The Christmas Gift, Pt. 10

I leaned back in the chaise longue we kept in the corner of our room and purred. I gazed past my ample cleavage, wiggled my toes, pushed my crotch out in my leggings, and admired the hint of camel toe I could see from this angle.

I now ached for separation in any form. To open up. To be spread. I squeezed the soft flexible separators that were now holding my beautiful little toes apart. I gripped at them. My nails were painted. They were drying. I had coated them each, first steady strokes to my big toe, covering it to its edges carefully, then working my way through the others with the same attention, ending in quick, cute, well-placed dollops of polish on each of my pinky toes. I squeezed and wiggled them in their containment, suddenly overcome with my thin ankles and the beautiful feminine feet at the end of my perfect legs.

I thought of an ex-girlfriend I had in college who had particularly beautiful feet.

Except mine are prettier. My mind wandered to how they would look in my stockings and all the ways they could move.

I wiggled and squeezed. My legs crooked, knees slightly up, heels digging into to the cushion, generous thighs opening slightly to untold possibility.

I wanted to touch myself.

Turning, I admired my form in the mirror across the room. That wasn’t me — was it? I cocked my head slightly and she did the same. I slowly brushed the hair from my eyes, gazing at the woman reflected back to me, careful to watch for any inconsistency in movement between us.

Was I dreaming? I was already starting to forget what I had looked like. The mirror, my feet, the weight of my breasts, the subtle way my bra was meeting my firm nipples all conspired to shift my outward perception of myself. I pouted my lips and they appeared full and plush under my cute little nose. Each confirmation shifted the persona looking out of my eyes — from man to woman.

I began to imagine an idealized version of myself — that looked exactly like the woman I had become. In something less — black lace. Access.

My ovaries were beginning to ache — not a totally unpleasant feeling. Clearly they had taken a long journey to arrive at their positions. Of all the changes, theirs had been the most extreme: vacated of sperm, snatched inside, twisted apart, stuffed with eggs, settled at the ends of my fallopian tubes, which gingerly stroked their apex with their frilly, pink fimbriae, ready and in wait of an egg to be released.

My sexual makeup, even for the day, was now locked in a cycle.

I looked down at my flat crotch thinking of the way my balls had retreated, tugging my scrotum behind them, rendering me flat. My flowering, pink slit was now peeking just a bit from my labia majora. I was getting aroused and swollen. A wet spot was growing in the V of my thong. Already I had grown used to the way it snaked over my dainty puckering feminine asshole and hugged the oasis that was my pussy. Before the feeling would have given me pause — but now?

Separation.

My balls had once hung together. Even they had parted ways, settling deep astride my uterus. I shifted in the lounge on my plump little ass, trying to feel within the tight entryway that had opened in me. Before my balls hung beneath me, they could be cupped by my wife's little hands. Now they lay far beyond the deepest thrust, quietly filling my body with a maddening cocktail of oxytocin and estrogen.

My leggings hugged back, not giving an inch. Wherever I moved they moved, outlining the absence of my cock, the presence of my curvaceous form. Oh! my leggings hugged my ass so delightfully, as to make me wince, cutting into my ass to accentuate each generous cheek. Fuck. The empty feeling was returning again. My hips bones had expanded and made room for this furnace of heat that was aflame in my pelvis. My vision sharpened, bluring at the edges. My hearing grew finer. My senses were roused. I could hear the crackle of the fire in the pizza oven outside, matching the heat within me. I could smell the smoke intermingled with the sweet scent of my pussy.

I looked down, over my deep cleavage, to find I had spread my thighs a little wider. I didn’t even have to think about doing it. I suppose if I became too turned on they would slink open even wider, spread until my inner thighs settled into a pleasing stretch. I spread them more to see what that would be like.

Totally open. Totally receptive. Ready to be fucked. My cock forgotten. Wanting penetration. Wanting it so deeply. Surrendered to it. Drunk on the thought of a big one slipping in. I bit my lip. It was a good thing I was changing back after dinner. As aroused as I was, a cock slipping into me would be cataclysmic to my being.

Wider. Spread. Leg muscles engaged. Wider. Inside of me, the comfortable walls of my pussy, slick with feminine juices and ready to hug a cock. Beyond them a sentinel — my cervix — guardian of my new womb.

I leaned forward to see over my tits. Oh! My delicious flat little crotch, the enticing little divot marking my female sex.

I couldn’t stand it.

By now the polish on my fingers had dried. I crossed my arms in front of me, taking my bra in each hand by its underside and lifting, releasing my tits to fall. I threw the bra to the floor of the room and fell back, legs still spread.

My right hand trailed down my tight tummy, over my hip bone, and moved between my thighs and over me. I pushed my middle finger out and settled it into the divot in my leggings. My head pressed into the cushion behind me as a writhed on my finger. My back arched. My tits settled bountifully around my chin.

God, it was so hot and inviting down there. I could feel my swollen pussy through the tight fabric. Clearly my thong was soaked through and now moisture was entering the crotch of my leggings. Soon they would have a growing wet spot, and the close contact of my finger was helping it come into being.

I crooked my left arm, hugging my breast, and wove my hand around to press my nipple closer and leaned forward. I stuck my tongue out.

A lick. A poke. A circumnavigation. My tongue moved around my nipple, glazing it in saliva, moving and prodding it pleasingly as I rode out the jolts of electricity shooting into my pussy and gathering in my clit. It made me flex my right finger even more and push it in, pushing my pussylips open slightly, but then maddeningly being caught by the tension of my leggings.

I lifted my hips and moved them, sliding against my finger while I sucked my nipple and took deep kisses of my bulging left breast. I rounded the tip of my tongue around my wider, pink areola and flicked it across my nipple.

Oh fuck.

I was close.

Maybe I could come this way?

It wouldn’t hurt to find out.

Besides, this would be my last chance. Before dinner. Before I changed back for good.

I leaned into it.

Fuck, I loved my thick nipples. And my plush, swollen little pussy. I wove careful patterns around the new pink nub settled at the apex of my busty new tit and furrowed my brow — searching. Searching for my climax, like finding a code to infinite bliss. Each touch sent energy into my clit. Energy that remained. And grew. Energy that would have to be released. Soon.

My breath quickened. Oh, I was so close.

So very close. I whimpered sweetly.

My toes clenched around the separators.

I moaned. Yes. I knew what close felt like.

I suddenly wanted to bend my long nails into my leggings. Tear a hole. Pull it wide. Move the crotch of my thong to the side and bury two fingers into my sopping wet pussy and fuck myself silly. I bucked and writhed, my long hair in my face, my aching nipple at the tip of my tongue. Yes. Yes, I was arriving. Any second.. Yes, like that. Just like that. Justlikethat.

“Eddy.”

My body snatched forward.

Sam was standing in the doorway of our room.

I searched the air for release, hand clutched to my pussy, nipple tight between my lips, in shock at Sam’s intrusion, taken in arousal — and, just like that. . .

My climax was derailed.

It imploded in on me.

Sam smiled and raised an eyebrow. “So Eddy — this is what ‘getting ready’ looks like?”

Oh, fuck, I had been so close. And now? I furrowed my brow, shaking sporadically, my pussy achingly denied of what I had wanted. The charge in my body settling into my muscles, potential taken to the breaking point, and then forcefully put on standby. I released my nipple from my lips, fell back to the lounge, and groaned.

“Someone painted their nails.”

“Someone should knock.” I peered through half open eyes at Sam, trailing down his body to see the massive tent in his pants. How long had he been watching me? Had he been waiting to grind me to a halt like this?

The climax would have been so deep, deeper than the ones preceding — and it was my last as a female. I had wanted it. I had wanted it so badly. And now, I just wanted to cry.

“Andrew and Bridgette will be here sooner than you think.”

I nodded, as I blew my hair from my face.

“Let’s do your makeup."

My breath welled up in my chest. My bottom lip shook.

"Really?"

Sam nodded lovingly. "Yes, dear. I want my wife looking pretty for her guests."

I looked back sheepishly at him. "Okay."

"You've already done well," he smiled. "I like your nails."

I held my hands out admiring my work. "Thank you."

I didn't want to show Sam how badly I wanted to be done up, but he blush that broke out on my cheeks and tits gave me away. I leaned over and pulled the separators from between my toes.

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Thank you for reading!