Lance Layton's perfect life crumbles around him when he discover's his wife's infidelity. He seeks background information from the beautiful, exotic Dianna - and receives so much more than he ever bargained for.

Betrayed — Chapter One
By Cherysse St. Claire  ©

She’s having an affair. I couldn’t ignore it any longer; the evidence
was right there on my monitor that Wednesday afternoon. I had felt so…
tawdry — a word I had thought I would never use — hiring the detective
to follow her, follow up on my suspicions. It was as though I was
betraying her, betraying the trust, the faith I had had in her during
our eight-year relationship, the last three as husband and wife. As the
DVD played out on my computer screen, played out the scenes I had
dreaded, I knew my faith and trust had been misplaced.

Susan and I had been high school sweethearts; the convivial, popular
cheerleader and her intense, intellectual, fiercely-competitive
Cross-Country star. She had broken up with Jeff Spencer shortly before
we became an ‘item’. No one exactly accused the
supernaturally-attractive emerald-eyed Redhead of ‘trading down’. In a
culture that demanded performance, the football team was mired somewhere
in the middle of the conference standings. Jeff, a bona fide heartthrob,
had been a talented-enough quarterback. Yet he, more than any other
person, was the focal point of the team’s lackluster performance.
Rightly or wrongly, he carried the stigma of an also-ran. Meanwhile, my
team’s ‘Long Green Line’ held back-to-back-to-back State championships
and I was the undisputed fastest in State history. Still, they clucked,
she had given up a hunk of U.S. Prime for a runner….

“Screw that,” she had cooed dismissively. “I love a winner. You are
going places and I want to go there with you.”

We had attended the same university, lived together our senior year,
then raced to the altar after graduation. We each strove to attain the
promise of ‘going places’ in our respective careers. She was a rising
star in Marketing and Public Relations, while I was on my way to having
my own seat on the Mercantile Exchange. I ran five miles every morning
before work. Susan worked out regularly at her health club. We
maintained our peak physical tone for ourselves and each other, just as
we had when we first met. Throughout, our sex had been magic. I was the
tender, caring lover she had always dreamed of, the one who pushed all
her buttons the way she liked them pushed, the one she wanted to spend
the rest of her life with.

“AND, you are the prettiest boy I have ever seen,” she had added. “That’s
a big plus.”

I wasn’t certain how much of a ‘plus’ that was, but I appreciated the
compliment. We had the idyllic life — or so I thought.

Susan worked in the Publicity Department of the local professional
football franchise. She had a plumb position as an assistant director
for the team’s promotions. Guess who was now the rising star in the
team’s quarterback corps? You got it! After high school, Jeff Spencer
had landed a scholarship with a Division 1-A school that had a real
program. He had been all-NCAA, a runner-up in the Heisman balloting,
Most Valuable Player in two bowl games and a first-round draft pick. Ihad had
qualms about Susan and Jeff being thrown together again, but
dismissed them as silly male insecurity. After all, that had been high
school….

The increasingly-frequent, increasingly-lengthy absences had alerted me
something hade changed in our relationship. When asked, she put it off
on the demands of her career. It was the eye contact, or lack of it,
that fueled my suspicions. She was loving enough when we were together,
but I sensed an air of distance that hadn’t been there before. Something
had insinuated itself into our lives, separating us, and I had
determined to find out what.

That amorphous ‘what’ was now playing out before me. They were together
again, captured on disk by the most remarkable bit of electronic
surveillance I could possibly imagine. In high school, Jeff Spencer’s
masculine physique had made him the object of female desire and male
envy. Now, he was even more impressive: about six-foot-four to my
five-eight, and outweighing me by at least sixty pounds of rock-hard
muscle.

Jeff was not making love to my wife. He was fucking her, banging her
mercilessly like a piece of meat with his thick, ten-inch tool. I could
almost smell the rut of their sex as I watched the video. There was
little doubt Susan was loving every pummeling thrust. I could actually
see her eyes roll up into her head as she came, observe her body
convulse, watch her throat vibrate as she screamed.

Mind you, I was really, really good at making my wife cum. I could
tease her, inflame her, infuriate her for hours with my tongue and
fingertips alone, until she was begging me for release. When I finally
pushed her over the edge, she gripped my hair tightly, thrust my face
deeply into her pussy, and shuddered through her orgasm for a long,
long time. Still, any man knew this was different. I felt intimidated,
angry, betrayed. More than anything else, I felt a sense of loss.

The detective had been exceedingly thorough; worth every penny. Once he
had identified the offending third party, the surveillance had extended
beyond the affair with my wife, tracking Jeff’s habits as well. That
investigation had paid off spectacularly. I shook my head in utter
disbelief as I observed Jeff’s extracurricular activities when he wasn’t
shagging my wanton wife. To put it mildly, he was no more faithful to
her than she was to me.

The thought of violence came to mind and just as quickly departed. I
didn’t hold any illusions about being able to pull off the ‘perfect
crime’. Any temporary satisfaction such extreme measures might render
would be nullified by a lifetime spent in prison. Jeff’s philandering
had revealed a vulnerability that could conceivably be exploited to my
advantage. It would take time to formulate an appropriate plan. For now,
the two cheaters deserved each other.

The lurid scenes of that follow-up surveillance sparked something else
in me; a fascination for a world I had only heard about in vague,
titillating references. It had existed around me since we moved to the
city, yet I had never given it a second thought. Now, faced with it on
the screen before me, I felt compelled to seek this world out. If I was
going to have my vengeance on the pair, I reasoned, this was the place
to start. Besides, what did I have left to lose?

***

My first visit to Ringers was a real head trip. It was Friday night, two
days after my idyllic world had collapsed in ruin. I had had zero
experience with female impersonators in my life. Now, within the
tastefully-decorated confines of the city’s most famous — notorious —
F.I. “show lounge”, I was surrounded by them. The first thing I learned
was, these ‘girls’ are good at what they do. Granted, most of the
performers lip-sync to Pop divas’ recordings rather than sing. Still,
the visual presentations are stunning. As far as the ‘impersonation’
aspect goes, many genetic females would be green with envy over these
faux-femme fatales.

I spotted the girl right away, remembering her from the surveillance
disk. It was as though Raquel Welsh had cloned herself. Now, that
delectable doppelganger was perched on a high-backed stool at the bar,
one stocking-clad leg crossed alluringly over the other, gazing out over
the crowd with casual insouciance. I had difficulty picturing her with
‘something extra’ nestled between those alluring thighs. We struck up a
casual conversation. Her name was Dianna. Absent the heels, I judged her
to be about my own height. I was more than a little nervous. The
gorgeous brunette smiled seductively and agreed to share a drink with
me; the first of several. She was surprisingly approachable. Over the
course of the evening, I found out why.

Through my new acquaintance, I learned two more things about the scene.
First, the term ‘female impersonator’ is woefully out of date. Most of
these girls have long since crossed the line between impersonation and
transformation and have no intention of crossing back. Dianna was a
stunning example of that. Second, I confirmed that many of these girls
made at least a marginal living via the oldest profession — mostly
because no legitimate employer will hire them to do anything more
meaningful.

After several more drinks, we adjourned to ‘someplace more private’
to continue our conversation. Yes, money changed hands; she was good to
give me her time and I wanted to make it worth her while. When she saw
the amount I offered, she smiled bemusedly and declared she was mine for
the evening. All I wanted was conversation. It wasn’t going to be about
sex. I was just gathering information.

She viewed with disdain the picture I had produced from my pocket.

“Oh, him,” she sniffed. “Yeah, I know that freak. He has dated me a few
times — among other girls at the club. At least he’s got the goods — and
knows how to use it.”

“Freak?” I inquired tentatively.

I instinctively feared for Susan’s well-being, in spite of my anger at
what she had done.

“Baby, they’re all freaks,” Dianna maintained. “Fine, upstanding, solid
citizens, pillars of the community — until nobody is watching. They love
to get down ‘n dirty like everyone else, more than most. They’re really
into girls like me, too, but don’t want anyone in their ‘straight’ world
to know. As far as I know, he hasn’t taken it up his punk ass yet, but
he loves to do mine — and take it down the pipe.”

That was more information than I wanted. It wasn’t that much of a
stretch to envision my beautiful companion in the arms of an admitted
stud like Jeff Spencer. It was a stretch to picture the “man’s man”
sucking cock. ‘Freak’ seemed to be an apt description.

Perhaps it was the liquid courage that was clouding my judgment. I found
myself more and more attracted to this sensual siren with each passing
moment. Still, her candor was… unsettling. For all her obvious allure, I
was hung up on the secret lurking beneath. I desired and feared her at
the same time. What did that say about me? Whatever I might have felt
about what she was, I began to have misgivings about myself.

“I’m here,” I pointed out. “Does that make me a freak, too?”

My beautiful companion cocked one eyebrow and smiled with amusement.

“Like you said,” she replied, “you’re here - aren’t you?”

With that, she repositioned herself in my lap and wrapped her arms
around my neck. If I could have seen the pores in her flawless
complexion, I could have counted them. I could smell her
cinnamon-tinged breath and the heady aroma of her perfume. Her prominent
cleavage looked done rather than fake. I wanted to hide my erection,
keep her from finding out how much she was turning me on. She knew
better, and smiled triumphantly.

“You tell me, Sugar,” she purred. “Aren’t you feeling just a little bit
freaky? Before you try to deny it, your friend is telling me yes.”

She ground her bottom into my lap to confirm her point.

The girl’s body was lushly proportioned, to be sure, but she wasn’t all
that heavy. Why was I out of breath? Why was my heart pounding? She
took my confused silence as a tacit admission.

“That’s what I thought,” she continued. “Why don’t we get more…
comfortable? I mean, you’ve already paid for the time.”

The intoxicating vixen removed her hands from my neck and began
unbuttoning my shirt. I willed my hands to seize hers, stop her from
doing what she was doing, what she was going to do. My hands refused to
move. I was caught in the gaze of her big chocolate-brown eyes like a
deer in headlights.
I don’t remember undressing her, nor moving with her to the bed. I
remember lying on my back with her astride me, feeding me a mouthful of
tit. I had always thought Susan’s C-cups were the best of the best.
Dianna’s were bigger, fuller, firmer — and demanded my attention.

That wasn’t all that demanded my attention. I could feel her down there,
feel something big where it had no business being. It snaked its way
around my crotch, rubbing up against my own rock-hard dick. I tried to
put it out of my mind, concentrate on her magnificent titties, but
couldn’t.

“You like that, don’t you, Baby?” she trilled, “me rubbing against you
like that, all up in your business. Your white-bread wife can’t give you
that; no GG can. I’ve got what you need, what you really want.”

I didn’t want this! I just wanted to know what a man like Jeff Spencer
saw in her, why he would even cheat on a prize like Susan for someone
like this. Instead, I was in bed with this, this… ho’, trapped beneath
her, sucking her tits like there was no tomorrow, feeling her fuckpole
rubbing up against my abdomen. The really insane thing was, my cock was
bigger and harder than it had ever been before in my life! What on earth
was it thinking?

Then, she started in on me with her hand. The sensation of her long
fingernails gently scraping the flesh of my inner thigh was exquisite
torture. Before long, those fingers were finding their way higher,
gently caressing my rigid fuckstick. Ohmygod, what a sensation! Dianna
softly encircled my joypole and began to stroke it. I was going out of
my mind with frenzied desire.

The talented T-girl had two hands. While her right hand worked my cock,
her left hand found my right and slowly, firmly moved it into position
on her rock-hard rod. No! No, no, no, no, absolutely NOT! I am not Gay!
I do not want a man! I don’t… I don’t… don’t… Jeezus, this is so hot!

It was almost a relief when she slid down my body and slipped my bone
into her mouth. It was just ‘normal’ sex again, unburdened by thoughts
of my partner’s meaty surprise. Now I knew what it was like to be
ministered to by truly talented lips and tongue! My hands went to her
head unbidden. I just held them there, not attempting to force her face
down on me. It seemed like… the right thing to do, one more connection
between us. Connection? What was I saying?

That ‘connection’ was not long in coming. My fellatrix abruptly pivoted
on my pole, straddling my head with her firm thighs. Suddenly, her
more-than-formidable sex was inches from my face. By that time, I was on
sensory overload. I just stared in awe as her meat dangled in my vision.
Then, she lowered herself to me. I vowed I wasn’t going to do it; I
wasn’t that way. I tried to resist, to keep my mouth shut. The attention
she was giving my dong had my heart pounding and my lungs heaving. Her
firm thighs gripped my head, smothering my nose. I held out as long as I
could, but finally had to open my mouth to breathe….

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmyg…umpf! I shuddered involuntarily
as my mouth was invaded. If I hadn’t been a little drunk, I might have
spat it out altogether — or worse. She didn’t force herself on me.
Rather, she dipped it in just a little, enough to insert the helmet. My
tongue touched it and recoiled. It was such a revolting, unnatural
feeling. My mind raced. Unnatural? Was it any more natural for Susan
when she had blown me? Was it more natural for Dianna, who was even then
giving me a world-class blowjob? Being here with her, this way, it was
becoming increasingly difficult to think of her as anything but the
beautiful woman she appeared. If I had no problem eating out my wife,
could I reject a woman as attractive as Dianna just because she had an
‘outie’ instead of an ‘innie’?

I tickled it just a little with my tongue. I felt the tremor course
through her body and was encouraged by it. I softly lathed the
underside of the glans with the tip, then swirled my tongue around and
around. She responded by pulling it out a little, then pushed it in a
little deeper. She repeated this again and again, until the tip tickled
my throat. I gagged involuntarily. She pulled back a bit and paused,
then eased forward again. I coughed a little, but it wasn’t as much a
shock this time. Sensing this, the comely courtesan lifted her own mouth
off my joyrod for a moment.

“Open your throat, Sugar,” she cooed encouragingly. “Breathe through
your nose. Don’t fight it. Just let it happen. You know you want it.”

I struggled with myself, attempting to remind myself, convince
myself I did not want it. Yet I did nothing to discourage her oral
assault. No one was more surprised than I when I realized my nose was
being tickled by her neatly-trimmed pubic hair. A bizarre memory popped
into my head; a flashback to my younger days of avid television
watching.

I can’t believe I ate the whoooooooole thing.

I was in no position to see Dianna’s face. I sensed her smile. Perhaps
it was just the way her mouth moved around my cock that made me think it.

The tidal wave of sensations and emotions was just too much to resist. I
was caught up, overwhelmed, swept away in the powerful rush. My vision
blurred. My back arched off the mattress. Blood pounded in my temples. I
heard nothing beyond the intense roaring in my ears. My body spasmed as
every neural synapse seemed to fire at once. I came in quarts, gallons,
oceans — at least, it felt that way.

After a time, the ripples of passion faded. I felt weak as a kitten.
Dianna withdrew herself at both ends, turned around, and lay down atop
me. She kissed me deeply, something she had not done up to that time. As
soon as I opened my mouth to receive her probing tongue, I knew I was in
deep, deep trouble. She hadn’t swallowed! Now, she was pushing the
remnants of my own explosion into my mouth with her forceful tongue. I
struggled ineffectually beneath her, drained of strength from my
previous exertions. In the end, she had her way with me yet again. I
swallowed my own spunk, eyes closed, yet mind wide open to the enormity
of what I had done.

I rolled over on my stomach in shame. I had cum in buckets, but hadn’t
gotten Dianna off. Once again, I hadn’t been able to satisfy my lover. I
couldn’t look her in the eye, afraid of seeing myself, my failure,
reflected there. She stretched out on top, placing her hands over mine.
Her cock was just as stiff as it had been inside my mouth, a constant
reminder of my inadequacy. It nestled in the cleft between my firm
asscheeks. Then, she shifted slightly — and it moved….

“No, no,” I cried out weakly.

She controlled me easily, holding my wrists tightly, spreading my legs
with her thighs.

“Shhhhh,” Dianna whispered in my ear. “It’s okay, Baby Girl. I know
you’re
scared. The first time is always the hardest. I’ll be gentle with you; I
promise. Mama knows what you need. Mama knows best.”

A real man would have resisted. A real man would have bounced her off
the opposite wall, stomped on her head, then walked out in a huff. Then
again, a real man wouldn’t have been in bed with a shemale hooker while
his wife was being fucked stupid by an ex-boyfriend from fucking high
school.

I felt the finger first, coated with cold, slippery goo, making my
insides nice and slick. I shivered a little; from that, and
anticipation of what was to come. The finger was withdrawn. Then, a
much larger presence made itself known against my puckered hole.

“Are you ready, Sugar?” she purred. “Here we go.”

She was gentle with me, just as she had been with my mouth. I felt her
push forward a little, pause, pull back, then push forward yet again.
Even as I tried to relax my body, it felt like her helmet was going to
split me in two. I moaned piteously, just as any virgin does at the
moment she gives up her cherry. The deeper my lover entered me, the
more intense the pain became. As bad as that pain was, it was the shock,
surprise, awe of being taken that way that dominated my thoughts.

In time, she squeezed all of herself into me. I felt ripped apart. The
tempo and intensity of her thrusts increased slowly, until she was
pounding into me. Her balls slapped against my crotch. She dug her
talons into my shoulders, yanking my body towards her in time with her
thrusts.

My shame welled up inside me: shame for not being man enough
to satisfy my wife, shame for being cuckolded behind my back, shame for
not standing up for what was mine, shame for being seduced, then taken
so easily, so forcefully, by a shemale hooker. That shame boiled over,
exploding within my mind in a blinding flash. I screamed — not to stop,
but to fuck me harder. When she came, she flooded my insides with an
intensity I imagined to be equal to my own. The shock of such a deed
pushed me over the edge once more, this time without touching my own
member.

I was completely spent, physically and emotionally. My humiliation knew
no limits. What had Susan called me? The ‘prettiest boy she had ever
met.’ Obviously, a ‘pretty boy’ had no chance against a stud like Jeff
Spencer in her eyes. Just as obviously, the beautiful boy-girl atop me
felt the same way; she had just made me her punk bitch. Self-esteem?
What’s that? I threw on my pants, fumbling frantically with the zipper
and belt, then swept up my other clothes in my arms and fled for the
door. I heard Dianna call out good-naturedly behind me as the door
closed.

“See you again soon… Freak.”

I didn’t go home. I couldn’t; not now, not ever again, not to live,
anyway. I certainly wasn’t ready to face Susan, assuming she was even
home. I got a hotel room that night, took a long, hot, thorough shower,
turned off my cell phone, then crawled between the sheets. I slept, but
in a tortured turmoil commensurate with my waking experience.

***

It was the Week from Hell. Granted, it had actually begun when I fled
Dianna’s apartment Friday night and extended through that long, lost
weekend. On Monday morning, I called the office and took personal time.
Later, when I was certain Susan would not be home, I returned to our
Printer’s Row loft and removed my clothes and personal items. The
building was going condo; thank God I hadn’t signed the conversion
contract yet. I gazed around what had been our — my — happy home one
last time, recalling memories of much better times. Then, I walked out
the door. It closed behind me with a resounding click of finality.

I filed the divorce papers first thing, citing “Open and Notorious
Adultery”. After viewing the DVD, my attorney assured me my case was a
slam-dunk. Divorcing her financially was almost as easy, owing to some
simple precautions I had taken along the way; separate accounts, asset
protection, offshore holdings. With her own income, plus the assets of
her millionaire boyfriend, she would have no need to come after my
assets, much less legal standing to do so. My attorney had quipped all
Susan would be able to do was bend over and spread her cheeks, something
that didn’t appear to be a problem for her. I inwardly shuddered at the
reference. He promised to file the papers with the court clerk before
the end of the day and see to it they were served at her office the next
morning.

My cell phone began ringing around lunchtime Tuesday. Funny; she hadn’t
bothered to call all weekend or Monday to see if I was all right. I
guess she hadn’t noticed I hadn’t come home. Caller ID told the tale. I
summarily rejected Susan’s calls and instructed our office’s
receptionist not to put her through if she called there. My estranged
mate switched tactics, and the cell’s display came up “Private Caller”.
I wasn’t about to be that easily fooled again, and let the calls go to
Voicemail.

On Tuesday afternoon I signed the lease-with-option on a nice
two-bedroom in Streeterville, across the street from North Pier. It had
a breathtaking view of Ogden Slip and the lake beyond. I liked boats
and had always enjoyed watching all the pleasure craft tie up at the
berths in the slip while their owners dined at the adjacent eateries. I
was looking forward to the coming summer. It was nice to have something
to look forward to again.

The next three days were filled with the loosely-organized feeding
frenzy that is commodities trading. After work, there was the
camaraderie of fellow traders and co-workers. The office grapevine had
pronounced something was up between me and my wife and everyone avoided
the subject. The condo was sumptuous, made more so by the furnishings I
equipped it with. The neighborhood was young, gentrified, and hip. The
evening crowds below hustled to and from the surrounding restaurants,
clubs, and shops.

Every night since the previous Friday had been long, lonely, and
tortured. Sex haunted my dreams, just as it had dominated my waking
thoughts, my life, for a week. In my dreams, I was walking naked down
the middle of North Michigan Avenue. The street was lined with people;
my wife and her lover, my friends, co-workers, complete strangers. Sex
was going on all around me and I was powerless to affect its course or
outcome. Everyone mocked me openly.

Through it all, I was aware of one particular pair of eyes watching me
intently, bemusedly, as though I was some form of entertainment — or a
personal plaything. It embarrassed, humiliated me to know those eyes
watched my every move. I hated them, feared them, yet desired them. I
never wanted to see them again, yet couldn’t bear to be without them.
Those eyes were brown, not green.

The call came Friday afternoon.

“How long were you planning to hold out?” Dianna inquired nonchalantly.

“Bitch,” I growled.

“Always,” she deflected gracefully.

“Did you call to rub my nose in it — again?” I asked pointedly.

“Don’t take me there, Lover,” she snipped abruptly. “You could have left
at any time. You didn’t. Don’t even try to tell me I made you do
anything you weren’t willing to do.”

She paused a moment, as if re-considering her words.

“Actually,” she continued in a much more conciliatory tone, “I may have
sent you off on the wrong note the other night. I meet so many fr… I
mean, I have a bad habit of treating all men the way I have been
treated. You didn’t deserve that. You were nothing but nice to me, a
real gentleman. The fact you didn’t leave makes me think I made an
impression on you, too. Am I right?”

There was so much I wanted to say, how I had thought of little but her
for the past week. I couldn’t even put it into words.

“Well, at least you’re not denying it,” the bewitching brunette
summarized. “For what it’s worth, you are the most attractive lover I
have had in a long time. I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I
have been thinking about you all week. I was wondering; would you
be willing to… let me make it up to you? On the house?”

I couldn’t believe it. Dianna probably had sex with a dozen men or more
a week. Yet, she was thinking about me? She wanted to see me on a
personal basis? I may not have been the most perceptive man on the
planet, but I sensed her offhand comment about it being a ‘freebie’ -
inserting at least an oblique reference to the commercial origin of our
tryst — was as much to mollify her own doubts as mine. For all my
earlier ambivalence, I realized I had been obsessing over her, too. I
couldn’t make the arrangements fast enough.

I was extremely agitated on the drive to her place in Lakeview. The
traffic on Lake Shore Drive was so slow. If that wasn’t bad enough,
parking was impossible in her neighborhood. She buzzed me in and was
waiting at her door when I reached the top of the stairs. She wore only
garter belt, stockings, stiletto sandals, and a floor-length sheer black
peignoir. She was exquisite, head to toe. Her eyes danced and she
flashed an alluring smile.

“Hi again, Sugar,” she purred. “Welcome b…”

I cut her off with a straight arm to her chest. My momentum
carried her backwards, across the tiny studio apartment. To her credit,
she kept her balance beautifully in those skyscraper stilts, right up to
the moment she fell backwards onto the bed. I was on her in a flash,
then had her cock in my mouth a moment later. I teased, tormented,
tortured her with my lips and tongue for over an hour, bringing her to
the edge, then backing off, only to bring her close again. Finally, I
allowed her to shoot her load down my throat. By that time, she was
screaming, thrashing wildly, and pummeling my shoulders with her fists.
It was something like ten minutes before she was able to take a deep
breath and speak.

“Well,” she exclaimed, staring at the ceiling. “So much for idle
chit-chat. Does this mean all is forgiven?”

“Do you have plans for the rest of the weekend?” I countered.

“I guess I do now,” she chirped. “I was going to work. A girl’s gotta
pay rent, you know.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I returned. “I’m good for it.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” she asked cautiously.

“Let’s work on it and see what happens,” I replied.

She raised one eyebrow in that manner I found so attractive. Then, she
began massaging my engorged, aching cock.

“Work on it, huh?” she teased. “Oh yeah, Honey; I’ll ‘work on it’. Tit
for tat — so to speak.”

***