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Tiffany looked at him with sadness, obviously that her husband would rather have Linda than her.
"Tell me the truth Tiffany. I can take it. I go way back with Bill. I've known him for twenty years. What's wrong with him? Has he lost his mind? Does he have PTSS from being a cop too long?"
She looked at him with rejection. She looked at him with sad eyes. She looked at him as if she was about to cry.
"Bill is still of sound mind," she said. "Hot and heavy for a while, it's no secret that Bill is in love with your wife. Bill would rather spend the rest of his days with her than with me," she said looking at him with hurt and rejection and looking again as if she was about to cry.
Oh my God! Walter's mind was reeling. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to offer her his shoulder, his hands, his mouth, his tongue, and his cock.
His dream come true, if he heard her right and understood her correctly, Tiffany wants to have sex with him. His sexual fantasy come true, Tiffany wants to have sex with him dressed as a woman. With him in love with Tiffany and with Tiffany seemingly interested in him because he's a cross dresser, his longtime sexual desire come true, Walter is in love with Linda.
This scenario couldn't be any better than if he wrote it in a story himself. Only, this was no story. This wasn't some fictionally portrayal of imaginary events. This was his life or the life that he so wanted with her instead of with Linda. Suddenly he imagined inviting Bill and Tiffany to his house. Suddenly, with them having sex in separate rooms, he imagined Bill having sex with Linda while he had sex with Tiffany. Suddenly, he imagined them swapping not only wives but houses too.
"So, what are you saying Tiffany?"
She gave him that sexy smile again.
"I'm saying come inside my house and give me sex. I'm horny. I'm sexually frustrated. With Bill working nights and sleeping days, I need to feel a man between my legs and there ain't no better man who can make me cum than a cross dressing man."
To be continued...
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