His Better Half
Keywords: Half, Better, His,
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"Author's Note: This story was inspired by a suggestion from "Leggiesoxx" in the "Story Ideas" forum."
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Michael Stanley stared at the computer screen in disbelief. His wife had gone to work and inadvertently left her email program open, and the latest message was clearly visible. He was shocked by what he read.
"Michelle: meet me at my condo tonight at 9 p.m. I can't wait to fuck you again. I must have your juicy pussy. And your sweet asshole! They are always on my mind. Love, Ray."
Michael's wife, Michelle, was a hot little number, and horny as hell all the time. And Michael was fully aware that he could never hope to satisfy her in bed with his smallish cock and asthmatic physique. He wasn't surprised that she was cheating on him. But he was appalled that she was doing it so blatantly! Michael was a slight man, not much bigger than his wife, with a hairless body, a squeaky voice, and little in the way of sexual stamina. But still, he was a good provider, he always treated her with respect, and he loved her to the best of his ability. He cooked and cleaned and kept the house nicely for her, too. He even sorted the laundry before washing it, and knew when to use bleach and when not to. And he made a hell of an apple pie. He believed that he deserved better treatment than this!
Seething with frustration, he looked around the living room for something to throw. He picked up an ashtray and flung it at the window. It bounced off harmlessly and knocked a potted plant off the shelf. His shoulder hurt from the effort. Damn! Why was he such a wimp? He swore that changes would be made. This time would be different! This time he would be a MAN! He would show Michelle who wore the pants in this family! He pounded his fist into his palm to emphasize his resolve, but the effort only served to make him wince with pain.
Michelle had left in a hurry this morning, barely saying a word to Michael on her way out the door. Probably off to meet yet another of her illicit lovers, Michael thought bitterly. The fucking slut!! As he stood there trembling, contemplating how exquisite it would be to feel his fingers closing about her cheating throat, his thumbs pressing on her cheating windpipe, and watching the life drain out of her cheating face and the light extinguishing in her cheating eyes, the phone suddenly rang on the desk.
Michael looked at the caller-ID screen. It said "Ray Burton." Ray? Her email lover? Calling their home number? What colossal balls this jerk must have! What a fool they must think him! Michael would give this asshole a piece of his mind. He snatched the phone from the hook. He fully intended to bellow into the instrument to give the creep a thorough browbeating, but his voice cracked as he spoke.
"Well?" he croaked, in an unintentionally high-pitched squeak.
"Michelle, it's me," said the deeply masculine voice on the other end. "My condo is being painted today, dammit, so we'll have to meet at my friend's place. It's just a block away, on Marine Drive. The address is 2650, unit 14B. Can you still be there at 9 p.m.?"
Michael was seething with rage. Bile welled up in his throat and he choked back tears as he tried to say, "I'm coming and I want to fuck you up, asshole!" But his voice cracked again, and his gasping, sobbing breath prevented him from spewing the venom that he intended. His voice rose by an octave, and the sentence came out sounding more like, "I'm coming! And I want you to fuck me up my asshole!" In frustration, he threw the receiver of the cordless phone at the window. Like the ashtray, it bounced harmlessly off, and fell behind the sofa. His shoulder still hurt.
Michael looked at his watch. It was 6 p.m. His wife would be well aware of the 9 p.m. rendezvous from the email, of course, but not of the change of address. He had 3 hours. He decided that he would make the appointment for her, and let this creep Ray know that his wife was NOT available for private parties! Ray would pay!
He considered the logistics. Marine Drive was in the high-rent district, and full of security buildings. You couldn't just walk right in. He would have to dial the condo unit from the lobby, show his face on a security camera, and be buzzed in. No problem. He believed that he could pass as his wife. They were about the same age, about the same build. His slight frame and delicate, effeminate features would be an asset in this situation. Hah! Ray does not know who he is dealing with, the cheating bastard!
Michael went to his wife's closet. He pawed through the selection of dresses, skirts, and blouses. He wanted Ray to let him in, and to be as turned on as possible, before receiving the shock of his life when Michael, not Michelle, showed up to punish his deceitful ass. He enjoyed the feel of the soft fabrics. What is the most alluring outfit here? he thought. He found it: a bright yellow halter dress, deeply cut down over the chest and the ass, showing plenty of cleavage in both front and back. He yanked it from the hanger and tried it on.
Michael twirled in front of the full-length mirror, his arms extended like a figure skater. A perfect fit! He was no more than ten pounds heavier than his wife, and no more than an inch taller. The minor differences in their bodies only served to make the dress slightly tighter and shorter that it would have been on her. His legs were hairless, but not quite as feminine as hers. No problem, some silk stockings and garters from her drawer took care of that. A few handfuls of toilet paper in the bra filled in the missing breast flesh. His smallish feet fit nicely into her shoes as well. He selected a pair of two-inch heel green satin pumps that perfectly complemented the dress.
What about underwear? He wanted the subterfuge to get him past the security guard in the lobby. That meant that his smallish cock must be kept out of sight. His own underwear would probably suffice, but Michelle's tighter panties would hold his tiny pecker in hiding even better. He selected a pair of black lace undies that held his package snuggly in confinement.
How about his face? He didn't need to withstand too much scrutiny; after all, the security cameras were fairly low-resolution. But there was no need to be reckless, after all. He sat down primly at his wife's makeup table and looked over the options, feeling like a kid in a candy store. Some foundation smoothed over his complexion and hid his faint trace of beard. A little eye shadow and eye liner gave him a feminine look. Mascara? Part of him thought it would be unnecessary, but another part of him thought, what the fuck? It might be fun. He brushed on some Maybelline. He painted his fingernails with some Helena Rubinstein "Cognac" red nail polish and waited for it to dry while humming a happy tune to himself. He was really enjoying the anticipation of giving that miscreant Ray a piece of his mind! He completed the ensemble with some Estee Lauder "Raspberry Pop" lipstick. He smacked his lips deliciously.
He considered his hair. Michelle kept her hair short, almost as short as Michael's own, but not quite. Fortunately, they were about the same color. He rubbed some mousse through his locks, and spiked it up a bit in imitation of Michelle's feisty, punky style. It wasn't identical to hers, but it would pass in the short term.
Michael leaned back and regarding himself in the magnifying makeup mirror. "I'm a hottie!" he thought. Certainly hot enough to pass muster on the security camera! He compared his new visage with a photo of Michelle that was pinned up over the dresser. Very close resemblance; very close indeed. In fact, he thought he looked even better than she did! That asswipe Ray Burton would certainly fall for the deception, and would live to rue the day that he was born and chose to fuck with the wife of Michael Stanley, that's for sure. The bastard.
Michael went to the liquor cabinet. A toast to his new-found manhood was quite in order! He poured himself three fingers of Sloe Gin to toast his new adventure. "Down the hatch, old boy! Today you stand up for your rights as a man!" He wrapped his painted fingers around the glass and slugged the drink down, and coughed spasmodically as it burned his throat. He hurled the empty glass at the wall so that he could revel in the masculine shower of glass shards. It bounced feebly off the wall, intact, and hit the cat, which yowled and scurried from the room. He rubbed his shoulder.
His jaw set and mind resolved, Michael strode proudly out the front door, down the block, and to the nearby bus stop. The bus arrived within a few minutes, and he embarked, manfully enduring the stares and winks from the various winos and derelicts that shared the ride with him. Before long, he arrived at his destination, and stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the high-rise condo building on Marine Drive where his cheating wife's lover awaited his evening of passion with Michael's slut of a spouse.
Michael straightened his skirt, adjusted his fake boobs, and walked primly up to the security door. He picked up the security phone and punched in the code for unit 14B. A man's voice answered. Michael smiled sweetly into the camera.
"You look adorable, baby! Come on up. I'll buzz you in," said the gravelly voice.
The door buzzed, and Michael yanked on the handle. Everything was going according to plan. He walked primly to the elevator, taking care to move his hips and shoulders as femininely as possible. He pushed the button for the fourteenth floor. As the car slowly ascended the shaft, he took stock of himself: stuffed bra was even, skirt was smooth, seams of his stockings were straight. He was ready to confront the misbegotten Ray Burton and make him pay for his transgressions!
The elevator stopped at the fourteenth floor. The doors slid open. Michael looked out at the grey walls of the hallway, at the copper sconces on the walls, at the brass number plates on the doors.
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Keywords: Half, Better, His,