His Better Half

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. He was in high-rise hell, way above street level, far from any possible help or backup. He experienced a brief moment of panic, felt his lunch rise in his throat. But he choked it back down. This was his moment! He was fighting for his wife, for his life, for his very manhood, dammit! He put all thoughts of cowardice out of his mind, steeled his resolve once again, and walked purposefully off the elevator, and straight to the door of unit 14B.

He raised his hand to knock, but the door swung open before he could touch it. A man stood within. A big man. A huge man! It was Ray Burton, in the flesh. And he was a mountain! He was as large as a grizzly bear, and twice as menacing. His gaze was like steel, his teeth were like stones. His flesh was like mahogany veneer stretched over muscles of titanium. His hair was made out of wire and his breath was the exhaust of a Harley Davidson. His eyes were the headlights of a Mack truck and his nostrils flared like the air intake of a cruise missile. He was all man, all the time.

He was everything that Michael was not.

He roughly grabbed Michael's dainty, manicured hand and dragged him into the apartment. "It's about time, you little slut!" he growled. "You're late! What do you think, I have all day? I'm horny as hell and I need to fuck, wench!" He pulled Michael to him, crushed him to his chest, and pressed his swollen lips to Michael's helpless face. His tongue raped Michael's mouth like a plumber's wire snaking a drain. Michael resisted only for a moment, and then acquiesced to the intrusion. He rolled his eyes back in his head and tried to accept it. And, to his surprise, succeeded! Ray's tongue stimulated every nerve ending in Michael's mouth, and left him gasping and week-kneed.

"Time to fuck, you little whore!" Ray bellowed in his gravelly voice, and dragged Michael to the sofa. "I've been fantasizing about that sweet bunghole of yours all day long! I've jacked off three times since last night, and I'm ready for some sweet butt-fucking action." He pushed Michael down onto the back of the sofa, bent at the waist over the cushions. He yanked the yellow dress up to expose Michael's milky white ass-cheeks, and pulled the black lace panties to one side, half tearing them in the process. He stuck his greasy thumb into his mouth briefly to lube it with saliva, and then rammed it up Michael's tight bunghole.

"Arghggh!!" Michael squealed, in his high-pitched asthmatic whine, his face pressed into the sofa cushions, as the fat thumb invaded his virginal sphincter. But Ray didn't give him an inch of mercy, and twisted his enormous digit deeper and deeper into Michael's anus. Moments later, he withdrew the thumb, dropped his trousers, and thrust his raging hard-on into Michael's brown winking butthole.

It was Michael's first experience with anal sex. He didn't know what to expect, but he found out quickly enough. Ray's enormous, manly schlong forced its way into Michael's ass with an inexorable, inevitable, force. It felt like a telephone pole. Michael felt his sphincter start to stretch, then resist, and then scream with pain! His jaws clenched and he bit into the cushions of the sofa. But, impossibly, he found the pain slowly turning to pleasure, as Ray's enormous tool reached deeper and deeper into his anal man-pussy! His mind, at first so resistant, eventually gave way to the inevitable, and sought out the pleasure, the ecstasy, the delirious delight in the physical ravaging that he was receiving. His brain sent a message to his endocrine system, and his body released a flood of endorphins into his bloodstream. He stopped hating, stopped fighting, stopped feeling pain. He began loving. The anal raping was pleasure, pure pleasure, not pain at all! He was in heaven.

Ray continued to stab Michael in the ass with his enormous cock, again and again, over and over, building to a rhythm that brought them both to the edge of inevitability. Michael, now a convert, thrust back with his asshole for all that he was worth, savoring the feeling of the enormous prick that was loving and stroking the inside of his bowels. Thrust for thrust, stroke for stroke, the wanton pair of horny men worked their bodies until they both achieved enormous, thunderous, orgasms. Ray, his raging cock sucked and coddled by Michael's tight virginal asshole, pumped squirt after squirt of his juicy jism into Michael's colon; and Michael, his twitching starfish raped and ravaged by Ray's throbbing rod, and his tortured prostate bruised and buffeted by the invading battering ram, exploded in a paroxysm of pleasure, his tiny load of semen staining the front of his dress. They both screamed, yodeled, and collapsed, exhausted, across the back of the sofa.

For several minutes they lay there, panting, and quietly savoring the moment. But not for long. Ray, the sexual marathoner, was just getting started. "Wake up, slut!" he bellowed, and yanked Michael up by the hair. "I'm ready for my blowjob!" His enormous tool was still at full sail. He dragged Michael around to the front of the sofa, sat his own ass down, and forced Michael to his knees on the floor between his legs. "Suck me, bitch. You know you love it."

Michael's head was whirling. He considered himself a heterosexual male, but he had just been buttfucked for the first time in his life, albeit by a man who thought he was a woman, and he had to admit that he had enjoyed it. Enjoyed it, hell, he had loved every minute of it! But now that same man expected him to provide a blow job! What was he to do?

Fortunately, he didn't need to wonder for long, because Ray did not give him any time to contemplate his options. Ray grabbed him by the ears, and pulled his face down to his cruel, raging cock, fully rigid and ready for further action.

Michael had never sucked a cock before in his life. But he knew that his options were to suck this one now, or to die at the hands of this enormous man who held his head in his paws, and who believed that he had just fucked a woman's asshole. It seemed the better part of valor to continue the deception and provide the best blowjob he could, than to suddenly let Ray know that he'd just buttfucked the husband of his illicit lover! Michael closed his eyes, said a quiet prayer, and did his best to stretch his lips around Ray's enormous member.

Michael wrapped his mouth around the massive head, applying suction and tongue motion. He wrapped his small, painted fingers around the shaft, and jerked up and down at the same time. He remembered the motions that he had enjoyed in the past, on those rare occasions that he could cajole Michelle into sucking his own tiny dick, back in the early days of their marriage. He imitated her motions; sucking, slurping, and stroking; pressing his tongue into the slit; flicking over the delicate underside of the oversized schlong.

He thought about those rare instances when Michelle had kissed his balls, and he likewise wrapped his lips around Ray's swollen, aching gonads, sucking them into his mouth, and humming a tune to bring them to life. He remembered those few times when his wife had jacked his shaft with her hands, and he likewise wrapped his slender fingers, with his wine-colored nails, around Ray's engorged rod, yanking and stroking it like there was no tomorrow. For all he knew, there wouldn't be!

As the flaring cockhead passed back and forth between his stretched lips, Michael realized that he was enjoying himself. The feeling of power as he manipulated the oversized cock, and the oversized man attached to it, was something he had rarely experienced. He thrilled to the unusual sensation of actually being in control of something, anything, however momentarily, however repulsive. He stepped up the intensity of his cocksucking, jacking and licking with renewed gusto. Before long, his efforts were rewarded, as Ray's groaning and panting became louder and more frantic. Michael sucked harder, stroked faster, and braced himself for the inevitable eruption. It wasn't long before Ray let loose with another enormous load of jism, filling Michael's inexperienced mouth with spurt after spurt of his creamy white load, most of which leaking out and ran down his chin. Michael gave no thought to swallowing; he was focused on not choking to death. He pulled his mouth off the spurting cock and took much of the load on his face. Eventually, he looked like a frosted donut.

Ray, temporarily satisfied, stood up, and yanked Michael to his feet by his hair. "Aww, baby, you just get better all the time," he growled. He pulled Michael up to his face and kissed him again, deeply. Michael nearly swooned, both from the intensity of the kiss, and from the asphyxiation of the enormous bear-hug. Finally Ray released him.

"Baby, that was a great warm-up. But now I really need to fuck. Get that dress off and get into the bedroom. I want your sweet fucking pussy, and I want it now!"

Michael stood there, paralyzed. Buttfucks and blowjobs were one thing, but he was sorely lacking in the pussy department. The deception was about to be blown sky-high. As soon as his dress came off, along with the shredded remnants of his panties, the jig would be up. Ray would surely kill him where he stood, Michael thought. What had he been thinking, to come over here like this? And where did he get those insane notions of punishing this ox of a man? He just hoped that it would be a quick, painless death, with as little torture as possible.

"C'mon, honey," growled Ray, beginning to get impatient. He swept Michael up into his arms as if he were carrying a bride over a threshold, and wafted him lightly into the bedroom. He tossed Michael unceremoniously onto the bed. He was just reaching over to tear the yellow dress from Michael's body when his cell phone rang on the nightstand. It jangled out the tune of "Always True To You Darling In My Fashion."