Frolicking on the Fifth: Track Meet

This story follows the events of "Unleashed By Nair," "Boned on the Fourth of July," and "Frolicking on the Fifth: Photoshoot"

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After dancing on my driveway in my wife's off-shoulder mini peasant dress, I needed a drink.

I sipped Gatorade through a straw to avoid messing up my lipstick. I wandered to the window and opened the shutters to check out the surroundings.

The dying light outside caught my eye, and the desire to be en femme in public -- again -- gripped me strongly. My mouth went dry at a sudden vision of how I wanted to do that.

I left off stowing my photo gear, and went to raid my wife's athletic wear.

After trying on several pairs of my wife's shorts, I settled on a deceptively basic pair of white yoga shorts that somehow clung tantalizingly to every curve and cleft of my ass.

I suppose the shirring that encouraged the back of the shorts to be pulled between the globes of my ass had something to do with that.

Shirring at the sides gave the shorts a high v-cut, and made them cling to my hips.

When I was in girl mode -- "girling," since I wasn't just dressing -- my testicles contracted into a smooth hemisphere, and my penis withdrew like a turtle pulling its head into its shell.

I usually depended on my package being discreetly compact to enjoy going commando under skirts -- especially since I had waxed my pubes bare the previous week.

But these shorts were much too clingy to allow that; the small bulge my package made disrupted the image of complete femininity that I wanted to project.

So I slipped off the shorts, lay on the bed, and gently pushed my testicles up into my inguinal canal. After some mild discomfort, I was able to tuck them in and tape them down.

I raided my wife's panty drawer, and fished out a stretchy yet snug white v-string thong.

I now presented a smooth mound in the front of the yoga shorts, with a hint of a camel toe underneath.

I pulled out a lacy black racerback bra that I'd been dying to try on, and and fastened it under my breast forms. It lifted my breasts fetchingly, and somehow made them look even more real.

My wife had a cropped mesh running top, with a mock neck and long mesh sleeves, that I'd had my eye on. The grey mesh was practically sheer; my lacy black bra showed through clearly, and the crop left my toned midriff fetchingly bare.

I smoothed my hair into a high ponytail, and raided my wife's shoe closet.

She had an adorable pair of white wedge heel sneakers that, to my delight, fit my bare feet almost perfectly. There was a sort of scallop cut on their top edges that framed and highlighted my trim ankles.

Standing in them was like wearing a pair of 3-inch heels, but more comfortable and stable. They did all of the things that both women and men love high heels to do -- lengthen the legs, and tilt the pelvis forward to add spice to the way a woman walked and stood.

Between the white wedge heels and the hip-hugging white shorts, my already long legs looked miles long.

I set my makeup with powder, and refreshed my mascara and lipstick before heading to my impromptu living room photo studio.

I closed the shutters, and shot video of Carla dancing portions of a solo Latin number I'd seen my mother perform. The wedge heels were so light and cushy, I felt like I was dancing on a cloud.

The stills I shot highlighted my long legs and my bubble butt (which my wife never tired of comparing a 19-year-old girl's). In the photos, the strategically placed shirring in the yoga shorts had the effect of grabbing and lifting the globes of my ass for display, and the shorts themselves almost looked like they had been airbrushed onto my body.

I removed my bra for a couple of shots; it was tempting to leave it off, since my breasts looked edible and perky through the mesh, but I decided to put it back on for my venture outside. I was sporty and spicy enough as it was.

I struck my impromptu studio, stowing my lights and camera, and stashed the memory cards safely away for later processing.

I filched a small, almost postcard-sized white purse from my wife's closet. It had a thin, cross-body strap, and would hold the essentials -- lipstick, mascara, keys, and a tube of edible warming, er, personal lubricant.

A door at the rear of our laundry room led into the garage, where my Ford Fiesta ST, painted a nondescript silver, sat.

I experimentally waggled my feet on the pedals, and decided that I could drive without taking off my wedge heel sneakers. I wasn't going to drive that far, anyway.

I took a deep breath, hit the garage door opener, and rolled out into the midsummer twilight.

My house was the fourth from the corner, so, while I was nervous about driving en femme, I didn't have to drive past too many of my neighbors' houses, which all looked unoccupied anyway.

As I turned onto the street behind the high school stadium, I saw that it was as quiet on this 4th of July weekend as I had hoped.

The street fronted a flood control channel; a wide strip of grass separated the street from the fenced channel, while a bike lane and a sidewalk lay on this side, with the stadium stands looming over it all behind a slatted chain link fence.

I parked halfway down the block from an empty utility parking area that lay behind the stadium, and swung out of my car in my tarted-up athletic wear.

I stood on the sidewalk beside my car, and admired my reflection in the car window: Wedge heel sneakers, check; shirred yoga shorts airbrushed to my bubble butt atop long, smooth legs, check; sheer, cropped running top, with a lacy black bra (filled by perky breast forms) clearly visible underneath, check; fully made-up face, check.

So much for cross-dressing furtively around the house.

The sidewalk was my runway; I drew myself up and strutted with a model's hauteur in the summer twilight, under a still-blue sky.

The track was normally open to the public, but after running there almost every day for the past few months, I knew back ways in for the times it wasn't.

Even in the dying light, the running track was still red, and the football field within it still green, as I emerged from the bleachers. I stood at the trackside fence and surveyed the empty stadium, then stepped through.

I chose a lane in the middle of the track, and made it my personal runway. I strutted. I danced. I high-stepped and gamboled, and just enjoyed the thrill of being fully en femme under the open sky.

I halted in mid-strut as I neared the end of my lap. A man leaned against a gatepost, his arms crossed; I could see his amused expression clearly.

I decided that boldness was the best course, and continued to strut and dance my way around the track.

As I drew level with where he stood, he straightened and trotted out toward the track.

I skipped backwards as I shimmied my shoulders, and watched his approach.

I recognized him as an assistant track coach at the school. Clad in running shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, he looked trim and fit. Something about his expression reminded me of a younger Gary Cole. The cut of his sandy hair, and his moustache, added to the impression.

Along with inheriting my mother's translucently fair complexion, I'd acquired her aversion to the sun. I always ran in long, sun-blocking clothes and a cap, so I doubted that this coach would recognize me, especially in my current attire.

He drew alongside as I pivoted to skip sideways. He was good head taller than I was, and beamed down at me.

"Hi," he said. "Cross-training?"

(My heart skipped a beat; at first, I thought he asked, "Cross-dressing?")

I switched to an exaggerated runway strut. "You could call it that."

"I'm Alan," he said. "You float over the track like you're as light as a feather."

"Carla," I returned. "Thank you." I continued, somewhat coyly, "I'm glad you like the way I move."

Alan grinned. "I do, I do," he admitted. "Do you run that lightly as well, Carla?" he asked.

"Of course," I replied, as I switched smoothly into an easy jog. The wedge heel sneakers were surprisingly nice to run in.

I could feel Alan's eyes drinking me in as I ran ahead of him, so I moved to a lane line, and landed each step on the line, which made my hips swing more.

Alan drew level as we rounded the turn. "You have a beautiful stride. Do you run often?" he asked.

"Lately, just about every day," I replied.

"I thought so," Alan said. "You know, you run like someone I've often seen around this track."

I played it cool, but my mouth suddenly went dry. "Do I?" I managed not to squeak.

"Yep. Same beautiful, long, smooth stride. Same really long legs. This person is always in sweats, though. Also," he continued, "I haven't been able decide if they're a boy or a girl."

We ran in silence for a few moments. My heart felt like it was hammering in my chest.

Then I heard myself reply: "Funny, sometimes, I can't decide either."

Alan looked at me as we ran side by side. "Tonight, she looks like an amazingly lovely woman to me," he said.

I slowed to a walk, then stopped and gaped up at him. Then we grinned at each other for a long moment.

A sudden impulse seized me. I grabbed Alan's hand, and pulled him toward the football field.

"Let's play follow-the-leader," I said.

I danced and hopped around the grass field, choosing movements mainly designed to shimmy and display myself to Alan in as feminine a manner as possible. He followed gamely, and we laughed together as he made a hash of a few moves.

I whipped through a series of chaine turns, and stopped at midfield to watch Alan attempt them. I caught his arm as he wobbled to a stop near me.

He turned, and his arms were suddenly around me. He smiled down at me as he drew me into his embrace.

"You have the most gorgeous eyes, Carla," he said, as he tilted my face up and kissed me.

Part of me was screaming inside, but I pressed my body against Alan's as I slid my hands up around his neck. Alan obliged by going in for another kiss.

I tiptoed as Alan's hands found my ass, and started exploring its contours. I think I gasped a bit as my bare belly rubbed against a large bulge in Alan's shorts.

Alan broke off the kiss, and looked at me, desire in his eyes. "Do you want to continue this conversation in my office?" he asked.

Yielding to another powerful impulse, my slender fingers found the bulge in Alan's shorts. I stroked it gently as I looked up at him.

"No," I breathed. "Right here, right now."

As Alan pulled me into another kiss, my hands were busy, diving under the waistband of his shorts, my fingers snaring the trouser snake that lurked there.

I pulled Alan's shorts down enough to free his cock, and it sprang loose and stared me in the eye. It looked as fit and muscular as Alan did; my fingers could just encircle its girth, and it continued to thicken and lengthen as I used both hands to stroke it as I stared at it, transfixed.

Yesterday (was it just yesterday?), I hadn't seen Tim's cock at all when he fucked me beside the swimming hole at a 4th of July barbecue. I had been facing the quarry wall, with my eyes closed (rolled back in my head, actually) from the incredible tongue-fucking Tim had been giving my hairless ass, when he buried his cock deep inside me for an urgent, passionate, glorious butt-fucking; and then he had jumped into the swimming hole to provide a distraction so I could make my escape. (But not before pumping enough sperm into me to make me feel like a cum cream puff.)

And while my ass had become well-acquainted with Hank's cock on the eve of the 4th, when my last foray outside en femme had turned into a very public fucking against the wall of a gas station, followed more fucking inside his service bay, I'd never been face-to-face with Hank's cock.

Alan's cock hypnotized me with its one-eyed gaze as I continued to stroke its purplish length. He was so hard, his cock stood almost straight up. I moaned softly as I slowly sank to my knees.

Suddenly, Alan's cock was inside my mouth, hot and hard. I could feel its helmeted head slither along my tongue as I bobbed my head, and sucked a man's cock for the first time in my life.

I was dressed like a girl, made up like a girl, and sucking a cock on a high school football field like a horny cheerleader. What was happening to me?

After long moments when the only sounds in the night were our moaning and my slurping, Alan gently gripped my head, and slipped his cock from my mouth. Some part of me noticed my lipstick on his cock before I met his eyes.

Alan leaned down and gave me a long, deep kiss, and said, "I want your beautiful ass."

I nodded, stood, and fished the edible lube from my purse (still strapped to my body) as Alan shed his shorts. I squeezed some onto my hand, and started lubing up Alan's rigid cock as I stepped out of my wedge heel sneakers.

I handed Alan the lube, turned away from him, and shimmied out of the shirred yoga shorts. After a brief hesitation, I slid the thong off as well. The moon had risen, and my creamy, nearly translucent skin glowed in its light.

Alan stepped behind me, and slid his lubed cock along the cleft of my ass. "Carla, you could get work as a leg and ass model. You have the longest, prettiest legs I've ever seen. And God, that ass..."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," I said, as I turned to face him. We kissed deeply as my hands made sure that every inch of his cock was coated with lube.

Suddenly, Alan picked me up. I wrapped my legs around him and settled my weight into his palms; he gently squeezed the globes of my ass as he centered the head of his cock at my opening.

I pushed down as Alan gently thrust; my ass still was still receptive after my workout with the dildo earlier that day, so the head of his lubed cock slid easily past my sphincter.

After a half-dozen strokes, I was riding his cock to the hilt as we fucked each other with increasing energy. I was starting to lose my mind.

Alan kneeled down gently and lowered me to the grass, then pushed up the hem of my crop top and unclasped my bra. His hands engulfed my breast forms as he pushed me onto my back.

My nipples -- my big, puffy, real nipples -- could swell to over an inch from my chest when they were engorged, and they were frantically trying to engorge beneath the breast forms. I arched my back and pushed 'my' breasts against Alan's hands, which were sending electric sensations through my big puffies as he flicked the pencil eraser nipples of 'my' breasts. It was all very confusing, and exciting.

Alan spread my thighs with his own. A high-pitched, feminine moan escaped my throat as his cock impaled me. I couldn't stop moaning as his hands found my ass cheeks; he kneaded and squeezed the bubbles of my butt like loaves of bread as he tried to fuck me into the 50-yard-line.

I suppose that some people have fantasies of having sex on a football field; I've never been one of them, but there I was, flat on the grass, surrounded by empty bleachers bathed in moonlight, getting fucked like a girl at midfield.

It was also the third time in as many days that I had teased a man into fucking me in public. Nair had unleashed a monster, apparently.

Alan fucked my mouth with his tongue as he continued to try to split me open with his cock. He broke the kiss, and lifted one of my legs over, so that was I lying on my left side, and drilled me that way for a few strokes.

Suddenly, I was face-down in the cool grass, and Alan was fucking me from behind, his cock seeming to touch new places inside me as it plowed even more deeply into my ass.

I moaned as Alan suddenly shifted position, squeezed my ass cheeks in his big hands, and started assaulting my G-spot with his ridged cockhead. Then I started bucking uncontrollably as the waves of a gigantic orgasm obliterated everything else.

I could dimly hear Alan grunting, "Carla! Carla!" as he pumped my unresisting body full of cum.

Somewhat later: Alan sat on a bench in the grandstands, leaning back against the bench behind, and I sat facing him, impaling myself on his cock.

He had shed his shirt to pad the aluminum bench, and I ran my fingers through the thatch of hair on his chest as I reamed myself on his cock, with no goal other than to milk it with my fuck-hole for as long as we could stand it.

I wore my sheer crop top, sans bra, against the evening cool, and Alan ran his hands up and down my smooth back and pliant butt. I'm sure I had grass stains on my back, because I sure did on my front.

We smiled into each others eyes, and exchanged frequent kisses. I suspected that I might have future meetings with Alan about my, er, running form. But for tonight, I was content to be Alan's girl, and Alan's fuck-toy, for as long as the evening lasted.