Roommate

In retrospect, I realize that I probably should have planned ahead. I mean, who heads off to graduate school with everything he owns in his old station wagon—a hand-me-down from his parents—and no idea where he was going to live? But I wasn't much for planning and, usually, things worked out okay anyway.

So, I checked in at a cheap motel and hit the student housing office to see who was looking for a roommate. Most of the options had to be rejected right away. There was no way I was going to room with an undergraduate. Been there, done that. I had to study now. There'd be time for partying, I was sure. But I didn't want to live in a party house.

There were a few decent options. I wound up signing on with the first one I visited. I wasn't sure it was a terrific fit. I'm working on an MA in materials science and Michael was studying something soft and squishy—sociology or social psychology or some such shit. So ... we wouldn't have much to talk about. But that was okay. The house was fine; Michael was quiet—a bit shy, really; and I was pretty sure I could do my studying in the house, which was all I really cared about.

The only thing that was a little weird was that Michael wanted me to sign a lease with him—subletting my room from him. Most of the time I'd shared a place with another guy, we would just get me added to the lease. But I didn't care. The rent was good. The lease was only for 6 months. Michael said that he wanted to keep it short in case things didn't work out between us. We could always extend it if things did work out. That seemed like a good idea from my point of view, too.

I moved in the same day. No sense spending another night's rent at the motel and it wasn't as if moving was a big deal—just unloading the car. I got settled in easily enough and, when the semester began, things were going fine. Michael and I just sort of passed in the house from time to time. We said 'hi' but neither of us took any steps toward any sort of friendship. Cordial housemates worked find for both of us.

Things changed dramatically one day when my professor cancelled a seminar and I came home about three hours before I usually did. I opened the door and was startled to see a woman running out of the living room and down the hall. Michael had never had a girl over before. He'd never talked about a girl, either, but we'd talked so little that didn't mean much. I hadn't envisioned him with a girl, though, and I was surprised to see this woman in the living room.

Not as surprised as she was, though. I didn't see her face very well but she was clearly alarmed by my entrance and she darted down the hallway so quickly that my head was still spinning when she slammed the door to Michael's bedroom behind her. So, I didn't really get a look at her except to see that she was tall (even without the heels she was wearing) and had long blonde hair. She was also dressed up like she was going out.

I wasn't sure why she ran away. Maybe she didn't know that Michael had a roommate and was frightened by a strange man entering the room. I didn't know. Maybe she was a married woman and this was a clandestine relationship. It was weird, but I didn't think about it too much. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down to some reading. I'd just been given three precious, unexpected hours. I wasn't going to waste that gift.

About fifteen minutes later, I heard Michael's door open and footsteps coming down the hallway. The hallway was carpeted so it was hard to tell for sure, but I thought it sounded like a man's footsteps. Then Michael rounded the corner.

I'm probably not the most gregarious guy in the world and I'd been pretty engrossed in what I was reading so, for a minute, I just looked up at Michael without saying anything. I wasn't thinking anything—at least not anything about Michael. I was still thinking about what I was reading. But Michael thought I was looking at him funny, I guess. His face went pale and then he sputtered out, "You can't tell anyone!"

I was baffled. Tell who? Tell them what? What the hell was he talking about? I didn't know and so I didn't know how to respond. I just looked at him, completely puzzled.

"Please don't tell anyone," he pleaded.

"What?!"

"You know...You know...what you saw."

What the hell? He was scared to death that I'd tell someone that he had a woman in the house? This didn't make any sense. Maybe she was a married woman and her husband was a mobster. No, that didn't make any sense, either. So, I just sputtered another, "What?"

"You know," Michael continued. He seemed to have calmed down a little. "You know...that you saw me dressed."

Okay, maybe I was naïve, or maybe my mind was just somewhere else. The only thing that came into my mind was, "Well, of course I saw you dressed. Who'd want to see you naked?" I didn't say that, of course. But I think Michael saw that I wasn't getting his point.

"You know...dressed like a girl."

WOW! Okay, now I got it. But I was having trouble believing it. I hadn't seen the girl's face clearly, but from the glimpse of her that I saw as she ran down the hall gave no hint of a guy in drag. I'd filled in with my mind the image of a tall, slender, blonde woman. Michael's revelation was a shock.

"You mean..." I was still reduced to sputtering. Michael nodded. "I don't believe it," I continued. It wasn't a literal statement. I mean, I did believe what Michael said. Why would he lie? It was just an expression of amazement. But I guess that's not how Michael took it.

He turned and went back to his room. I figured he was embarrassed and just wanted out of the conversation. After a few minutes, I began to feel bad for him. I walked back to his room and knocked on the door. I was intending to tell him that it was okay...I wouldn't tell anyone.

"Go away!" Michael said through the door. I decided it was kindest to leave him alone to deal with this in his own way. I walked back to the living room and tried to get back into my book.

About 15 minutes later, I heard the door open. I didn't hear any footsteps down the hallway but, in just a moment, an attractive woman rounded the corner and looked at me.

"Michael?" I wasn't sure it was him. Maybe this whole thing was a joke that he and a girlfriend were playing on me. I mean, this person looked 100% female—at least from this distance.

"Michelle!"

"What?"

"Michelle...call me Michelle."

"Okay...Michelle," I managed. "This is really weird." Now that he'd spoken, I could tell that it really was Michael. Not because the voice was bad. If I'd never heard Michael talk, I never would have known that this wasn't a girl's voice. I could just recognize Michael in it.

"Would you like a beer?"

I accepted and Michael...I mean, Michelle...turned to go into the kitchen. Shit! I watched her walk away and couldn't help watching the sway in her hips and the way her skirt swished as she walked. For that matter, I couldn't help thinking of her as a HER.

Michelle came back with a beer for me and a glass of wine for her. Michael almost always drank beer but I guess the booze of choice changed with the clothes. She handed the beer to me and sat down next to me on the couch.

For a few moments, we didn't say anything. Well, I think I let out a few 'Wow!'s—but nothing coherent. I mean, it was amazing. Sometimes I could almost see Michelle as Michael in drag, but just ALMOST. The illusion was amazing. Michelle didn't look masculine in any way. I tried to think about whether Michael was particularly effeminate. I certainly hadn't thought so before seeing him as Michelle. So I guess the answer was 'no'.

Michelle had obviously gotten more comfortable. She'd pulled her legs up onto the couch in a very feminine and, I noticed, quite suggestive way.

"So," she said taking a sip of her wine, "You have to promise that you won't tell anyone." This was said coyly—almost coquettishly.

"I don't know. It's a pretty good story." I was really only teasing. Who was I going to tell anyway. I barely knew anyone in town and none of the people I knew would have the slightest interest in this. But Michelle took my comment seriously. She looked appalled.

"No, you can't tell." Her voice trembled. "Really, you can't tell anyone." I could see her shaking and I responded like any man would to a pretty woman who was in distress. Just as I was preparing to reassure her—to let her know that I'd protect her secret—she went on.

"No. I'll do anything. Just, please, don't tell anyone."

The 'anything' was a cliché and Michelle's tone let me know that she meant it in the clichéd way. I wasn't going to press my advantage. I'm not that sort of guy. But Michelle upped the ante on me. With the fingers of her left hand, she gently touched the inside of my right thigh. Her fingers traced a line from just above my knee, up my thigh, to my cock, which was involuntarily hardening in response to her touch.

Instead of responding, I just inhaled through clenched teeth—shivering to Michelle's touch. I guess I say that instead of saying anything in response, I inhaled through clenched teeth. That was certainly a response to Michelle's touch.

The trajectory of the events to come was set then. There was no way I was going to stop Michelle. It had been months since I'd felt a woman's touch. I hadn't realized until the moment her fingers caressed my thigh how much I longed for that. There was no way I was going to turn Michelle away.

She sensed that I'd yielded to her. I could feel her relax, secure in the knowledge that I'd silently agreed to keep her secret. I sensed, too, that she now felt that she had some power in the situation. When you control another person's level of desire—AND the object of their desire—you have power over them. Michelle had power over me now, and she knew it. That knowledge made her more comfortable—comfortable enough to proceed with confidence.

Michelle ran her fingertips lightly over my hardening cock. She wasn't shy. She looked me straight in the eyes, gauging my response, while she teased me to a full erection. By the time Michelle got down on the floor between my legs and began undoing my belt, my cock was tenting my pants almost grotesquely. It was a bit of a struggle for Michelle to get my pants down and off my legs, despite the fact that I was cooperating as much as possible.

When I was undressed from the waist down and my shirt was pulled up on my chest, Michelle paused—I guess to build suspense or something, though that was hardly necessary. She showed self-confidence and poise. She wasn't the least bit shy or embarrassed.

For a moment, Michelle just held my yearning cock gently in her hand and looked me in the eye. She was, I realized now, very attractive. I'd never thought about what color Michael's eyes were. Who notices his roommate's eyes? But Michelle's eyes were a grey-blue. The color was emphasized by her eye shadow, which was noticeable but subtle. Her eyelashes were long and dark—probably she'd used mascara, but it didn't look overdone.

At first I'd been frustrated by Michelle's pause in the action but now I found myself fixated on her eyes. I was almost disappointed when she broke our gaze and leaned down to take my cock between her lips. Almost! But when her ruby-red lips surrounded the helmet of my hardon, I forgot everything else and surrendered to the sensations.

Michelle seemed a virtuoso performer at this task. She held my cock firmly with one hand and worked her lips over the shaft to different rhythms—sometimes startling me with her force and speed and then, unpredictably, shifting to a maddeningly slow pace. She seemed completely lost in the moment—abandoning consciousness to her own pleasure. But, if so, my pleasure didn't suffer any for it. Her technique was amazing and the feelings were intensified by the obvious enjoyment she felt.

She was toying with me part of the time, but I wasn't complaining. I'd never had my cock sucked like that before. Michelle was so enthusiastic—so focused on what she was doing—not at all like other women who'd always made me feel like they were doing me a big favor by wrapping their lips around my cock. (They were, of course, but I now knew how much better it felt when a chick was really into giving a blowjob.)

I was transfixed by the sight of Michelle's hand and lips on my shaft. Her hand seemed delicate, with fingernail polish matching her red lipstick. I noticed that her nails were long so I guess these were stick-on nails because I surely would have noticed if Michael had such long fingernails. The sight of her feminine hands and bright red lips working my shaft intensified my pleasure.

When Michelle brought her other hand up and dragged her nails across the sensitive skin under my balls, I closed my eyes and lay back, focused now only on the tactile sensations. Michelle gently cupped my balls in her hand and began working me to an orgasm.

The journey was so marvelous, that I fought to slow down my ascent. I wanted these sensations to last as long as possible. But, before long, there was no delaying the inevitable. I felt my loins roiling with the oncoming explosion. My legs tightened—rigid like my cock—and I thrust my hips up to get even deeper in Michelle's mouth.

I roared loudly as I erupted in ecstasy, filling Michelle's beautiful mouth with my seed. And Michelle was ready for it. She sucked and swallowed eagerly.

She let the last jet or two of my cum dribble from her mouth back onto my cock. I knew this wasn't because she couldn't have swallowed it. She had another plan. As I lay there in my post-orgasmic bliss, I watched as she slowly, lovingly, licked the cream from my cock. I twitched uncontrollably, as much from the sheer eroticism of sight as from the touch of her soft tongue on my now-too-tender cock. Shit! Did that girl know how to do a blowjob?!

I was drained, literally and metaphorically. I closed my eyes again, resting my head back on the couch, and lay there limp, every muscle in my body relaxed. I felt Michelle get up and opened my eyes to watch her walk out of the living room, heading for the bedroom, her hips swaying in what I interpreted as a satisfied swish. I imagined that she was very pleased with her performance. I know I was.

And then I just sort of checked out. I don't know for how long. I must have looked ridiculous—half sitting, half lying on the couch, my shirt bunched up around my chest and the bottom half of my body completely naked. But I didn't care. I didn't have the mental energy to even think about it.

Sometime later, I heard noise in the kitchen. I guess I'd dozed because I didn't hear Michelle going from bedroom to the kitchen. She would have had to walk through the living room, but I'd had no awareness of that. I got up and pulled my clothes on, grabbed the beer bottles from the coffee table, and headed for the kitchen, not knowing whether it would feel strange to have a conversation with Michelle now.

I didn't get the chance. When I rounded the corner, it was Michael in the kitchen, making some dinner. He was in jeans and a t-shirt, with not a trace of femininity about him.

Michael turned and said, "How you doing?" perhaps in a slightly lower, brusquer tone than he usually spoke in. The tone made me think that I wasn't to discuss what had happened in the living room with him. I paused a little as this registered and then said, "Fine," as casually as I could.

Michael shared his dinner with me and we talked, just as any roommates might, about school, sports, and other shit. It was weird. Sometimes, if I tried hard, I could see just a bit of Michelle in him—nothing overt—just something in the cadence of his speech or a gesture. Most of the time, though, I felt no presence of Michelle and I quickly got comfortable just talking with Michael as Michael.

That was how our non-traditional roommate relationship began. It blossomed in wonderful ways for me. As it turned out, Michael was almost always ready to change into Michelle whenever I was interested. I never talked to him as if he was Michelle. We developed codes to communicate what we wanted. If I came home complaining that I hadn't been on a date for what seemed like a long time, Michael might say, "Haven't you seen Michelle lately?" I'd say that I hadn't seen her recently enough and, before long, Michael would excuse himself to his room, saying he needed to study or something like that. In twenty minutes or so, out would come Michelle and we'd have another incredible date.

It wasn't always a matter of Michael responding to my desire for Michelle. Sometimes I'd come home to find Michelle waiting for me, often in an almost 1950's fantasy mode: dressed in a sexy dress or skirt and holding a drink for me. It was never a problem for me that Michelle initiated some of our dates. She looked so stunningly sexy in her clothes that I was clay in her hands—clay that quickly turned hard for her.

This arrangement turned out to be terrific for me. I wasn't gay. I'd never been attracted to guys. But Michelle wasn't a guy. I know what anatomy she had. But when she was with me, she was all girl. She never wanted me to take care of her. From my point of view, it seemed completely one-sided. But obviously, Michelle was getting something out of it. And everything was working great. I didn't have to do the dating scene. I could focus most of my attention on my courses. And I was getting more—and better—sexual satisfaction than I'd ever had. What's to not love about that?

Of course, relationships change—they evolve. And my relationship with Michelle was no exception. One threshold was crossed when, at a point where Michelle had me so excited that I was almost beside myself with desire, she crawled up from sucking my cock to kiss me.

If she'd done that the first time I'd seen her, I think I would have responded badly. I would have thought this was kissing a guy and I probably couldn't have done it. But, like I said, Michelle was all girl when she was with me. Her lips were soft and moist and she kissed marvelously. I found myself invading her mouth with my tongue, and she responded by teasing my tongue.

Early on in our relationship, Michelle began coming into my room some mornings. It was never predictable, which made it even more exciting. When she came in, she wouldn't knock or wake me before she got into bed with me. The first time she did this, I awoke to the feel of her sweet lips surrounding my morning wood. I looked down to see her dressed in a sheer and sexy turquoise nightie. I propped the pillow up enough that I could watch as she took care of my cock. When she was finished, she left without saying a word, but she was surely aware of my eyes watching her cute little ass sway as she sashayed out of the room.

One day, probably about a month into our relationship, I came home from a seminar to find Michelle dressed to the nines. She gave me a glass of wine and led me to the kitchen where she'd made a nice dinner. We talked like boyfriend and girlfriend through dinner. I was acutely aware of the feminine wiles she employed: she crossed her legs and dangled her shoe from her foot, she used her tongue to lick the lipstick smudge off her wine glass, and ... well, sometimes a breadstick is more than just a breadstick. But being aware that these were all trite tricks of the trade for seductive females doesn't mean that one's immune to them. She had my undivided attention and, as good as dinner was, I couldn't wait to get her in the living room, or back in my bedroom to replace that breadstick with what it symbolized.

Michelle led me back to my bedroom, playfully. When we sat on the bed, she kissed me. It wasn't a quick kiss before a blowjob—a pattern that I'd come to expect (and love, of course). It was a full-blown make-out session. She seemed more passionate than I'd ever seen her and I found myself completely caught up in the passion, too.