burning house without time to put men's clothes on, or a home invasion where the criminals would find me wrapped in feminine finery.

Those kinds of scenarios, however, seemed unlikely.

My kids were gone, I wouldn't be caught by them.

And then I thought, does it matter?

Would possibly offending someone else stop me from doing something that I so obviously seemed intrigued by? Who could fault me for wanting to find pleasure, to find serenity?

To find comfort.

Then I wondered if Waddah would approve.

The answer was instant and obvious. Of course he would! His words came back to me, like the most powerful echo. Why shouldn't I? If it feels good, then do it. What harm is there?

And why shouldn't I delight in it? Why shouldn't I revel in it?

I slept the best sleep I'd had since before her diagnosis. The best sleep I could remember having. The panties, once slid up my legs, caressed me like no other garment I'd ever worn. My bits felt like they were being loved, with softness. My nipples felt as hard as stones, the sleekness of the nightie laying on me like a foggy night.

And my dreams! They were all invigorating, filled with excitement and glee and delicious waves of gentle rapture. The details were vague, and unimportant, but it registered a wee tiny bit in my conscious mind that I was dressed in women's clothes in all of my dreams.

The shattering ring of the phone woke me, at just after nine in the morning. I groggily looked at the caller ID, and saw it was the office, and my joy factor went through the roof and I stretched out quickly to pick up the phone.

That joy disappeared in a heartbeat. It wasn't Waddah. It was my supervisor, doing his almost-daily passive/aggressive badgering of me to come back to work. I instantly wanted to answer him in the shortest and curtest of tones and terms, but before I could, I realized that something about me felt different.

Something, both in my soul, and on my person, felt unusual.

I pulled the covers back and saw what I hadn't seen since I was in my early teens.

I'd had a wet dream, at some point in the night, and my belly and crotch and upper thighs were coated with rivulets of semen, some of it still liquidy. My panties were positively drenched, still. The liquid coolness of the air around me met with the sticky stuff and my whole lower body spasmed, like a gigantic nervous reaction.

Wait a minute! What did I just say?!?!

My panties?

Suddenly I was lost in the thrills of the naughtiness of it all. Just thinking those words made my sensibilities fly.

MY PANTIES.

I was wearing panties! I'd never felt more daring. More enlivened.

I'd never felt more excited.

After slipping the nightie up, uncovering myself up to my chest, my fingers trailed through the pool on my tummy while I quietly and respectively helped the poor man on a couple of projects, guiding him to some outside contacts that would solve some of his problems. I felt the liquidy ejaculate sticking to my fingertips, and curiously brought it up close to my face.

I could smell it.

It was shocking, how pungent and striking it was.

It smelled like nothing else in the world.

It was earthy. It was aromatic. It had body, and weight, and significance. It had gravitas.

Questions about cost analysis seemed inane as I lay in bed, my sticky digit inches from my mouth, the other hand holding the phone. I marvelled at the delicious wetness of my cum, the way it shone on my finger, as I turned it to and fro in the morning light, admiring it.

At one point, I was interrupted out of my reverie by his nasal voice.

"Are you listening to me?" he demanded.

I wasn't. I realized it. I was lost in thought about where I was in the world. In bed. Wearing women's lingerie. Partially covered in the remains of what must have been a truly staggering orgasm, my own ejaculate spread over my flesh.

And on my finger.

She would fellate me from time to time, during out sexual years. But never to completion. She'd never allowed me to cum in her mouth. She said it was disgusting. She always finished me off by hand, and then she'd fairly race to the bathroom to wash her hand as quickly as she could.

I'd never tasted my own cum. Not while I was a teenager, jerking off into old athletic socks at night. And never in our marriage. I'd never had one of those moments, that you can read about in sex magazines and on the internet, where I gave her oral sex after cumming in her, or kissed her after she swallowed my load.

I'd never tasted my own cum.

"Yes," I lazily replied, "I'm listening."

I tentatively stuck my tongue out, and lightly touched the very tip of my finger, the one coated in my cum.

When the first taste bud reacted, my whole body shivered, and then as the rest of my taste buds were overwhelmed with it, I pulsed inside my wet panties, and I groaned out loud, a long sighing whispering kind of groan, and I came again.

For the second time in my life, and all in a matter of a few hours, I orgasmed for the second time, while wearing panties.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice incredulous.

I breathed out a huge sigh, allowing my heart to stop trying to beat out of my chest, and took a deep breath in to calm myself.

"Yes," I said, "I'm fine."

He then went on a bit of a rant about how Waddah was, and I quote, 'a friggin idiot' to allow me time off, and then followed that up with a few other choice quotes about my newest friend. I played dumb, and didn't offer any responses. But it made me mad, a little, to hear him deride someone I knew to be a wonderful person, a caring, giving, charming, attractive man. I briefly considered telling Waddah, the next time I spoke to him, but decided against it.

Then my brain went, 'what?'

Did I just call another man attractive?

I scooped up more of my love liquid, and stuck the finger instantly into my mouth, my tongue dancing all around the circumference of the digit, my throat closing again and again, trying to draw down the slimy wetness.

I sighed again, and said, out loud, "YES!"

My supervisor asked, "yes what?"

I had to stop myself from saying it out loud.

Yes, I find Waddah very attractive. I do. There was no point in lying about it, or denying it. It didn't mean anything, I conjectured, and there was nothing wrong with being attracted to another man.

A man far more masculine than I.

Later, after I answered more questions, I showered, after stripping the lingerie off of me, and setting up a sink for the panties and nightie to soak in. Under the water, I soaped my body, far more than I normally would. I closed my eyes and just luxuriated in the physical sensations. My hands on my skin, the heat of the water and the foamy body wash smoothly sliding over everywhere. I spent much longer than was my habit washing my genitals, and my anal area. It was as if I was suddenly concerned at my cleanliness, in places I had only casually paid attention to for the majority of my life.

I wanted to be clean.

Looking for something to wear for the day, knowing I had errands to run and that I surely wouldn't wear anything of hers whilst out in public, I grabbed a golf shirt and threw it on. It was one I'd had for years, and the fabric of it felt a little rough against my skin. It made me realize she was right, when she'd said women's clothes just feel better.

I found some socks, and some jeans to wear. I went to open my underwear drawer and pull out my usual boxers, when a thought entered into my head.

Panties.

No one would know.

My eyes darted to the same pile from last night, and were instantly attracted to a pair of purple panties, that had scalloped edges along the leg holes and the top. I felt myself stiffen again, my little soldier filling with blood.

No one would know.

I had a lilt to my step everywhere I went. I dropped off the box of her clothes at a thrift store, I found everything on my lists at the grocery store and at the Costco, and at my local pharmacy.

Where purely by randomness I happened to see a men's body shaver, on sale. I grabbed the package without even thinking about it. On my way to the checkout, I ended up veering into an aisle I wouldn't normally go down, and I scanned the shelves and eventually found a hair removal cream.

The teenage girl with the punk rock hair didn't even bat an eye bagging everything up for me.

Once home, I set about prepping a pasta meal I wanted to make, and eventually it went into the oven. Tidying up the house took a short time, and I found myself in the mid-afternoon with nothing to do.

So I took the hair removal cream, and after reading all the instructions, I stripped and applied, while standing in the shower, without the water running. I'd set a timer for the recommended time, and when I heard the ding I turned the faucet on.

A few seconds later, the water turning warm, I stepped underneath it, and with my head bowed, I watched all my hair, from the neck down, fall in liquid tumbles to the floor, and sloosh into the drain.

I caught my breath, gazing at my loins.

COMPLETELY BALD!

Seeing my penis and testicles, along with my legs, without a strand of hair on them, was something I hadn't seen in forty or so years. The water was now hot, and yet I felt like I was shivering, the quaking inside me was so great. It was like the feeling that my mother used to say was 'someone walking over your grave', except without the negative connotations.

It actually felt like I was being reborn!

Drying off was an eye-opening event. The exquisite feelings of the towel, fluffy and soft, against my now-hairless skin, sent me reeling. I couldn't get over how soft the sensations were, how alluring they were.

How hypnotic they were.

Softness, on soft hairless skin.

For some brazen reason, I walked through my house, completely naked, just marvelling at how it excited me, how it sent my spirit on a journey I'd never had before. I admired my reflection where I could, in a hall mirror, in the glass doors of the entertainment cabinet, in the sliding glass door out to the patio. I turned this way and that, looking at my body, pale and sleek and lithe. Passing by the kitchen counter, I saw I had a message on my answering machine.

I pressed play and immediately hovered my finger over the delete button. Nine times out of ten, it would be a phone solicitor, and I was ready to blast it to history at the first few tones of a stranger's voice.

My heart leapt when I heard his voice.

It was Waddah.

He'd called to see how I was doing, and if he might impose on me and cash in the rain check for a dinner.

My fingers were like quicksilver, dialing him back.

I got his voice mail, and hurriedly and delightedly told him I was hoping he'd call, and tonight would be perfect, and I'd already started a new pasta dish I was hoping he'd share with me, and that I'd love to see him whenever he could get here.

I felt like a teenager again, excited by the chance to be social with someone else.

It was like I had a date!

I slipped on an apron and set about preparing an appetizer, as well as a huge fresh salad to enjoy with our fettucine and blackened Cajun chicken. I got a bottle of white wine out of the pantry, and set it to chill in the fridge.

It was thrilling me to no end to be doing all this, while naked. And by that I mean really naked. Not one stub of hair on me, other than my head. I threw the apron off and began dancing off some of my built-up energy. I jumped lightly up and down and shook my hips and fanny, and wiggled my tushy all over the house.

With time winding down, I had another shower. I wanted to be extra clean. For me, of course. But for Waddah too. He seemed fastidious in his personal appearance, and I wanted to reflect that level of care and attention for him.

I shaved my face again, even though I didn't especially need to. But I wanted my facial skin to be as smooth as the rest of me.

Racing to the bedroom, for the first time in my life I faced a dilemma I'd never considered before. Of all of her panties, which ones did I want to wear now?

What a remarkable thing to worry about!

It made me smile, inside and out. All of the problems in life that could be on my mind, especially with all that had happened to me in the last year, and yet the only thing that consumed my mind was my choice of panties.

Naturally, I chose the sexiest ones.

Black. Shiny. G-string.

Sliding them up my legs, I had to stifle a moan. The sleekness of the fabric touching my hairless thighs made every shiver I'd ever had in life pale in comparison.

Wow!

I knew I'd be wearing my tight jeans again, the ones I'm pretty sure Waddah was looking at my ass in, but before sliding them on, I had to ponder which blouse I would wear.

I mean, I would wear another blouse, wouldn't I?

Waddah seemed to enjoy it, running his hands over my back, feeling the softness of the material! And God knows, I fucking loved it! And now, with the little bits of chest and belly and back hair gone, I just knew that sliding on a silk blouse would send me on a sensory trip that would dwarf all the other ones I'd been through in the last two days and nights.

I grew spontaneously in my panties, when the first touch of the forest green material touched my skin. It was like slowly and sensuously enveloping my entire being in softness. The shoulders had small pads in them, and the material was almost-but-not-quite see-through, and when I turned to the mirror to admire it I could make out the faint outlines of my nipples, and areolas.

I'd never felt more alive, than at that moment!

Reaching for my jeans, I saw the lace top of a stay-up stocking peeking out of a pile, and the thrill of the moment took over and I frantically started pulling the pile apart, searching for its mate.

I almost hurt my cheeks from smiling when I found it.

I almost had another spontaneous orgasm slipping them up my smooth legs. I'd watched her enough to know to roll them into a donut shape, and then start at the toes and work them up, and I had to sit down halfway through the first one to steady myself, my sensual reactions almost making me swoon.

The full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door became my new best friend, and I twirled back and forth and marvelled at how my legs looked in thigh-high stockings, and how my bum looked virtually naked, with just the tiny strip of the panties to be seen!

I had just enough time before Waddah arrived to check my appearance, deciding I needed to comb my hair differently. More or less pushing it all back gave me a far more feminine look, I thought, and I didn't grapple with any concerns in looking that way.

He texted me and apologized that he'd be about fifteen minutes late. That gave me time to grab my tablet and Google something I suddenly wanted to know. I wanted to be able to greet him in Arabic. I thought it would flatter him.

I learned how to phonetically pronounce it, and then a wicked thought entered my brain, and I learned a second phrase.

It was beyond naughty. It flabbergasted me at first that I'd even thought of it, but it titillated me that I wanted to learn it. So I did.

When the doorbell rang, I practically ran to it. Pulling it open, I saw him, towering above me, his skin glowing with glee, his hands holding his briefcase and a small box.

"Christopher!" he exclaimed, boisterously, "thank you again for this lovely invitation!"

I blushed.

"And may I say," he continued, his baritone voice full and loud, "once again you look radiant!" I watched his eyes focus on me harder. "Have you done something with your hair?"

I blushed again.

"Do you like it?" I asked, almost coyly.

He nodded. "Yes, very much."

I swept my arm out, and welcomed him inside. He put his briefcase down, and balanced the small box on top of it, and then turned to face me.

"How are you feeling today?" he asked, his concern real, and his manners gentle. He was sincere. He really wanted to know.

I stood up tall, and could feel myself pushing my chest out, and I watched his eyes flicker downward, and then widen a little bit, no doubt at the hint of my stubby nipples and red circles.

"Marhaban bik fi bayti," I said, as best I could remember.

Waddah's eyes went wide, and his dark Egyptian skin flushed with some red, and he grinned from ear to ear. He suddenly roared with laughter, his head rocking back a bit.

"Did I say it correctly?" I asked.

He stepped up to me, and held out both his hands. I placed mine on top of his, our palms touching, his fingers and thumbs gently grasping me.

"You said 'welcome to my home', and I am overwhelmed that you learned how to say that, for me."

I couldn't have been happier, or prouder, and I found myself smiling and bouncing on my toes a little bit.

"I wanted you to feel that way. I want you to feel that way, anytime. Anytime at all. I can't begin to tell you just how much your visits mean to me."

He stepped closer to me, and slowly released my hands, bringing his arms up under mine, and wrapping around my body. I brought my arms up, and placed them on his chest, which was rising and falling quickly.

"I'm so glad," he said, his voice quiet and serious, "seeing you begin to feel happy again after all you've been through is thanks enough for me."

I couldn't think of a thing to say, and we just stared into each other's eyes for a moment.

His smile grew again, as his hands slowly caressed my lower back.

"I see you're wearing another beautiful garment, Christopher," he whispered, "and once again it's having a remarkable effect on you, yes?"

I nodded up and down.

"I love the feeling of it!" I exclaimed, gazing up at his eyes.

"As do I," he said, and his eyes became warmer, and softer, "and you don't look as tired as you had described yourself."

"I can't get over it," I continued, smiling and almost giddy, "but her clothes seem to just make me feel better. I feel alive again. I thought that if I'd thrown them away, I'd be losing part of her. But I was wrong. I wouldn't have lost part of her, I would have lost part of myself."

He just gazed down at me, a peaceful aura about him.

Then I was swept up in a rush of naughtiness.

"Can I tell you a secret?" I asked, conspiratorially.

He nodded his approval.

"I'm not just wearing her blouse."

His eyebrows shot up, his curiosity piqued.

"No?"

I had to whisper out my next sentence.

"I've got other things on too." I paused. "Underneath."

Waddah smiled like I've never seen before. His teeth were so white, compared to his skin tone, and perfect. His cheeks were rosy, and his eyes were afire.

"Really?"

I nodded, proudly.

"Uh-huh."

"So my suggestion that you wear more of her things..."

"YES!" I answered, cutting him off. "Yes! You were right, Waddah! As good as wearing her blouse made me feel, it seems to be multiplied by wearing other things too."

We stared at each other for a bit, and then I slipped my hands upwards, to be around his neck, and he took the hint, and he pulled me into his grip even more, and we hugged.

His chest was warm, and I could feel his heartbeat galloping. His arms were thick and strong, and his fingers were long, and with his palms rubbing my lower back, his fingers were touching the tops of my buttocks.

I liked those feelings.

I ran my fingers through the curly hair at the nape of his neck, and for a second wished I'd had long, tapered, fingernails.

We held each other, and there was nothing awkward about it. It was heavenly.

As if on cue, we released a little bit, and that allowed me to look up at him, and for him to look down at me, and I saw in his eyes what looked to me like an earnest hunger, although I couldn't one hundred percent be sure of what.

We stared at each other again, and I felt myself almost washed in his affection. And that wondrous hitherto-unheard of voice in my head was screaming again, at the top of its range, for him to KISS ME, my eyes bouncing from his dark orbs to his full lips, and back again. It was almost like I was trying to visually prod him, non-verbally incite him to plant one on me.

Waddah smiled, and moved his face closer to mine.

"Christopher," he said, his voice deep and lustrous, "it is a custom amongst many Arabic men to greet each other with a kiss, on both cheeks."

"Is it?" I asked, eagerly.

He nodded. "Would it offend you if I was to kiss you that way?"

I couldn't shake my head "NO" fast enough, and he snorted a little laugh. Then, without letting go of me in any way, he leaned his head down, and I felt the delicious burning warmth of his lips on my left cheek, and I moaned a little thank you, and then I watched his face pass by mine, followed by his kiss on my right cheek. I moaned a little bit again.

Then he pulled his head back and looked down on me again.

The sentence just leapt into my brain and out of my mouth.

"Do I get to kiss you as well?" I asked, genuinely curious about the custom.

Waddah's head roared back, and his voice was as loud as a jet engine, as he laughed. It made me feel like I'd pleased him more than he'd dared imagine, just by offering.

"Of course you get to kiss me as well," he said, his eyes settling on mine again, and becoming serious. He leaned his face down closer to mine, to allow me reach.

I stood on my tiptoes and softly kissed his left cheek, leaving my lips on his skin for far longer than he'd demonstrated. The warmth of the sigh that came out of his lips thrilled me more than anything I could remember in recent memory, and I slowly and jauntily moved my face and repeated the soft kiss on his right cheek, and got a similar reaction from him.

He sounded like the most happy and contented person in the world.

I watched him open his eyes after the second kiss, when my face was directly in front and underneath of his again. His smile was pronounced, and real, and I could tell that my offering to kiss him in the custom he was used to growing up with pleased him enormously.

Which pleased me enormously.

"Where I come from," I whispered, "in my Western European culture, our kisses of greeting were always on the lips."

Waddah's smile expanded about a thousand-fold, and his eyes sparkled like the darkest but most brilliant of diamonds.

"Is that so?" he asked, curiosity in his voice.

I nodded yes.

And then, and in a moment of daring chance-taking, I blurted out the other Arabic phrase I'd learned.

"Adeni bosh?"

I was sticking my neck out here, more than at any other time in my life. I couldn't even remember being this nervous about an answer when I was a young man, working up the courage to ask a woman out. Or asking my then girlfriend to marry me! And, to boot, he was my boss's boss, one of the owners of the company I worked for! I was literally risking my very financial future!

And even more importantly to all that, he was a man! In at least one scenario, I was risking having the crap beaten out of me.

And yet I'd just asked him if he wanted to kiss me.

His eyes flickered, and his nostrils flared, and I watched an ocean of thoughts run through his brain in a flash, and then he seemed to become responsibly serious.

"In many quarters, it would be considered inappropriate for me, as your employer, to have such a relationship with his employee."

I didn't hesitate.

"In that case, I quit."

His eyes shot open.

"Adeni bosh?" I asked again.

Waddah's laugh began deep in his chest. I could feel it rise, and rumble through him.

"You would quit your job, for a kiss? A career that I know you love, other than dealing with that nincompoop who manages you, all just for a kiss?" he asked, genuine concern for my decision-making on his mind. "A kiss from me?"

I smiled at him.

"Waddah," I began, "you have been the best thing about my life these last few days. Hell," I continued, "the last few months."

His eyebrows knitted just a little bit. He was intrigued.

"The whole work thing aside," I said, "I realize now that I have always thought of you with the highest regard. You've shown me time and again over the years that you are one of the loveliest human beings I've ever met. You're kind, and considerate, and caring. Your respect for me, your thoughtfulness at granting me a paid sabbatical, the way you held me in my worst moment there in your office, all of it, it's touched me. And just the real concern you've shown me, in the days since her passing, your humanity, your encouragement," I paused, searching for the right words, "it's all so attractive. You. You are attractive, in every way I can think of. And now here, standing here, being held by you again, feeling warm and loved and alive again, I can't think of anything I'd rather do than kiss you, and show you how much you mean to me. I don't want to offend you, Waddah," I gushed, "and if I'm out of line then I apologize. But I realized earlier today, that when you hug me, I feel like I want you to kiss me, if that's something you want as well. In your arms, I feel lighter. I feel like the tired aspect in my life is gone. Standing here, wrapped up in you, I feel protected, and safe, and energized... and... and, I don't know, almost divine."

Neither of us said anything for seconds on end. I was on pins and needles, wondering if I had been wrong about everything, if I'd misinterpreted his actions in totally wrong ways.

Then his demeanour changed again. Lightness and sweetness poured out of him.

His voice became a deep whisper.

"I confess I've had the same thoughts about you," he said.

My heart jumped around in my torso.

"You have?" I asked, astonishment mixed with pride.

He nodded.

Then his voice became quiet, but purposeful.

"Rajul Jirliun Jamil."

I didn't get the chance to ask him what that meant, because the next thing I knew his lips were on mine.

Everything in the known universe disappeared.

It was the softest, sweetest, loveliest kiss I'd ever known.

His lips were hot, and pillowy, and yet strong and full.

I closed my eyes, and melted.

We both clutched each other, his body so much bigger than mine, and I ground my pelvis into him just as much as he was grinding his into me, and the size of the lump in his pants sent shivers cascading inside me.

His tongue, large and snake-like, touched my lips, as if to ask permission to enter my mouth, and I couldn't open my lips to him fast enough. The kiss became swirling, and breath-taking, and went on for minutes on end. After a while, his hands slid down my back, and his big fingers grabbed my bum cheeks, and he squeezed them, with vigor. I moaned into his mouth, and bounced my groin against him, and it just multiplied our tongue-duelling ballet. His lips became moist, like mine, and insistent, and we'd make the most delightful little 'popping' sounds each time we moved our heads to change position, and I marvelled at how we still managed to keep our lips joined while doing that.

Eventually, by mutual unspoken agreement, we broke the kiss. I looked up into his eyes, and he was practically glaring at me. But still, the smile on his face couldn't have been erased for all the tea in China.

The oven went 'ding!', and I asked him to forgive me, while I checked on the dinner. He graciously let me go.

We began chatting, as I moved about the kitchen, making the last minute chores go quickly. I poured us some wine, and he took off his suit jacket, and carefully placed in on a chair back, to keep it wrinkle-free.

At first the conversation was about work, which he apologized for. But I disagreed with him, and reminded him that it was something we had in common. So we talked over some details of projects, and he asked me my opinion about a few things, moves he was thinking of making. The talk was light and breezy and I felt nothing but enamored with him.

I served dinner to him, and we learned more about each other. It turns out we had a mutual love of Broadway musicals, and Impressionist art, particularly Monet, and jazz music, and he regaled me with stories from his childhood in the Middle East and his time in England.

After dinner, I brought out some brandy, and two snifters, and a warmer, and we silently toasted each other with a hot drink, each of us feeling the alcohol do it's magic.

Our conversation, like yesterdays, flowed effortlessly, and Waddah at one point mentioned that it was nearly nine in the evening and how the time had flown by and how that hadn't happened with anyone for him in as long as he could remember.

It touched me, hearing that.

Then he got a very naughty look on his face.

"So, Christopher," he asked, "you mentioned earlier that you are wearing other things, if I remember correctly, under your clothes."

I smiled with delight.

"That's true. I did. And I am."

He smirked at me.

"Well, far be it for me to doubt the word of one of my best employees," he said, glee in his voice, "but sometimes in life it becomes necessary to verify some claims, for veracity. How am I to be sure that what you say is entirely true? Surely there must be a way we can prove such a claim, don't you think?"

He winked at me.

Suddenly, I was very intrigued.

"Earlier," I said, and paused, "before our kiss," and I paused again and sighed, "you said 'Rajul Jirliun Jamil'."

He nodded.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

He got deadly serious.

"Closely translated, it means 'beautiful feminine man'."

He waited for my reaction.

I could only stare at his eyes, which were sucking my attention in, and I could only find enough strength to whisper my reply.

"Thank you."

He reached his hand over the table again, and placed it on mine. Connecting us.

"In parts of the Muslim world..." he went on to explain that while not common, it wasn't historically unheard of for men to assume the feminine role in some relationships. And he went to great lengths to explain that some of the time it wasn't physical, or sexual. Not exclusively so. Sometimes, it was purely emotional. Companionship. It was, for the most part, the natural extension of people's strengths. Some men were born with more of the stereotypical 'female' traits, while some were more 'male'. Nature, he assured me, always strived for a balance. Giving me a bit of a history lesson, he regaled me with a story he'd been told oftentimes during his youth, about a powerful Sheik who could never win the love of his people, because of his gruff and unrefined ways, until he rescued a younger man who was very feminine, very lovely, who he began to spend all his time with, and who quickly taught the man the soft qualities of joy, and sensuality, and romance. Soon, with his young friends help, the Sheik became the most adored leader the region had ever known, and when a serious threat was posed to his rule, the people rose to defend him, their admiration for him so great. At the end of the mighty battle, when the enemy was defeated, the people praised the Sheik. But such was the effect of his friend that the Sheik refused to take credit for his changes. He owed it all to his 'Rajul Jirliun Jamil'.

His 'beautiful feminine man'.

Across the table from him, I rose to my feet.

"You wanted to see what else I might be wearing? I'll give you your proof," I boasted, "if you'll excuse me for a few minutes?" I could see a slight questioning look come over his face, so I walked towards him, and leaned down, and kissed him. On the lips. Softly.

"I'll be right back."

My thoughts were consumed with one thing, and one thing only.

Her red dress.

I'd held it to my body, for hours, and cried. At my loss.

Now, I knew I was going to wear it. For me.

For Waddah.

Stripping off the blouse and jeans, I searched the pile, and found what I was looking for after a few moments.

The matching bra for the panties.

I thought of her. Despite her general lack of interest in sex, or sexuality, I had to admit that she always did have a sexy eye for lingerie. And she'd told me, once or twice, that wearing the sexiest of lingerie always made her feel even more attractive, and more feminine.

I slipped the bra on, and it was tight on me. I looked in the mirror, and realized that the cups were indeed pushing up my fifty-four year old pecs, and I had cleavage!

I throbbed in my panties.

I raced to the closet, and pulled the dress off the hangar. It was a cocktail dress, with a deep V neckline, long lace sleeves, a pair of tie-strings around the waist, and ended at just above her knees.

Somehow, I instantly knew that being slightly bigger in all ways than her, if the dress fit me, it would barely cover my groin.

I hoped against hope it fit. I wanted to see what that looked like. A sexy dress, just barely covering my pantied groin, the thigh-high stockings down below.

And like it was meant to be, once I stepped into it and pulled it up, it just barely went across my shoulders. I primped and pulled and smoothed and shifted little bits into place, and then, holding my breath, I looked in the mirror.

OH MY GOD!

Excitement pulsed through me. I was breathing heavily, like I was in an athletic competition! Staring back at me was the womanly version of myself. Waves of joy were rippling through me as I slowly looked at myself from different angles. My chest was pronounced, and curved, and oh so feminine. My tummy was flat, for the most part, and my rear was curved, a little bit, and in profile I looked completely like a woman, especially when I lifted myself up on my tip toes and saw my calves flex.

Like a bird of prey, my eyes instantly went into search mode on the floor of the closet.

Shoes.

Shoes with heels.

They'd make my legs look even more feminine.

I knew it.

The first pair of hers I tried on wouldn't even go around my toes. They were beyond tight. So I kept looking, and finally found a pair that seemed like they might work. They were pumps, with just a little webbing for the toes, and little curved vertical strip of leather at the back, to support the heel, and a delicate strap, to go around the ankle.

Sliding the first one on, I prayed and prayed that it would fit.

And it did! Just.

The second one was a little bit harder, my other foot being slightly bigger. But, as the old axiom says, no pain no gain.

They had roughly two inch heels, and I wobbled perilously for a bit, as I walked around the bedroom. But it didn't take me too long to feel modestly comfortable, and I gazed again into the mirror, happier than I'd ever been that I was right.

Sexy shoes definitely made my legs look more feminine.

They looked fantastic.

I took a deep breath, and put my hand on the door handle, ready to go to see Waddah.

Then I stopped.

I turned and sashayed into the bathroom. I grabbed a brush and re-did my hair, sweeping it back again. Putting it all back into place. Then, I looked at my face. Seriously. I studied it.

A myriad of differing thoughts were bouncing around in my head, but two of them was more pronounced than the others. The loudest voice kept telling me that my eyelashes were thin and unappealing, and that my lips weren't red enough.

Grabbing a mascara from her makeup drawer, as if on autopilot, I leaned close to the mirror and began the task of thickening my lashes up. Their light brown color instantly became black. And even though my hands were shaking, no doubt with nervousness about how Waddah would react seeing me in a dress, I managed to apply mascara well enough that suddenly my lashes were dark and long and thick, and made my dark blue eyes stand out. I stood back and admired my handiwork for a moment.

Then I grabbed a tube of lipstick, of which there were many, and twirled the base until I could see a bright red stick appear, and, watching my every movement in the mirror, I swiped it across my lips. Back and forth. Making a kissy-face, and then smacking my lips together, I applied a thick coat.

I realized that I was breathing hard again, like I'd run a short sprint.

I was also painfully erect, in my panties.

My panties.

Waddah was standing in the living room, in front of one of the bookcases, his eyes scanning the different titles, when I walked into the room. He heard the click of the heels, and looked up.

It was stunning to me. There had been times in my life when I was nervous, of course. A cascade of those moments flew by me. My wedding day, the birth of my kids, those sorts of things.

This, though, this was something else.

I was never more nervous, at what his reaction would be.

The smile that leapt to his face erased all of my anxiety.

"My God," he said, his voice reverential.

He took his focus off me long enough to place his glass safely on the coffee table, and then he turned back to me.

"Christopher," he whispered, "you are the most radiant I've ever seen you!"

I giggled, hearing his words. It was like the weight of a thousand worlds had been lifted off my shoulders.

"I feel radiant," I replied, truthfully.

He took several slow paces towards me. I was going to move towards him as well, but at the last second decided to make him work for it.

Whatever it was destined to be.

Stopping a pace away from me, his eyes scanned up and down me, over and over again. I knew that wearing the heels was pushing my bum out, and I softly swivelled my hips in a gentle swaying motion, so he could at least get a hint of my backside.

And I knew that wearing those heels was also making me stick my chest out, and I found myself accentuating that part of me even more, with him watching.

"Earlier, I was just wearing the panties and stockings, under my boy clothes," I explained, "but something in me decided I wanted to go all out, and to wear this dress, which I've always loved, and I've always thought looked incredibly sexy."

Looking into his eyes, I could see his approval. His interest.

His lust.

Never having been in this position before, I still somehow knew innately that he was a masculine man, seriously lusting after me, a much more feminine man.

A feminine man, dressed in lingerie, and a sexy dress, and makeup.

I should have been beside myself with embarrassment.

Instead, I was off-the-charts with glee.

He held out one hand, and I reached one of mine to him, and he grasped me tightly, and his warmth radiated through me.

"Ant ajmal min kuli nujum alsama."

It sounded amazing.

He smiled at me. "It means 'you are more lovely than all the stars in the sky'."

I felt my eyes begin to fill with tears.

All of a sudden, his face brightened, and he looked like he'd just thought of something.

"Forgive me," he asked, "for just a moment, please?"

I nodded, of course, but did feel suddenly anxious, especially when he walked past me, into the hallway, leaving me standing at the entrance to the living room.

Was this some kind of rejection?

He quickly reappeared, his grin almost glowing. He had the little box in his hand, the one I'd seen earlier.

"I brought you a gift," he said, and began to open up the box. His fingers are big, and he struggled with the clasp briefly. "Yesterday, you commented on my rings, and when I returned home last night, I decided to bring you some, for your fingers."

My unease turned instantly into euphoria.

"You did that for me?"

He nodded. "But," he paused, "then I realized that my fingers are much bigger than yours, much thicker, and sadly came to the conclusion that none of my rings would fit you."

I was ecstatic just knowing he'd thought of me that way.

"And then," he smiled, "I found some of my wife's rings, and thought that perhaps you might find something amongst them that pleases you."

He finally opened the box, and inside were many rings, including one that was a big, bold sapphire, which had beside it a matching pair of clip-on earrings. They spoke to me. Hell, they yelled and screamed at shouted at me!

He offered up the box to me, and I pulled some out. The ring fit perfectly on my right pinkie, and I stared at him with exhilaration as I attached the dangling orbs on my lobes. They were heavy! A couple of the other rings didn't fit me, but three more did, and I stood there admiring my hands for a few seconds.

"Forgive me," Waddah whispered, "but I find it difficult to call you Christopher now, now that you are looking like this."

I shivered and smiled at the same time.

Then I laughed out loud.

"I suppose I don't look like a Christopher now, do I?" I asked.

He shook his head, emphatically.

"However should I address you?" he asked, his concern about possibly offending me real and palpable.

I thought about it for a few seconds.

"If I don't look like a Christopher now," I answered, "then what do I look like, to you?"

His mouth started to open, but I cut him off.

I spun slowly, on my heels, allowing him to see all of me, front and back, while speaking.

"Take a good look, Waddah," I teased, "at all of me, and tell me what you think I look like? What name leaps to your mind, seeing me like this?"

He reached out, and grabbed me by the waist, on both sides, and pulled my body to his, and my arms flew up and over his shoulders as his arms wrapped around me, and his smile was from ear-to-ear, and beaming like a million watt bulb.

"I see the most lovely person I know," he whispered, "whose name must be equally lovely."

I waited him out, while he considered it.

I watched his head move down, closer to mine, his eyes boring holes into me.

"I see you, and the name you conjure up in my mind is 'Gamila."

"Gamila?" I asked.

He nodded. "The literal translation is 'beautiful'."

I nodded, and smiled.

"I would be honored to have you call me that."

He pulled me tightly up against him, and my whole torso and groin collided with his, and I could once again tell that he was as excited as I was, and that nature had gifted him in length and girth that had avoided me.

I closed my eyes as he whispered 'Gamila' twice, and then I felt his lips on mine again.

We gave ourselves to the kiss. His lips were hungry, and busy, and I matched him as best I could. His passion was daunting, in some ways, as I became more and more aware of how different we were. He was a man's man.

And I was dressed like a woman.

Feeling like a woman would, I believed.

Loved, and wanted, and lusted after, and admired, and appreciated.

Images were bouncing around in my brain while I experienced the hottest and most romantic kiss I'd ever had, by a long shot, and all of the images had me in women's clothes, and being feminine to his masculine. Yin to his Yang.

Many of the images were sexual ones.

Me, in bed with him.

Me, in lingerie, engaging in sexual relations with another man.

Me, sucking Waddah's cock.

Me, laying underneath him, eagerly giving him my virginity.

Me, writhing below him, as he makes love to me, as he satisfies his primal masculine need to pound himself into me, as he fulfils his role and spreads his semen.

As he breeds me.

Our kiss just kept getting better and better, so much so that I hadn't even realized that he'd steered us over to the couch, until he was pulling me down on top of him as he sat back on it.

I was laying on his big burly body, the lump in his pants threatening to burst through the seams, more or less sucking on his tongue as it danced and twirled inside my mouth. And his kiss just kept getting hotter and hotter, and more and more passionate, and I matched him with every ounce of energy I had within me.

We kissed and tasted each other for a long time. Our bodies just seemed to naturally fit well together, and since neither of us wanted to lose that connection, we both made sure there was plenty of full-out hugging and caressing going on. I instantly learned to adore his big hands moving all over my back, and my ass. He brought heat and ardor to his touches, and they sent my spirit on a ride of romantic and sensual glory I'd never known in my relationship with my wife.

I'd never been this worked up with her.

I'd never been this hungry with her.

I'd never been this hungry with anybody.

I literally couldn't get enough of his tongue in my mouth, the heft and length of that particular piece of meat sending shivers through me, as I lost myself adoring it. Tasting it, savoring it, sucking it, tickling it. I'd never French-kissed any woman this way, in my whole life, and I was almost drowning in the feelings of indescribable joy he was giving me.

Then a thought hit me that had never hit me in my entire life.

If I enjoyed his tongue meat in my mouth, how much more would I enjoy feeling his cock meat in my mouth?

Snaking my hand down between our bodies, I palmed the tube-shaped lump in his pants, stunned again at its size. I felt, and heard, his breath catch in his mouth, and the singular moan that came from deep within him touched me on a primal level.

Waddah reluctantly broke our kiss.

"Gamila," he whispered, trying to catch his breath, "my lovey Gamila. Are you sure?"

I gave him a very quick kiss on the lips.

"Waddah," I whispered, "I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life."

We stared at each other, watching the river of emotions each of us was feeling, as I deftly undid his belt, unsnapped his trousers, and slipped my hand underneath his briefs, feeling his body heat and the little tufts of hair on his lower belly.

I had to touch him. I had to feel him. I had to know. I had to gain the experience, of having his manhood in my hand. I'd been feeling its size and shape during our hugs, these last couple of days, and had always been impressed with it, and awed by it, but now, now I had to really know.

The relevance of my life demanded it, I suppose. I was single-minded of intent.

I could wait no longer.

I needed to have his cock in my hand.

My fingertip touched it first, and then I slid my entire palm down his length, squeezing my hand through the cramped quarters of under his clothes.

IT WAS HOT!

HE WAS ROCK HARD!

FOR ME!

The moan that escaped his lips was one of anticipatory pleasure finally being sated.

The moan that escaped my lips was one of pure unadulterated exhilaration.

And still our eyes would not leave each other. We were both sharing these moments, silently. I could see everything he was going through, as he could no doubt see all the thrills I was feeling. The newness of touching another man, the newness of these feminine qualities rushing through my soul. The sheer and utter fantasmagorical effects of being dressed like a woman, and being held like a woman, and being kissed like a woman, silently screaming out into the evening.

THIS IS ME!

My palm began slowly moving up and down his shaft, as I spread the drops of precum he'd been pumping out all over his flesh. I couldn't get over his size, his thickness, and how mind-bogglingly erotic it was to be touching him this way. He was uncircumcised, and my eyes must have opened wider than humanly possible as I felt his foreskin moving, as I manipulated him.

I couldn't get over how big his helmet was. It was so much larger than his shaft, which was so much larger than me by a long shot. It just seemed to reinforce that he was a man's man, and I was not. I was wearing lingerie, and makeup, and one of the sexiest dresses known to humankind.

I was not the masculine, virile man here. I was the Rajul Jirliun Jamil. The 'beautiful feminine man'.

The difference between the two of us was staggering.

And yet, I didn't feel threatened, or insecure. Far from it. The exact opposite, actually.

I felt alive! I felt free! Free to be who I truly was, inside.

I felt equal to him, in this coupling, and yet in many ways his diametric opposite.

I felt like destiny was leading me to something wildly unpredictable.

I couldn't wait to see where it took me.

I kissed Waddah again, softly, as I palmed his cock. His breathing was rapid, and I looked at his eyes again and smiled at him, sending him the non-verbal messages that were uppermost in my mind.

I'm going to suck your cock now. I'm going to take your penis, hard and tumescent, into my loving lips and tongue and mouth, and I'm going to adore it. I'm going to adore you.

I'm going to take you on a sexual trip unlike anything you've ever had, and I'm going to make you scream out my name as you release.

I'm going to suck your cock, and swallow all of the love juice you can give me. As a sign of love, and a sign of respect, for the love you've shown me, this last little while.

And as a sign of my newly-discovered femininity.

His non-verbal response was life-altering for me. I could see it in his eyes.

I reasoned that this was all no doubt new for him, and uncharacteristic, going against his upbringing and society's rules of the road. He'd probably never been in this position before, kissing another man, being romantic with another man, having his cock touched and fondled by another man.

Yet his look told me there was absolutely nowhere on earth he'd rather be than here with me. Maybe I was reading part of him wrongly.

He seemed to want nothing more than for me to be his 'beautiful feminine man'.

His Rajul Jirliun Jamil.

We moved like clockwork. I slid down his body, never stopping my caress of his great penis, and we both worked his shoes and socks and pants and briefs and tie and shirt off, until he was lying on my couch, naked as could be.

His body was thick, and decidedly masculine. His skin was dark, so much darker than mine, and he had muscles on top of muscles, particularly his legs, which looked like the most powerful of limbs, like a championship athlete, or a racehorse.

In his case, a mighty Arab steed.

His cockhead shone in the light of my living room, wet as it was with his precum. I slid down to my knees, between his legs, and looked up at him, devouring him with my eyes, wrapping my fingers delicately around the base of his shaft, as I brought his penis to my lips.

My kiss was soft, and gentle.

We both moaned out loud.

I flashed on little bits of memory, of the few times my wife had performed fellatio on me, during our marriage. How she'd swirl her tongue around my helmet, and then up and down the shaft. How she'd pay attention to my balls, and gently nuzzle them and kiss them and occasionally take one in her mouth and suckle. And as these images sailed through me, I mirrored them in action.

I ran my tongue all around his head, holding his foreskin down with my hand, and I moaned out loud, louder than him, as I slurped up my first big taste of his love liquid. It was tangy, and tart, and electric! I thought to myself, 'why did no one ever tell me how delicious it was?', and 'why did no one ever show me how fucking fantastic it was to hold another man's cock in my hands, his helmet between my lips?'

Some voice in the back of my brain told me that regardless of where the future lies with this amazing man, that this was not a one-off moment.

I knew, more than I knew anything, that sucking cock, that orally loving another man, was something I was born to do, and something I would be doing a lot of. As much as I could.

I fell in love with giving a blowjob, just like that!

It was difficult at times, my joy so overwhelming, to keep my eyes trained on his, to be second-by-second communicating with him through his eyes, but I tried my best. But each new motion of mine, each new kiss and lick, sent me further and further into a bliss I'd never known before, a bliss I'd never realized I could achieve.

A bliss that trumped all other blisses.

Minutes on end of kissing and licking and gentle suckles on his balls later, which by the way produced the most amazingly loud and uncontrolled moans from him, I gazed at him, and with a smile on my painted lips, I opened my mouth, and slowly but surely began taking him inside me.

I WAS SUCKING ON HIS COCK!!!!!

He filled my mouth. Instantly. His thickness made me open my jaw, which made my heart beat about a trillion times faster than normal. I gulped in air through my nose, like I was running a marathon, and sealed my lips around his shaft, as my tongue bathed him and my palette adored him. His big hands came up and gently touched the sides of my head, and I moaned a little as I sucked on his flesh. He pulsed a few drops of his precum again, and the sweetness of it shocked me and filled my mouth with saliva, like a flood, and it coated his shaft, because my mouth was so full of it.

Then I began bobbing. Slowly going down him, taking as much of him as I could each time, and each time a little more, and then slowly up him, my throat sucking at whatever liquid it could get, my tongue slipping and sliding back and forth under his cockhead, caressing him, tantalizing him, making his moans fill my otherwise silent living room. And the more he moaned, the more it pushed me to do more, to make his feelings multiply, to heighten them.

And, more importantly, to heighten mine.

Because as much as he seemed to be enjoying this, I was in a world all of my own, propelled by feelings I'd never had before, of abject pleasure, of abject joy, of abject other-worldly satisfaction.

I'd never sucked a man before. And yet I knew, as sure as I knew anything, that I would be sucking cock again. As often as I could.

I adored it. I adored him. I bathed his cock in my saliva, and his precum, as I began bobbing harder, bobbing deeper.

Taking more of him into me.

He kept hitting the back of my throat, and I kept gagging a little tiny bit, and I'd back off him, and then, with the determination of a championship athlete, I'd try again, and again. And again.

And then, like someone threw a switch or hit a button, his bulbous helmet slipped into my throat, and I made the most insane and loud gulping sound I'd ever heard, and his hands pressed down on my head with great vigor, and he made a noise, from deep within his barrel of a chest, that sounded like a combination of the most acute pleasure and pain, almost like an animal, and then I felt his natural reaction in his hips, which started bucking up and down.

He was trying, in his gentle and respectful way, to get himself further into me.

I decided to give him that wish.

Squeezing my eyes shut, and concentrating more than I'd ever concentrated on anything, I breathed in and out through my nose and began determinedly working his cock into my throat. The gagging noises became like a metronome, constant and loud. Perhaps in another lifetime I would have been embarrassed about them, their volume and squishy qualities, but not now.

Now, I thought them the most delicious sounds I'd ever made.

We both sped up. Me in my sucking and swallowing, and him in his gentle hip-thrusting. Syllables were pouring out of him that didn't seem like any particular language I'd ever heard before, English or Arabic. I didn't recognize anything.

But then again, I was pretty busy. Enjoying myself more than ever before, the squelches and wet sounds I was making became the greatest music known to man.

My left hand had been constantly caressing his testicles, the huge bags with their solitary huge egg inside, and I felt them tighten up, after what had to have been at least fifteen minutes of me sucking him.

I knew what that physical sign meant.

He was close to cumming.

And rather than daunt me, rather than scare me, it enflamed me. It catapulted me.

I wanted him to cum.

I wanted to taste his cum, to savor it, to swirl it around in my mouth, and let my taste buds and palette absorb it.

Since I now knew what my cum tasted like, I wanted to compare.

I wanted him to explode for me.

I wanted him to explode in me.

I wanted to be washed away with his ejaculate. I wanted to drown in his creamy love.

He didn't disappoint me.

A minute or so later, his balls tightened up even more, and his hands pressed on me even more, and his hips bucked up even more, and his voice boomed through my house, the grunts and groans punctuated with words that sounded to me like 'HUBU HAYAATI!!!!', and then he screamed, and began filling me with his explosion.

Being the first time I'd ever done this, I wasn't prepared for it. His first blast went off in my throat, which made my whole body spasm, in a retch, so I backed him out slightly in a desperate attempt to not drown and swallowed and tried to get ready for his second spurt, which came sooner than I expected, and I gagged and choked and breathed the wrong way and his cum went into my sinuses and right out my nose, and I gagged and swallowed again, and the third rope landed squarely at the back of my mouth and inundated my taste buds, and I moaned louder than a tom cat in the alley, as did Waddah, and then I was ready for the final three little spurts, as he emptied his balls fully, and I languorously swallowed it down.

He was yelling. Almost shouting. Loud deep sounds, unmistakably gut-wrenching. I listened to his voice bounce off the walls of my living room.

I swallowed and rolled his cum around in my mouth and swallowed more. I used the tip of my tongue on the underside of his cockhead, trying desperately to coax out more. I couldn't get enough. My right hand came off of the base of his shaft, and I used my fingers to scoop up the cum running down my cheeks and jaw and shovelled it into a little tiny hole I created at the side of my mouth, alongside his mammoth shaft, and I sucked his juice in.

Waddah's hands came off the sides of my head, and he ran them down my shoulder blades, as far as they would stretch. His fingers kneaded my skin, through my dress.

I opened my eyes, cleaning up my lips after letting his cock slip out of my mouth, and fixed my gaze on him. And as if he knew it, he opened his eyes, and stared at me. His face was a mixture of so many emotions. I could see the exertion of his orgasm, mixed with the joy of cumming, mixed with the awe of the moment, that it was another man sucking him that way, and yet his complete acceptance of it, as if it wasn't the most shocking thing he'd ever done.

And I swear I could also see love, pure and shining.

We smiled together.

"What does 'HUBU HAYAATI!!!!' mean?" I asked, breathlessly.

Waddah laughed, and pulled me up by my shoulders, bringing my lips to his again, his tongue madly scrambling around, tasting whatever he could find.

Breaking our kiss, his smile returned.

"It means 'love of my life'."

I purred my appreciation, and moved my cheek to his palm, so he could touch me softly. He didn't let me down.

"I have never," he said, seriously, "never felt like that before, my sweet Gamila."

I broke out in the biggest smile of my life.

"I'm so glad."

We kissed some more, softly and slowly.

Then he flipped us around, so I was lying on my back, and he was lying on top of me, his weight pinning me down.

"You must understand, Gamila," he continued, "I am no stranger to this. You are not my first Rajul Jirliun Jamil."

I was surprised, at not being completely surprised.

I picked my head up and kissed him again, softly.

"Would you tell me about it?" I asked, because I sincerely wanted to know.

"When I was fifteen years of age," he said, "my parents sent me to one of the finest boarding schools in all of England. It was, as so many of them are, an all-boys school."

"Is that so?" I asked, thinking I might have an idea where he was going.

He smiled.

"It was there that I first was introduced to the art of love between two men."

My heart began to beat more rapidly.

"One autumn day I happened upon one of the senior students and one of the freshmen engaged in furtive kissing, and snuggling, behind a lesser-used stack in the library. They couldn't see me, but I could see them."

I had to know.

"How did it make you feel?" I asked.

He smiled even more.

"I was shocked, of course. But that gave way, quickly. Almost immediately, to be honest. And to answer your question, it made me feel like it was perfect. It was beautiful. It was somehow, despite what many in society think, it was, well, it was right. As right as rain. I was raging with lust."

His honesty hit me like a ton of bricks.

His right hand slowly caressed up my belly, enjoying the softness of the dress, and when it got to my left breast, his big finger and thumb began gently squeezing my nipple.

It made me catch my breath, and push out my breast towards him.

"I was soon to discover that many of the other teenagers were raging with similar levels of lust. I was a large boy, for my age, and I seemed to easily make friends with a few of the smaller boys. The more feminine boys. Or perhaps, they were more inclined to make friends with someone of my size."

"Please tell me everything," I fairly moaned.

"At first, I assumed that at least part of their friendship, part of the reason they spent so much time with me, was because I could physically protect them from the bullies. And there are always bullies, aren't there?"

I nodded, because he was right.

"One in particular, a young man named William, caught my eye, and quickly became my favorite. He was bright, and full of delight, and loved to giggle, and his cheeks were pale white and rosy, and he had ice-blue eyes, and soft downy blonde hair on his head. At Christmas time, I saved some of the money that my parents were providing me and bought him a special present. On the night before he was to return home for the season's holidays, I managed to find a dorm room that was not being used, and I brought him there. It was cold, I remember," and I watched his eyes go far away, back in time, as he relived what had to have been an important moment in his life, "so I offered him my jacket to wear, to stop him from shivering, while he opened his present. It was so big on him, it almost looked like a dress, or a frock of some kind."

"What did you buy for him?" I asked.

Waddah studied my eyes for a second. And I realized that there was a level of understanding that we'd reached, that there was no walls between us, that we'd achieved something rare. Intimacy. Physical, yes. But emotional too. We'd already seen secrets revealed, from both of us, and we'd already gone where two people very rarely go. He would not sugar-coat anything for me.

"I bought for him something that I wanted to see him wearing."

"Which was?"

"I bought for him panties."

I smiled. I grinned. I was so happy for that young man.

"Did he like his present?" I wondered.

Waddah softly kissed me.

"We both lost our virginity that night. We made love for the first time each. He wore the panties, and I lost myself inside of him."

I said the only thing that came to my mind.

"Was it good?"

His face became serious, quickly.

"It was," he said slowly, "without a doubt, the single greatest moment of my life."

A small tear came back to one of my eyes.

"Until tonight."

My eyes flooded with tears.

"Until you, my Gamila," he said, and then added, "And you must understand, those years were filled with love-making, as were a couple of my years at Oxford University. I knew it to be the only true expression of love for me. I was like a drug addict. I needed it daily. But, then times changed, or I did perhaps, and the pressures of life and what the world expects from us increase, and I left that part of me behind. I have not made love to another of my own sex for forty years. I confess freely that I dreamed of it, daily, constantly, through all the years of my marriage, but I was faithful to her, so I suppressed those feelings. I buried them inside myself, and poured those energies into my work, and my children."

Through my tears, I watched his eyes get watery.

"And now there is you," he whispered.

My cheeks became wet, as the tears flowed out of me.

A tear of his fell upon me, and I brought my finger up to scoop it off my neck, and I immediately moved it my mouth. My lips opened up, and I savored the saltiness of it, looking him directly in the eyes.

"I thought perhaps, not even just a few days ago, that I was a silly old man, intoxicated with memories of my youth, overcome with irrational ideas that you might share the same interests with me. I rationalized that while you were a wonderful person, that you were surely in a vulnerable state, and that the little signs I thought I was receiving were more than likely just simple basic human stages of grief, and genuine friendship, on your part."

His finger and thumb squeezed my nipple even harder, and made my breathing quicken.

"I have had a very successful life," he continued, "and I have been blessed with wonderful children, and riches beyond my needs. I have nothing to ask for, and everything to be grateful for."

I nodded at him.

"And yet," he whispered, "all those riches, those successes, they all became meaningless, when you asked me if I wanted to kiss you."

My whole body shuddered under his weight, and the weight of his words.

"Forty plus years of missing the connection that only two men can have, no matter that one is more masculine or feminine than the other, forty plus years! They disappeared in one blink of an eye."

I gasped.

"Here I am, in my twilight, and while Allah has smiled upon me so many times, never has his grace been as brilliant as now! Never has it shone so bright! And now, Gamila, my sweet Gamila, the only thing I want to do, no, need to do, before my time is finished in this world, is to make love to you."

He let those words hang in the air.

"If you'll bless me with your approval."

More tears cascaded down my cheeks, and I pulled my legs open as wide as I could, and felt his body settle even more down on to me, his knees on the floor, his weight covering my genitals.

"Make love to me, Waddah!"

I was almost blubbering.

His eyes closed a little bit, his concentration making me feel like a deer in the headlights.

"You are sure of that, Gamila?" he asked, his voice dripping with the hope that I'd say yes.

I reached for his shoulders, pulling him down to kiss me.

"I've never been more sure of anything. EVER!" The volume of my voice rose immediately.

"MAKE LOVE TO ME! I NEED YOU INSIDE OF ME, WADDAH! MY LOVE! NOW! PLEASE!

As his lips met mine, in a crushing kiss, his right hand left my nipple, and he dragged it down my belly to my erection, trapped between our bellies, and with his fingertips he began making little circles right at where my helmet meets my shaft.

And like a rocket, I blew up. I took less than ten seconds of his gentle rubbing before everything inside me pulsed in one gigantic spasm of energy and muscle movement, and I began blasting cum out of me, while my head went into some sort of conscious unconsciousness, so I could remember everything but controlled nothing, and a torrent of white goodness spurted out of me, my back arching, my voice screaming out, my whole body becoming one big vibrating puddle. The front of my dress took huge streams of it, the rest pooled on my belly, and in my belly button.

Not wasting a second, Waddah slid down my body, spread my legs even more, and attacked my most intimate parts with his lips and tongue. He feverishly began lapping at and piercing my hole, my pussy. He could not be stopped, his thirst for me would not be quenched. And I knew from experience that his tongue was long and thick and squirmier than a crazed serpent, and that's exactly what I felt as he ate me out. With each movement, he was getting me wet, bathing me in his liquid, all around the perimeter of my pussy, and then with gusto into my opening, his tongue surprisingly strong, squishing and pushing and opening me. After a couple of minutes, one of his big fingers traced the pool of cum on my tummy, and, taking a big dollop of it, he ran it down to my ass, and slid it inside of me.

Obviously that part of us is meant to expand. Certainly all of us can say we've had some big bowel movements, to be slightly crude. We all know what that's like, how it can send the most painful pulses through our nerve system when it's really large.

His finger wasn't the biggest thing I'd ever had forcing my hole open, but when he added a cum-covered second thick finger, I moaned like a wounded animal and felt shivers of pain running through me.

I watched his eyes pop up, and stare at me. Gauging me.

"Don't stop!" I breathed out.

For minutes on end he bounced between pushing his tongue and as much saliva as he could muster into my pussy and all around my pussy, to filling me with one or two of his fingers, and then, gloriously, three of those big digits. Sliding them deliciously in and out of me, in a sawing motion, spreading his spit and my cum around and inside me.

I saw stars at that. My anal ring was pushed again to new limits, and I can honestly tell you, that's a kind of pain that's hard to explain, unless you've lived it. It starts out low, and builds fast, it skyrockets quickly. It radiates through you. It literally feels unlike anything else. No broken bone, no muscle sprain, no cut, no headache comes close.

Waddah looked up at me again, minutes later. He saw the look on my face.

It must have scared him.

"Gamila," he said, his voice throaty and untamed, three fingers still sliding in and out of my pussy hole, "we should wait, I think."

My head snapped up, and despite the physical pain I was experiencing, my disappointment at his words was leading me to feel like crying.

"But why?" I asked, my voice plaintive.

"I cannot bear the thought of hurting you," he whispered. "We have plenty of time, sweet Gamila," he continued, "and we can open you slowly that way, and prepare you properly."

"NO!" I yelled, "NO! DON'T STOP!"

His brow furled slightly, and concern washed over his upper face.

"Are you sure?"

I reached my hands down, and marvelled at how gorgeous they looked with rings on, and I absentmindedly noticed the slight weight of the earrings on me, and I took his face in my hands, and pulled him up to me, and kissed him, a thirsty wet kiss, full of the molten energy that was burning and boiling inside me.

"Waddah," I groaned, between kisses, "MAKE LOVE TO ME!"

He pulled his left knee up and placed it on the couch, next to my ass, and he slid his hands up the backs of my legs, pushing my knees almost into my breasts, encased as they were in a bra, and he looked down, between us, and moved his hips and his thighs as needed and lined up his ramrod straight cock with my opening.

"Push out," he whispered, his experience helping me along.

As I did, he flexed, and the rounded leading edge of his helmet slipped into me, pushing at but not yet exceeding my limitations.

Sensing no major obstruction, he kept going.

I yelped into his face, and he inched back slightly.

Once again, I managed to choke out a "NO!", and he stopped.

Then he pushed forward again, and for a second or two I was fine.

And then all hell broke loose.

The worst pain I'd ever felt, the most debilitating excruciating burning soreness radiated from me, through me, about me and around me.

I cried, loudly, sobbing like a woman who's just lost someone, or something, and refuses to control herself or hold it in. I couldn't help it, but almost scream, such was the pain. And then more burning, and more pain, and more burning, and my wails and tears went through the roof.

I felt Waddah slow down.

My legs came up around and behind his mighty haunches, and I locked my ankles together, my heels clacking into each other, and I squeezed him, I put pressure on his huge muscular ass, letting him know through my tears and my shudders and my anguish that I wasn't giving up, I wasn't letting him take it easy on me, I wasn't doing anything to stop this from happening.

I really did cry, and sob, and shake, and I buried my wet face in his shoulder, right where it meets his neck, and I pressed my lips up against the crook of his neck and I howled and mewled and tried to bear the agony.

He kept slowly pushing in, and the pain just kept getting bigger and stronger, and my wails became sheer horror to listen to, even for me, and I was just about to change my mind, and give myself the biggest disappointment of my life by asking him to stop, when I felt him bottom out inside of me.

I felt his hips up against the back of my thighs.

I felt the last ripple of my skin, the last push of his girth, moving all my insides outward, three hundred and sixty-five degrees. Every direction. Filling me, expanding me, widening me, making everything inside me denser, more packed, more seriously weighty.

My agony became somewhat muted, as the emotional pride I felt welled in me, rose like a hot air balloon, and then burst.

I was full of him! I was full of his cock!

I WAS FULL OF HIS COCK!

I felt his whole body shudder, in a satisfied way, and I heard his mighty lungs sucking in and expelling huge gulps of air, his mouth next to my head. My tears still flowed, but the pain was less now, by a bit, and my non-stop crying wail of pain quieted, and then I felt him move slightly, the tiny little movements that all of us make, his tremors amplified up through his cock and straight into my flesh, into my very core.

A voice inside my head told me it was time.

Time to be real. Time to be completely real.

"Now, my love," I whispered between gulps of air and soft sobs, "now! Make love to me now!"

Waddah needed no more encouragement.

His cock slid out of me, almost all the way, and then he gingerly slipped back in, my channel getting smaller again and then being forced back open, all the tissues and nerve endings and individual cells in my pussy going stark raving mad, and sending the most insanely messages through my nervous system to my very soul.

I WAS FULL OF A MAN'S COCK!

I WAS SO FULL.

I DIDN'T KNOW I COULD FEEL THIS WAY, THIS FULL.

I NEVER WANT IT TO END.

His tenderness and care were touching me, and the rippling pain inside me was slowly ebbing, and eventually gone, and all I felt was a fullness unlike anything else, and my bum started grooving and my hips started churning and Waddah picked up on these little signs and his breath came into my ear and he whispered Arabic words that despite not understanding I just knew were lovely, and then we began.

Then he started truly making love to me.

The oldest dance in the world.

The most sublime experience, flooding my senses, reinventing my life, changing me, in every way.

Physically. Spiritually. Intellectually.

Waddah made love to me, like a prize fighter toys with his opponent. He teased me, with long slow moments of gentle movements, followed by bursts of raging fury, mammoth and powerful thrusts, staccato, my eyes rolling back into their sockets, my tongue hanging out of my mouth, my body jolting and jerking like someone being electrocuted, a constant pleading moan escaping my mouth.

It was all beyond anything I'd ever imagined.

His grunts and groans and endless stream of words just enflamed me even more, and I found myself bucking my own hips, rising my ass and pussy hole to meet him, to seek his length out, to fill me again and again and again.

And in doing that, I made him touch me, inside, with his mighty cock, in such a way that made me worry I was going to pee. A vibrating, buzzing sort of feeling, as if I had to find a toilet in seconds or less or something bad would happen, something that hadn't happened since I was a child.

I almost warned him, the fear of peeing myself was so great, but then, letting go and dreading the worst, I didn't pee at all.

My brain swirled and my body shook from the inside out and the longest strangled moan of luxury escaped my lips, and waves of pleasure began emitting themselves from my ass, like radio beacons, telling me and the whole world that I was being gloriously made love to, and would never in a million trillion years change that.

We went on like this for a really long time. He'd just had an orgasm, as had I, and while I wasn't hard again, he obviously was, and he was lasting so much more than I ever had, with my wife.

For a brief second, I wondered if she'd ever felt disappointed with me.

That thought flew out the window seconds later, though, when Waddah sped up again and began spearing into me, really passionately thudding me, making the couch actually jump a little bit each time, moving it incrementally away from the coffee table.

His voice became louder. Mine continued to wail.

And then, just like before, it was like a rocket going off inside me. I wasn't erect, I wasn't even being touched, and with only a second or two of warning, I exploded.

I yelled, and involuntarily twisted and writhed underneath him, losing all control of my body, like some horror movie where I was suddenly being controlled by a demon. Like the Exorcist.

Except this was a good demon. The best demon.

My rocket lit off.

The last thing I remember was hearing Waddah scream out loud, matching me.

Then everything went black.

When I came to, I was in my bed, the sheets pulled up over my head. I was groggy, and dazed, and it took me long moments to realize where I was.

And that I was alone.

And that I was still wearing stockings, and a bra, and a cocktail dress.

But no panties.

Then it all came back to me, and I frantically looked from side to side, to find him.

He wasn't there.

My sadness was huge, but brief. I took a moment and realized I could hear the shower running, in the bathroom, and as well I could hear a man's deep voice singing. I didn't recognize the song, and thought it to have a Middle Eastern flavor. The words were unimportant, but it sounded like happy music.

WADDAH!

I looked around my bedroom. The first rays of daylight were filtering through the curtains, and I could make out details. The piles of her clothes that I'd laid out everywhere, including on her side of the bed, were neatly and respectfully placed on the floor, all around the tall boy dresser and the long dresser with the mirror on it. The bedsheets that were around me were as crumpled as I'd ever seen them.

I sat up, and gazed at my reflection in the mirror. My lipstick was smudged, and all over my lower face, and I instantly regretted the look. I knew I had but a few moments before he was finished in the shower, so I tried to hop out of bed to fix my makeup.

There was no hopping to be done. My ass, and particularly my hole, was as sore as I'd ever felt anything be sore. My hole, or pussy, as I called it last night, screeched in a distinct uncomfortableness if I moved. Or if I even breathed.

But that too eased, perhaps quicker than I'd expected. So, I pulled the dress off of me, which was tight enough that it tried to take the bra with it. I reached behind me and undid it, and allowed it to fall to the floor. Slowly standing up straighter, I turned again, and saw my reflection bouncing back at me. A pale, hairless body, with the most amazing bra strap marks on the skin of my back and sides, and black thigh-high stockings on my hairless legs.

I loved how my legs looked! And I could have sworn that my ass was rounder and firmer than yesterday. My little penis, which had been through the wars, began filling with blood again, just at the sight of me. And in the ambient light, I could see my midriff, which was coated in dried or drying cum.

Then I flashed back on last night.

Then I sank to my knees, and began crying.

But all was not lost. They were tears of utter and abject joy. All the thousands of snippets of visual information went sailing by me again, everything that I could remember from last night, my brain recalling them all with clarity, and I sobbed at the sheer audacity of it all.

Wearing women's clothes.

Kissing another man.

Performing oral sex on another man, and delighting in it, and swallowing all of his cum afterwards.

OH MY GOD!

Laying back, and watching/feeling/participating, in allowing that same man to penetrate me, to bugger me. I watched him, I encouraged him, I practically begged him! It was so completely out of character for me, a somewhat boring middle-aged man, now a widower, to have been craving it so.

He made love to me.

WADDAH MADE LOVE TO ME!!!

And I must have exploded, so much so that it knocked me out of the ballpark. It was obvious to me, the dried cum all over my belly and thighs, and my brief memories of being fucked, and then blacking out.

I had to know, and my left hand slowly moved behind me, and my index finger slowly pushed my bum cheeks apart, and delved deeper until I could touch my pussy hole, and I oohed out loud when my finger touched liquid.

Cum.

Waddah's cum.

The cum of my Sheik. It was on me.

It was in me!

Waddah continued to sing in my shower, as I began regretting one thing.

Not the sex itself, hell no. Not the cross-dressing, not the kissing, not the romance, not the makeup, not the fellatio, and most decidedly NOT giving him my ass to fuck.

NO!

I found myself regretting, more than I'd ever regretted anything, not staying conscious enough to watch and feel and experience going through those moments, those precious holy seconds of orgasm, for both of us. I missed his facial expression! I missed his sounds, his words! I missed out on feeling him collapse onto me afterwards, after I'd drained him of all his cum and energy, after I'd literally fucked the life out of him, like a womanly lover should!

A new feeling overwhelmed me, in an instant.

I found a deep purple chemise, with the tiniest little thin straps, and I slid it down over my shoulders. It was a bright Royal blue, not the deep navy, and shiny and metallic. The material was silk, it had to be, judging by the feel of it on my skin, how it barely covered my breasts, and how it flared out at the bottom and gave me what looked like feminine hips.

A lipstick tube was on the top of the dresser, and as I heard the shower shut off, I raced to it, and applied it to my lips. The entire world could have been in a nuclear disaster, and all I could think about, or consider, was making myself look sexy for my man.

I jumped onto the bed, and peeled back all the sheets and covers. A plan formed in my brain, and I positioned myself on the mattress in one particular pose. I needed to see his reaction, and at the same time, I needed to spark him too.

Then I remembered something wildly important, and jumped over to pull open her bedside nightstand drawer. I hadn't been in it since she went into the hospice, but I knew its contents.

An old novel she was reading. Some tissues. Three different pairs of reading glasses she'd accumulated over the years.

And my target.

There was a jar of KY jelly in there.

I slathered it all around my pussy hole, as sore as it was, and then coated two of my fingers and awkwardly slid them inside myself, wincing slightly from the pain. Then I did it all again, and a third time, just to be ready.

When he opened the door from the bathroom, this is what Waddah saw.

Me, on my knees and hands, my back arched, my white gleaming ass pointed directly at him, puckering for him, teasing him, inviting him, my legs in sexy stockings, my head looking back over my shoulder, the chemise glittering in the early morning light, my lips a bright shade of red, and my smile from ear to ear.

Waddah's penis, which was hanging down and swinging between his legs as he dried himself off, began rising.

The look on his face was perhaps the best thing I'd ever seen.

His smile followed a second or two of shock.

"Gamila," he whispered.

"How do you say, 'take me', in Arabic?" I panted.

I watched his mind search for the translation.

"Khudhnaa," he said, slowly, so I could hear the syllabic variations and tiny little nuances of the pronunciation.

His penis was now a cock, thick and risen, bouncing in little tiny movements with his breathing and his body motions.

"WADDAH! KHUDHNAA!!!" I murmured, loudly, and shook my ass at him in invitation.

I turned my head from him, and lay my upper body down, so I was knees and shoulders on the bed, with my head pointed to my right.

Which, as it turns out, gave me the perfect view, through the mirror, of the proceedings.

I watched him step up onto the bed, his head almost hitting the ceiling fan we'd installed years ago. His cock was pulsing and moving, like it had a mind of its own, like it was a separate, independent animal from him.

An animal that wanted one thing, and one thing only.

To bury itself in me.

I watched his eyes spot the jar of KY jelly, and part of him disappeared from my view as he leaned over me and scooped some out. Then he reappeared and I watched him coating himself, lathering his mighty cock, spreading the lubricant up and down his shaft, making it glisten.

And making it harder than it was the night before, and longer.

And fatter.

Then, when he was ready, he placed his legs on the outside of mine, standing around me, and he bent at the waist, and he bent his oak-like legs, so powerful and flexing, and with his right hand he grasped his cock and lined it up at my pussy.

I moaned out loud at the first scant touch of him.

He moaned out loud as well.

Then, he bent further at the waist, and put his big hands on my shoulders, now flat on the mattress, and growled something I didn't understand.

He was the mighty stallion, and I was his mare. He was the wild feral beast, and I was his raison d'etre, his mate, his complimentary partner, and in one gigantic but slippery smooth motion, he sunk his cock into me again.

He mounted me.

All the way.

From zero to sixty in one second.

From empty and yearning to completely full and off-the-charts wild in a puff of wind.

I yelled out, in joy and passion, and I must confess a small amount of pain.

"KHUDHNAA!!! KHUDHNAA!!! KHUDHNAA!!!

Take me. Take me. Take me.

And then my Sheik, having mounted me, took his pleasure.

It began with long full hard strokes, the sound of his hips hitting my buttocks like a dull gunshot report, my whole body shuddering forward, his hands grabbing forcefully on my shoulders, pulling me back towards him as he pulled out, only to pound himself back into me again.

For minutes on end he took me that way, each time bottoming out in me, both of us grunting out our breath, the room a crazy sound studio, echoes off the painted walls and furniture adding to the length and depth of our notes.

Then his BANG BANG BANG into me became harder, more relentless. I could see him, in the mirror, when I found the strength to open my eyes, and there was a fierceness on his face, an all-consuming eye-opening all-out ferocious stare, every single active cell of his body concentrating on one thing.

His cock in my pussy.

Just when I thought his passion had reached its zenith, he turned it up another notch, and pushed it into overdrive.

He pummelled me. He pounded me. There was unrelenting power in his strokes, which hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks, and bent the way I was my only hope of survival, and my most fervent wish, was to push back at him, with my ass, with my pussy. Match him, my soul said, my hips and back and spine and legs seamlessly working together.

Waddah kept hammering into me, faster and faster and harder and harder. He literally took me to the edges of my limitations. Body and soul. Every muscle, every fibre, ever sinew, every tendon. Every synapse in my brain. All of them were farther away from normalcy than they'd ever been. I teetered on the rim, his constant machine-like rutting testing my resolve, testing my endurance.

Testing my capacity to take it, before some or all of me just shut down, as a defense mechanism.

I had never, in all my years, had my entire being worked as hard as Waddah was, his eyes wild and glaring, his skin flushed all over and covered in sweat, his cock pound pound pounding into me, his shouts and grunts and groans louder than mine, and entirely incomprehensible.

Then my rocket went off again. I wasn't hard in the least, my little penis handing down and swaying back and forth like a hanging basket on the porch in a horrific wind storm, but the sheer explosion of vibrations and energy inside me emerged and grew and then went supernova, and I couldn't help shouting at the top of my lungs while a steady stream of clear cum sprayed out of me, onto the sheets and the insides of my thighs. Sticky, and cooling immediately, I could only ride the wave of euphoria, completely unable to control any part of my body.

Except my ass, and my pussy.

The former developed a mind of its own, and pushed back at him harder than ever. The latter squeezed him, clenched onto his shaft, gripped him like the softest vise, and refused to let go.

I saw stars, and lines, and blobs of whitish lights, all around me, with my eyes, open or not.

Waddah reared up, his head pointed at the ceiling, and he plunged into me full-bore one last time, and then he roared at the top of his lungs, and his whole body shook, his cock deeper than ever inside me, and I somehow managed to feel his cum finding nooks and crannies and slithering here and there.

My pussy was full of cock, and cum.

Waddah's full body weight came down on me, and my knees slid as did his, and we ended up flat, horizontal. Me, with my genitals in a pool of cum, and him with his cock all the way inside me.

Where it belongs.

It took us almost ten minutes to calm down. Both of us were breathing harder than either of us possibly ever had, and he clamped his lips down on the back of my neck, and wriggled himself inside of me, as I felt him lose some of his girth.

He whispered into my ear.

"Gamila, never have I made love with anyone like that."

I couldn't find it in me to make a sound. He'd fucked the voice out of me.

"If we never again become as one," he whispered, "then I can die the happiest of men, for I have had the sweetest of pussies."

I spun my head as far as I could, and craned my neck a little, and stared at him with my right eye only.

It took all the energy I could muster to say what I had to say.

"Waddah," I croaked, "you will always have me, if you wish it. I don't want to even think about not being as one with you, having you inside me."

I saw his eyes fill with tears.

"My Rajul Jirliun Jamil," he said, sweetly, admiring me.

"My Sheik," I answered, lovingly.

He kissed me, the softest kiss of all.

While he had another quick shower, I lay on the bed and revisited every moment of last few days. All of it. The tears, the pain. The hope, the laughter. The initial steps of a new relationship. Strange new wondrous doors opening. Flat out, the best sex I'd ever known, or could have ever conceived of.

I'd never been happier. I'd never imagined that I could find that spark of life again, after she passed, when I'd felt so down, and so tired of everything about my existence. I'd never even considered that there was another way of living, other avenues of loving, different sensibilities of rapture.

Now, while I had no idea what the future held for me, I knew two things for sure.

One, I'd had the greatest sexual and romantic experience of my life, with more to come.

And two, I was tired no more.

The End.