…she was Michelle, slipping her new teddy over smooth shoulders, feeling it drift down to caress her curves. Hank was due home any time. She was ready to show him that the honeymoon wasn't over yet, not by a long shot. She slipped on panties so he could tear them off, applied perfume to the five main areas, and scooted under the covers to wait for him. She heard his car almost immediately, and the front door right after.
"Honey?" he called. "You left me already?"
"I'm in here," Michelle/Martha called in a husky voice. "Did you bring dinner?"
Hank appeared in the doorway, a burly bear of a man with a big grin and a large bulge. "I did, ma'am," he said. "Hot and ready and all you can eat!" He leaped out of his clothes and jumped onto the bed, capturing Michelle/Martha in a rough embrace and kissing her throat and breasts with a playful hunger that turned intense almost immediately. She arched up to meet him, her fingernails dragging lines across his broad back. His hands pushed her teddy aside to pinch at her nipples. His cock was a hard, red-hot presence, pushing at the sheets to get to her. Michelle/Martha swept the bedclothes aside to reveal herself in all her glory — tanned, tight, aching with need — and she slowly rolled over to her hands and knees, planting her face solidly in the pillow and pushing her rounded ass into Hank's crotch.
"You know what I want, lover," she said. Michelle/Martha shook with desire as she felt the first push of Hank's cock against her asshole…
…Shaking, Martha pitched the nightie away. She took a deep, cleansing breath as she fought to ignore the pulsing signals from her groin. She wasn't against anal play, exactly. She had no problem with anybody else enjoying it, she just didn't want it herself. Like broccoli.
And enjoy it she would have, she knew from experience. If the person she became had enjoyed what happened, then Martha would enjoy it just as much, at least until she let go and became Martha again. It was the ickiness afterward. Anal sex was so undignified, thought Martha, the thirty-seven-year-old virgin.
That was one advantage. She could try sexual kinks without fear of discovery, disease, or social acceptance, and eventually, hesitantly, she had. Martha had, at times, been a lesbian, an exhibitionist, a swinger, a submissive (dominants didn't wear nighties, apparently, or else didn't give them to Goodwill afterwards), old, young, white, black, brown, yellow, red, handicapped, athletic, thin, fat — every possible combination of those and more. Intact though she might be, she had fucked almost a thousand men, sort of. And women. But she always felt uncomfortable about lesbian sex, even though it invariably caused massive orgasms. Possibly because it caused massive orgasms.
Her disappointment in the nightie was easy to quell. She counted herself lucky if even a third of her purchases were keepers. She put away the insistent memory of how badly she had wanted her ass filled…and she picked up the second nightie…
…one last bow and it was tied in place and Look at you, aren't you the pretty, pretty girl! The diaphanous white cloth clung to rounded curves and the full-length mirror faithfully reflected every one. Balding head, bright eyes, straggly mustache over an unshaven face, skinny pale shoulders, whorls of chest hair disappearing into the delicate neckline, a middle-aged pot belly pushing the cloth…
Martha threw the nightie all the way into the hall, where it snagged on a picture frame.
The gift had its drawbacks, for sure. It had taken quite a bit of trial and error before Martha settled on her routine.
At first, when she finally convinced herself to sample other peoples' sex lives, she had reasoned that panties would provide the strongest charge. She quickly discovered that while they were often filled with memories of toe-curling foreplay, they would almost always go cold right at the hottest point, when the owner (or owner's lover) yanked them off and left Martha shuddering with interrupted passion. Enough agonizing frustration, along with two or three traumatic menstrual memories, and she decided to avoid other people's underwear forever.
When she heard about porn stars and Web girls selling used panties, she wondered for a moment whether or not there were others like her out there, buying them for the memories inside, but it wasn't enough for her to consider buying any herself. Besides, second-hand lingerie was cheaper, and people were more likely to leave nighties on during sex.
The third one was a long nightgown with little lace roses at the neck. It looked like something Martha might even have chosen for herself, should she ever wear anything to bed that wasn't for warmth. She had been intending to save it for last but after the first two she badly needed one to work. Casting caution to the winds she rapidly pulled it over her head and wrapped her hands around her breasts, crushing the thin cloth between them…
…and she was Anne and was holding the nightgown up, gazing at it, while a handsome man sat next to her on the bed. He was in his forties, with a salt and pepper beard and streaks of gray and silver in his hair that made Anne/Martha want to run her fingers through it, again and again. Right now he looked absurdly pleased with himself at having chosen correctly.
Anne/Martha held the nightgown to her chest and leaned over to kiss him soundly on the mouth before shooing him out the door. She stood up and let her robe fall to the ground, then applied powder and lipstick before putting the nightgown on. It felt incredible, exciting her nerve endings and tugging her nipples erect to form thick points in the cloth. She could hear John brushing his teeth in the next room; she smiled at his thoughtfulness.
John came back to a darkened room. He didn't pause for an instant, but made his way to the bed to find a double-armful of scented delight, soft and lush. His hands roamed over the familiar wonders made new by a satiny wrap that slid like oil over blood-hot skin. Never once did he fail to find a sensitive spot or a fiery nerve ending, and within seconds Anne/Martha was panting and mindless with want. She gasped as he ran his hand along her side, over her hip, to squeeze at a ripe buttock before slipping between her legs. His knowing fingers pushed the slick cloth against her, tugging at her, setting her folds aflame. The sensations threatened to overwhelm her and push her too close, too fast, so she grabbed the hem of the gown and wrapped it around his cock, drawing it back and forth and causing him to cry out in surprise and desire. A loving race began, the fever cascading over itself until both combatants surrendered and merged. The nightgown slipped up over her thighs as he entered her, and it slid between their bodies as they moved, adding an intoxicating sensation that drove them harder and harder until they roared into each other's mouth and…
…Martha bucked and came, and came, feeling John spurting deep inside her, tasting his mouth, bearing his weight, drumming her heels on his broad back. She let herself drop flat to the mattress, her arms and legs starfished, and rode out the afterglow. It was always an odd experience — the rapture of the climax, the joy of togetherness, the feeling of loss as the memory faded, and the relief at being just Martha again. This one had been more exciting and more painful than usual. A happy, loving relationship was Martha's own secret fantasy; this pale version was like watching through a locked window.
She wrapped her hand in the sheet so she could safely move the nightgown aside. Painful though it was, that one would get saved for later. Psychometric memories never lasted long — her own experiences quickly overrode the traces of former owners. But they were usually good for two or three times before they became too faint to read — and she already had a crush on John. She often got crushes on the men she experienced. They never lasted. Abruptly knowing everything about a strange new man was heady, but another one could always replace him in the next touch.