Double Cross

He was an average looking guy, dark hair, glasses and about five-foot nine or so to my six-foot three. No one that would stand out in a crowd. I didn't know a lot about his private life. Like me he lived alone. The only time I ever saw a lady there was when he was standing out front arguing with his crazy ex-wife. I say crazy because from my kitchen window I could hear them arguing and from what I heard her saying she was definitely crazy. As we chatted Joe asked me to hand him a wrench. Unthinkingly I laid my bag of magazines in the open top of his tool box while I found the one he wanted. It was a nice day to be outside so we chatted about ten minutes before I finally headed for my trailer. Inside I slipped a pair of gym shorts on over my panties. Yes I like to wear panties. I’m not a cross dresser or anything but there’s just something about the way they cup my balls and the feel of the silken material against my skin. I guess they appeal to my feminine side. I’d just done a. The whole hour, I gazed at her, willing my miserable self to copy her effortless grace. I took in every detail, drinking her in. The stark bones at her collar and wrists, the arch of her spine, the firm, pink nipples that grazed her t-shirt. She barely spoke as she moved: her few words sounded like a lullaby. “Deep breath…suck your belly in…drop your shoulders, relax your neck, your face, tilt your pelvis…” I did all she told me: willed my limbs to mirror hers. Week by week, they started to respond. I barely noticed. I only watched her. But she saw it, saw me, and started to smile at me now and then, when I skipped through the door, when my limbs lengthened, my spine flattened, according to her demand. At the end of each class she turned the lights off for five minutes and instructed us to relax, breathe, meditate, feel the weight of the floor beneath us and sink into it. I spent that time thinking of all the things I’d like to do to her, given the chance. How I’d smooth my fingers.
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