She talked me into it! - Sex Stories

She talked me into it!

Brandon left for Singapore this morning. Three weeks. I told myself I'd use the time to catch up on chores, maybe paint the guest bathroom. I didn't know then how utterly wrong I'd be.

Tonight, Sarah came over. We were supposed to finish a quarterly report, and I ordered Chinese takeout. She brought a bottle of cabernet—said it was from a vineyard she visited last summer. I rarely drink. Wine gives me a headache, makes me dizzy. But it was Sarah, my friend, the woman I've confided in for months now, so I had a glass. Then another.

By the second glass, the room tilted pleasantly. I was wearing my favorite terrycloth shorts—loose, comfortable, pale blue. Sarah was watching me over the rim of her own glass, her eyes darker than usual. We talked about work, about Brandon's trip, about nothing important. And then, as usual, Sarah turned the conversation to sex. She asked if Brandon still satisfied me after 35 years. I said “Yes!” and blushed. She asked about previous guys. There had not been many. Then she asked if I'd ever been with a woman. I laughed, said yes, once or twice. She smiled that slow, knowing smile.

"I have something to tell you," she said. "And I need you to promise you'll still be my friend after."

I promised. Of course I did.

She said, "I'm transgender."

I laughed out loud. Actually laughed. "You? No way. Sarah, that's—that's ridiculous. You're the most feminine woman I know. Your hips, your voice, your—everything. Come on."

She didn't laugh ...

... with me. Her expression was dead serious. "I'm not joking, Miranda. I was born male. I transitioned ten years ago."

I shook my head, still grinning. "You're pulling my leg. You have to be. You have—" I gestured vaguely at my own chest. "I mean, those are real."

"They're implants," she said quietly. "And I still have my original equipment. I never got surgery downstairs."

The grin froze on my face. "Original equipment?"

She nodded. "I have a penis. A fully functional one."

I stared at her. The wine made it hard to process. "Prove it," I heard myself say. The words came out before I could stop them. "I mean……You don’t have to……But, I don't believe you."

Sarah's lips curled into something between a challenge and a seduction. "You really want me to show you?"

"No—I mean, I just—you can't expect me to believe—"

She stood up. Stepped over to the couch here I sat. And moved directly in front of me. My knees were between her legs as she leaned towards me. Her sundress was short, floral print, with a gathered waist. She reached down and slowly, deliberately, gathered the hem in her fingers. I watched, my heart pounding, as she lifted it inch by inch. Her thighs were smooth, tanned. The hem passed her knees, her thighs, until it was bunched around her hips.

There, in a pair of black lace panties, was an unmistakable bulge. Her cock. It was as sight to behold. Long and thick, pressing against the fabric, the outline of the head clearly visible. My mouth went ...