You Bet!

Part 9

By Kim Johns

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My mother, the rock in my life, was a constant source of strength to me, as was Jean, now my closest friend.

My more distant relations were quite shocked by my unexpected information and viewed my decision as decidedly weird, if not a sign of mental incompetence, and avoided us for months, which hurt me deeply, because while I could accept that they might be unsure about me and my motives, my mother had done nothing to warrant such shabby treatment.

However, as my ‘development’ progressed, and the regular quick visits I determinedly made to them as Kim showed that I was far from turning into Frankenstein’s monster, little by little they became accustomed to the idea, if not entirely happy about it, until the status quo was eventually re-established.

Harry and I were now virtually strangers. The one or two half-hearted Friday night pub sessions with the four of us before I began permanently to dress and live as Kim had been sadly restrained affairs, and I certainly felt that what had happened between the two of us had not only strained our relationship to breaking point but burst it asunder. It was now an unspoken agreement — either Harry, Barry and Jean or me, Barry and Jean. No more the four together. No more the two of us.

Now the only times I ran into him were at parties with plenty of others present, and of course I was by then Kim full-time. He always avoided me like the plague after an initial non-verbal acknowledgement and eye-avoidance, and I can only suppose that he couldn’t take being confronted by the physical presence of his erstwhile girl-friend again.

I saw a lot of Jean, as I say we became ‘best’ friends and constant shopping companions, and with Barry we enjoyed many outings. Jean had been right. Barry’s attitude to me didn’t really change, other than that he would flirt outrageously with me in front of his fiancé, causing me to give him as good as he gave and Jean to protest to both of us in good-humoured annoyance.

Some six months into my transition, when I was firmly committed to my new life and permanent appearance as a female, Jean phoned me, and there was excitement in her voice.

“Can we meet?” she asked.

“Now?” I was at work; it was Friday; I really didn’t want to cause problems in my new found employment by suddenly vanishing with no good reason.

“Tomorrow will do. Fancy a shopping trip?”

There was more than retail therapy in her voice, but I didn’t pursue the reasoning behind her request. We arranged to meet at our usual spot, a popular coffee bar in town.

The next day, casually dressed in a short denim skirt and light blue long-sleeved cotton top, black hold-ups and low-heeled shoes (anything over two inch heels murdered my feet when out doing serious shopping), I secured a table for two and awaited the arrival of my friend.

She bustled in, only five minutes behind time, a broad grin on her face, settled into the chair opposite me and put her handbag in front of her on the table-top.

“You’ll never guess,” she began, her voice bubbly with glee.

I smiled at the girl fondly. It was true. She had become my best friend, and I had always loved her. “I won’t try, then,” I told her. “What’s up?”

I noticed her hands twisting nervously with excitement, but that was all, blind idiot that I am.

“Can’t you see?” She was pushing her left hand at me, a stabbing motion.

I blinked. Nice hand. Nails with natural polish. Long, slender fingers, piano-player’s fingers except that she didn’t. Play the piano, I mean. Diamond cluster ring on third finger of left hand; didn’t remember seeing that before…

I blinked and looked at the ring again, then up at her gleeful face. “You mean..?”

She nodded, grinning. “Night before last. Barry asked me to marry him! We’re officially engaged!”

I took her hand in mine and examined the ring more carefully. It was truly magnificent, and I leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

“Congratulations!” I said, and meant it. Was there just a smidgeon of jealousy there? Probably, but I meant what I said with all my heart. “I know you’ll be very happy,” I told her. “Wedding?”

“Oh, a year or so yet,” she said. “We’ve got to save! Anyway, party first!”

“Party?”

“We’re having an official engagement party in a couple of weeks. You’re invited, of course!”

“Keep me away,” I laughed.

So saying, we hit the shops, and in the light of Jeannie’s good news we hit them with a vengeance!
 

*          *          *
 
The conclusion of any shopping trip was always another excuse for a couple of drinks, and after a lengthy and moderately expensive expedition Jean and I stopped off in a pub for lunch, liquor, and girly gossip, at which I was beginning to find I excelled.

Having thoroughly exhausted our conversation, we collected our bits and pieces and left the establishment, pausing outside to say our goodbyes.

“Congrats again,” I told her. “Let me know when the party is. I’ll definitely be there!”

She nodded, turned away, and then suddenly turned back.

“Oh, Kim, before you go! I bumped into a couple of old friends of yours recently!”

I was intrigued. “Who’s that?”

“Harry, for one.”

“Ah,” I said cautiously.

“We hadn’t seen him for ages, although I know Barry talks to him on the phone fairly regularly. What did happen between you two?” Jean asked curiously. It was, as I’ve said, the one thing I’d never shared with her. “You two were inseparable all the years I knew you, and then suddenly there was this strange rift, and now you never see each other!”

I hesitated. Much as I looked on Jean as a person who helped cleanse the confessional soul, this was one matter that would stay locked within me. “Life, I guess,” and I shrugged non-commitally.

She looked at me shrewdly. “This all happened when Kim — you - first came on the scene,” she hazarded. “I suppose I’m not really surprised at your breaking up under the circumstances, but I have a feeling it goes a lot deeper than that.” The last statement was more of an unemphasised question. No fool, Jean.

“Do you and Barry still see him?”

“Yes, now and then, and as you know at the odd party, but as I said, not for some time now. Your name — names — John and Kim — come up occasionally, but he never comments about either of you.”

I shrugged, definitely feeling I had a split personality. I suppose I had, come to think of it! “Jean, I love you like a sister, but this is something Harry’s going to have to tell you himself, if he ever does. Some things maybe have to remain closed.”

She paused, a little embarrassed. “He will be invited to the engagement party, you know.”

I think I had, subconsciously, realised that.

“Not your problem,” I said. “I can handle it if he can.” I felt my eyes misting up as I remembered that fateful Saturday.

She must have seen the pain in my eyes. She kissed me gently on the cheek. “I love you to bits, Kim,” she said. “I’ll always be here if you want me.”

She made to leave. I put a restraining hand on her arm.

“You said ‘friends’?” I queried.

“Oh, yes, sorry! I nearly forgot! Guess who else I saw the other day?”

I eyed her patiently. “I thought you were going to tell me, not play guessing games.”

She laughed. “You old sourpuss! Laura!”

“Who?” But I knew, I was just playing for time. Jean knew me too well, however.

“You know who,” she said.

Laura, I thought. Life was full of odd quirks. If the cards had been dealt differently, who knew where she and I might have been now?

“How is she?”

“See! You do care! She’s fine, full of beans. She met an air hostess a little while ago, and has just moved into a flat with her down Gatwick way.”

I was relieved. The guilt I had felt over the way I had lied to her, deceived her, and then ignored her still lay heavily on me. Call me an old softy if you must, but I don’t like hurting people.

“So she’s happy now?”

“She seems incredibly happy. She did ask after you.”

“Has she still got that doll of me that she sticks pins in?”

Jean giggled. “Don’t be silly. No, it was a genuine enquiry. I think she still has fond memories of you, regardless of what happened.”

“She must be a saint, then”

“Laura never has been one to hold grudges. I know she liked you, lots, but she’s moved on.”

“I hope she’ll be happy,” I said genuinely, feeling strange prickings at the back of my eyes. Behave yourself, I said sternly to myself.

“I’ll pass on your regards when I see her.”

“Will she be going..?”

“To the party?” The girl finished. “I’ll be honest, I will invite her, as you know we go back years, but she was talking about going abroad for an extended holiday when we met. I don’t think she’ll be in the country.”

I wasn’t sure whether that news made me pleased or upset.

“Did you ever tell her..?”

“That you weren’t quite what she thought? Of course not.” She checked her bags. “Got to go, sorry.”

“I’ll phone you.”

“’Bye, Kim!” She gave a quick wave and went on her way, leaving me to dab briefly at my eyes with my handkerchief.
 

*          *          *
 
I was happy for Jean, and happy with the way my life seemed to be progressing, and rightly or wrongly as the days slipped by with no hint of gloom on the horizon began feeling extremely satisfied with my existence.

Satisfaction, however, depends on your viewpoint, and I was reminded only too forcibly of the vulnerability of the path I had chosen one dusky late Autumnal evening as I hurried home from work.

From the train station a long road, paralleling the railway tracks, led towards our modest house. Near the end of the road lies a large multi-storey car park, forcing two choices. You either have to follow the road around it, or cut through the car park itself.

My favoured choice was always to cut through, despite the gloomy aspect of the place. Whilst fairly modern, it had gone the way of most utilities run by a local authority with big ideas and no money. The walls, especially in the lower areas, were damp with dripping condensation, and what lights there were that had survived the badly-aimed missiles of roving drunken vandals were dim or dead.

As a male, I had had no problem with taking this somewhat unsavoury but more direct route home, and indeed had never found cause for concern. Tonight was to be different.

A shiver slid over my body as I entered the badly-lit and shadow-strewn ground level of the building. A few cars still sat silently in white-painted bays, and the eerie quiet of the place was broken only by the echoing drips of water running down the rust-stained concrete walls.

The tapping of my low-heeled shoes interrupted the deathly hush that pervaded this motor mausoleum, sending further echoes dancing around the walls and into the most distant corners.

I felt uneasy, and that disquiet was not helped by subtle, almost silent scuffling noises that reached my ears as I walked. Was it my imagination, fuelled by the echoes of my footsteps? My stomach became taut with a nameless fear, and whilst I looked firmly straight ahead, my eyes were searching every nook and cranny of the building for the slightest sign of movement.

I breathed an inaudible sigh of relief as the exit came into view, only to have it knocked sharply from my mouth in a cry of surprise and pain as I was suddenly pushed heavily against one of the angular supporting pillars.

I turned as I hit the concrete column, and found I was facing a large, unshaven youth of about my own age. He was leering at me, one hand in the pocket of his greasy leather jacket. I imagined that hand fondling a hidden knife, and felt sick with an unknown fear.

Out of the corner of my eyes, as I faced this alarming confrontation, I glimpsed two more lads, one to my left and one to my right, effectively cutting off any chance of escape. My handbag lay a few feet away on the floor, where I had dropped it as I hit the pillar.

“Well, well, well,” said my captor, looking me up and down with a glance that I was becoming all too familiar with in my new life. It was the masculine “undressing with the eyes” look, and I encountered it every day, in the most unexpected places, and from the most unlikely men.

I swallowed hard but stayed silent, feeling the uncomfortable dribble of urine soaking into my panties.

“What’s a babe like you doing here?” the guy asked, licking his lips and leering at me.

I endeavoured to speak low and evenly, trying not to antagonise him. “A cut through,” I managed to say.

“Yeah? Live round here, do you?” As he spoke his brow furrowed and he looked at me more closely. “Know you, don’t I?” He asked brusquely.

I reluctantly raised my lowered eyes. Oh shit! I did indeed know this boy, although I couldn’t for the life of me remember his name. We had been at the same secondary school when I was a boy (!), and even then he had been a troublemaker. We had never mixed, and fortunately the little group I had been with, while certainly not looking for bother, had presented a strong enough combined front for this guy and his cronies to avoid picking on us.

“School,” I managed to admit, with a strained gasp, nodding.

“What’s your name?”

Of course, had he remembered my name, it would have been as John. I could hardly say that, with my altered appearance. I stammered out my new, adopted, title.

“Kim?” He rolled the name around his mouth as if savouring it. “Don’t remember the name,” he said finally, “But I recognise you. Babe like you’d be hard to forget.” He smiled; at least, it was an attempt at a smile. His two cronies chuckled. My panties, whilst not yet soaking, were getting damper by the minute with a fearful anticipation.

Looking at me a little more closely he frowned. “Did you have a brother there?”

Had he recognised in my features the boy John? My skin crawled with the fear of his unravelling the truth. What would he and his mates do if they realised the girl they had intercepted was in reality male? My groin ached with fear as a feeling of deep humiliation began to creep over my body.

Silently I shook my head. I felt truth, albeit limited, might be my only saviour in this situation.

“No? Odd. Vaguely remember a bloke looked a bit like you at school.”

He raised his hand and I flinched. With a one-sided grin he touched my forehead with his index finger and drew it down my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw-bone.

He looked at me intently for a short moment, then lowered his hand and grasped the hem of my skirt. “What colour pants you wearing?” he demanded.

I gasped and looked at him in disbelief. Surely he wouldn’t..?

One part of my mind realised that, if I were to survive this ordeal, I should at least go along with it for a while.

“Pink,” I stammered, flushing.

He eased my skirt upwards towards my waist, revealing my trembling legs, and gazed at my revealed mid-section, slowly licking his lips. “So you are,” he admitted, and returned his gaze to my eyes. “And very nice, too,” he added.

I thanked God that my boy bits were securely hidden between my legs, out of sight and hopefully out of mind. I feared what might happen next. If he — if they — decided that I was easy prey, I could be looking at an attempted gang rape. If that was their intention, my secret would be discovered very swiftly, and I would be lucky to leave the underground car park alive! How apt that I had called it a mausoleum — it might end up my last resting place!

Desperation fuelled my soul. I knew now I had to lie to try to avoid what I felt was coming next. “Please,” I said, and he again fixed my eyes with his own.

“Please, I’m pregnant,” I told him earnestly, mustering up as much veracity in my voice as I could. “Please don’t hurt my baby.”

His other hand came out of his jacket pocket, and I shrank away from him, terror in my face and mind. It was empty, to my immense relief, and he gently stroked my exposed belly, still staring at me.

“In the club, yeah?” he said, one finger inserting itself between my belly and the elastic waist of my panties. He pulled outwards and released, allowing the elastic to ping gently back against my bare skin. I winced, and nodded in reply to his question, my secreted penis swelling with anxious desperation.

He repeated his actions a couple of times, staring fixedly into my eyes as if trying to verify the truth of my statement. Fear, always fear, was uppermost in my mind, the fear of the unknown, wondering what he might be thinking of doing next.

Another part of my mind registered the continuing inability of my bladder to retain urine, which I sensed was still seeping slowly from me and being soaked up by my already damp underwear. I smelt the faint acidic odour and wondered if he was aware of it too.

He leaned forward and kissed me, his tongue forcing itself into my mouth, his breath stale and slightly alcoholic, then stood back.

“At school,” he said, “Did you and me ever make out?”

I was tempted to lie again, to tell him that yes, he had had me before, that if he continued as I thought he intended it would be his second bite at the cherry. My cherry!

I opted for the truth and slowly shook my head.

“No,” he said, “I’d have remembered a looker like you.” He released my skirt, which thankfully fell to cover my embarrassment. He smiled, and jerked his head towards the exit. “Get going before I change my mind, Kimmie,” he said.

I looked at him incredulously, searching his face for the falsehood, my lips trembling and tears in my eyes.

He nodded, smirking, then glanced at his two companions. “We were at school together,” he snarled at them, as if by way of explanation. He looked back at me, where I still stood transfixed with indecision.

“Go!” he shouted.

Even in my relief and doubt, I glanced at my handbag. He followed my eyes and nodded. “Get it and go!”

Action took the place of thought. Grabbing my bag from the concrete floor I half-turned and scuttled towards the exit, keeping one cautious eye on my three interceptors until I reached the somewhat safer security of the well lit streets.

As they vanished from my view I saw the ringleader hitting one of his comrades and shouting something at him. I waited no longer; scooping up my shoes I fled homewards in my stockinged feet, that persistent fear adding wings to my flight.

Slamming the front door behind me I raced upstairs to my bedroom, thankful my mother had not yet arrived home to interrogate me. I fell on my bed, my body racked with a painful fit of sobbing, and cursed the male gender to hell for all eternity, indeed cursed all of mankind, and of all these I cursed myself most of all, intensely and tragically, for being what and who I was.

Gradually my grief died away, the tears drying on my cheeks, and I stood up and stripped off my clothes. My urine-drenched panties went in the bathroom sink covered in hot water and washing powder to soak. My body went under a very hot shower for a very long time, to wash away the indescribable contamination I felt at what I had just experienced.

As my body relaxed under the needle-sharp pin-pricks of hot water I began smoothing a relaxing shower gel over my skin, soothing away the mental and physical conflict.

As I grew calmer, I began a critical self-examination, marvelling at the change in me. My skin had become softer and smoother, my hair, which I had grown to shoulder length, was a full and luxurious dark brown. I no longer needed to worry about a five-o’clock shadow.

As I soaped my breasts — no more plastic chicken fillets! - I tried to convince myself that more than a handful was too much. No Jayne Mansfield, me! I looked wonderingly at my erect nipples and the dark brown aureoles surrounding them. My searching fingers gently stroked my genital area, at the changes in my penis and testicles, wrought smaller under the influence of the hormone therapy I was undergoing.

Despite what had just happened, despite the fear, the dread that this incident had produced in me I still felt comfortable with my choice. If that was what men were, at their deepest, most basic level, then I was glad to be out of it, glad to know I would soon be a real woman, even though I knew I was only at the beginning of a long, difficult but wondrous journey.

I didn’t know what life held for me, but my feelings about men had received a short, sharp shock that would take a long time to recover from. At this point in time I despised the gender, and made a vow to avoid them as much as

I could. Like most vows, I knew in my heart of hearts that this one was likely to be broken, but I needed it now in order to get on with my life.
 

*          *          *
 
Jean’s family had booked a small local hall for her engagement party, and I was quite looking forward to attending the function. For one thing, it meant yet another shopping trip to buy something great to wear, a vice I had never had as John, and my mother turned up trumps by accompanying me and giving me some good advice. She also made a few saucy suggestions in a few lingerie departments, causing me to blush deeply more than once and swear I would never take her shopping with me again!

For another, it meant one more small step in my acceptance as Kim. Although my own family had more or less come to terms with my strange life decision, I still needed to circulate more in my own circle of friends as a female. Parties full of strangers didn’t really count; I needed the people I loved to approve and acknowledge me in my new life.

Jean’s family had been as supportive as my mother, non-questioning and non-judgmental, especially her younger sister who had always had a soft spot for me — for John. Her brother had been the only suspicious one, but even he finally accepted that my wishes were genuine, and became a good friend to me.

The big ordeal for me would have been turning up to the party on my own, but Barry offered to pick me up and take me there. I was touched, as the journey was out of his way. Surprisingly he was quite protective of me in my new persona.

My outfit for the evening was completely brand new. I had decided on a pink theme, and bought a pale pink basque edged with tiny red roses, and matching panties. My hormone treatments ensured that the bulge in the bra cups was now truly my own unenhanced body. I had decided to wear cream-coloured stockings, and my dress, an off-the-shoulder evening gown with a tight waist and flared skirt was also of a pale pink silk which matched my two-inch-heeled shoes. A large cream woollen shawl went over my shoulders and I had a tiny pink evening bag clutched in one hand.

With minimal make-up and my newly long hair hanging loose and luxuriant about my face and neck, and adorned only with a small pink butterfly clip at one side, I felt radiant.

Barry took the proverbial ‘double-take’ when he saw me. “Shit, Kim,” he said in awe, “You look fabulous! How did you ever get away with pretending to be John for all those years?”

This, for him, was a great compliment, and I impulsively kissed him on the cheek. He looked at me in alarm. “Hey,” he protested, “Let’s leave that until after the operation, can we?”

I looked at him in exaggerated disgust until we both burst out laughing. He opened the passenger door for me.

“Get in, you bitch,” he said, “And keep your hands to yourself. My fiancé wants me to arrive in one piece!”

I growled at him from deep in my throat, and we both laughed again. “God,” I told him, “I could murder a pint!”

That had been one of my problems, of course. I had always loved my beer, and there weren’t an awful lot of girls to be seen downing a pint in the local. I had had to moderate my drinking habits to half-pints or wine. Bummer. It just meant I had to keep going back to the bar more frequently.

The party was in full swing when we arrived, and fortunately all attention was on Barry as the prospective groom as we entered the hall. I slipped quietly away to deposit my shawl somewhere safe, and sought out Jean and her parents to say my hellos.

Duty over, I was swooped on by Jean’s friend, Mary, who monopolised me for ages. She had been let into my little secret by Jean, with my permission, and for some reason I had been accepted, so to speak, to her bosom. She had never got over the way she had been deceived at her party, but had taken it in good part. I loved her to bits, she was so open, generous and spontaneous, and felt a little lost when she was captured by somebody else and dragged away.

Feeling somewhat isolated I eased through the milling, chattering throng towards the bar, where I replenished the small glass of wine I was drinking. This was one night when I meant to keep a clear head.

An obviously attention-seeking throat-clearing sounded behind me. I turned to find myself face to face with Harry. His face was flushed, and he seemed to have some difficulty in speaking.

“Er…John,” he ventured, “Er…Kim…”

I smiled, and saved his embarrassment. The smile was genuine. The way I felt these days I was everyone’s friend. Well, almost. “Kim,” I told him. “I’m Kim now.”

“Yeah, right,” he said awkwardly. “Er…Kim. You look…er…nice.”

I knew I looked good, and that made me feel good. Although things would never be the same between us again, this was a party in honour of Jean and Barry, both good friends of ours, and I saw no reason to spoil it by being mean-minded.

“Well thank you kind sir,” I said, and made a small curtsey.

The flush stayed with him. “I…do you think…”

I looked askance. “I often think,” I told him.

“No, I mean…do you think we could…talk?”

“I thought we were.”

“Er…privately?”

I looked at him curiously. “Is that a good idea?” I asked impishly.

This time he blushed a deep beetroot red. “Please?”

I relented. “Sure. Talk.”

He glanced around. “Not here. Somewhere…alone.”

I turned my mouth down at the corners. “I’m not so sure I want to be alone with you,” I said. “You’ve got previous.”

His hands were clenching and unclenching nervously and I could see beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.

“All right,” I said, relenting. “Where did you have in mind?”

He inclined his head to the entrance door. “There’s a side path that leads to a small garden out there.”

“Hmm,” I mused. “You, me and a garden. I don’t know about this.”

Again the deep blush, just as the last one was subsiding. Poor Harry. Am I or am I not a Grade-A bitch? Give the guy a break, I told myself.

“Oh, come on,” I said impatiently, “Lead the way or we’ll still be standing here when they get married!”

He looked at me hesitantly, and then led the way outside and to the rear of the little wooden hall. A full moon hovered large in a clear velvet sky that was covered with a myriad of tiny, twinkling pin-pricks. The heady smell of vegetation after a fresh downpour of rain filled my nostrils. I inhaled deeply. Life felt very good.

I stood quietly while Harry made up his mind what he wanted to say. Finally: “I think I owe you an apology,” he said.

“Think you do?” I queried.

“OK, I do.”

“Why now, suddenly? I’ve seen you at other parties. You’ve not even acknowledged me most of the time. In fact, you’ve totally blanked me!”

“I’ve thought about…what happened…a lot.”

My eyes flashed. “Hey, guess what? So have I!”

“I know,” he said appeasingly. “I don’t know what got into me that day…”

“No,” I interrupted, “But I know what got into me!”

His colouring was a permanent maroon. He looked totally distraught. “Kim, you are a dreadful tease!”

I looked at him quietly. “I wasn’t a tease the first time we met,” I reminded him. “I may not have given you what you really wanted, and you know why now, but you got a good second best!”

He gazed at me silently, abashed.

“The next time I was trying to say goodbye to you. Admittedly it got out of hand, but when a girl says ‘no,’ she means ‘no.’”

He hung his head. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

I cupped a hand to my ear. “Can’t hear you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said a little louder, a little stronger.

“Well, I can’t say it’s all right,” I told him, “Because my arse was in agony for weeks. I still worry when I have to sit down.” Not strictly true, of course, but why should I give him an easy ride? God, that was Freudian!

He looked at me in a puzzled fashion, as if trying to decide whether I was being serious or not.

“Was it any good my saying sorry?” he asked.

“Why did you want to?”

He was very hesitant this time. “As you say, I’ve seen you a lot since then, at parties. You always look great. You’re always one of the best-looking girls, if not the best-looking girl, there.”

“Girl?” I queried bluntly, “Or queer in a dress?”

He paused then. “Girl,” he admitted quietly.

“So you like me as a girl, then?”

He nodded. “I tried to tell myself I was being stupid, but every time I saw you I fancied you!”

“So why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Worry, I guess,” he admitted. “I know what I did to you — to John — was wrong, a terrible thing, and even now I don’t understand what happened, and I thought you would laugh at me, sneer at me, if I tried to tell you how I really felt.”

“So why now?”

Another pause. “I can see you’re determined to be a girl, I’ve heard you’re going to have an operation. Trouble is, Kim, I still fancy you every time

I see you, it won’t go away.”

“Harry, I’m still a bloke. Well,” I glanced down at my boobs, “Half a bloke, anyway.”

He followed my gaze. “Are they real?”

“Home grown,” I told him. “Fancy a feel?”

His mouth dropped open and his eyes met mine in an unspoken question.

“Don’t even think about it,” I answered.

“But…eventually…you will be a…proper…girl?”

I nodded. “The best kind,” I said. “You could shag me every day of the year if you wanted and I’d never, ever, get pregnant!”

He looked shocked at my blunt, matter-of-fact speech. I read inner turmoil in his face.

“Kim,” he said slowly, “I know I’ve hurt you badly, but I really, truly fancy you. I can’t get you out of my head, out of my mind. Do you think there’s any chance..?”

I really had the devil in me that night. “Chance? Of what?” I said in a puzzled tone.

“Of us…getting together…again?”

There was a long silence as I looked up at his anxious face; then I reached up and put my arms around his neck. Pressing my hips hard against his enormous erection I kissed him slowly, rubbing myself against him as our tongues caressed, a long, slow, lingering kiss to end all kisses.
 

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[To Be Concluded…]