A Note from the Author!

 

Hello, my friends!

Many of you remember me from Amazon, I had a pretty good following. Unfortunately, Amazon proved to be a pill, and I was forced to go elsewhere to publish my books. Elsewhere being A1adultebooks(dot)com.

It's a big sigh of relief to work with people and not computers.

I had a lot of material on Amazon. I will be picking out the best novels for A1, and eventually get to some short story collections.

The first five books will be:

1.        I Changed My Husband into a Woman!

2.        My Husband's Funny Breasts!

3.        The Feminization Games!

4.        The Sissy Ride!

5.        Feminized by a Ghost!

 

This book, 'I Changed My Husband into a Woman,' was one of my first erotic novels, and it is a real pip.

Rosco Tannenbaum is a big Hollywood producer, and he likes to play jokes.

When a woman approaches his wife, Sandy, with a baby she claims is Roscoe's, Sandy isn't laughing. She decides to play her own joke.

Roscoe may be laughing now, but he won't be for long!

Enjoy!

And don't forget to bookmark A1adultebooks. This is definitely the go to place if you want to read really hot stories!

STAY HORNY

Gracie

 

 

PROLOGUE

 

My husband likes jokes. Bad jokes. And everybody hates his bad jokes. But he keeps doing them. Why does he keep doing them? Because his name is Roscoe Tannenbaum. That's right, 'that' Roscoe Tannenbaum. Hollywood producer, jet setter, man about town...joker.

My name is Sandy Tannenbaum. Wife to the big man. And, believe me, that is a mixed bag of benefits and curses.

On one hand, I get to go to all the parties, I am held up as an important woman, and, I don't mind saying, I am genetically blessed.

What? You thought Roscoe would pick a shlump for a wife?

No way. I won several beauty contests when I was younger, and I decided, then and there, that being beautiful was the way to get ahead in the world. So I dedicated myself to improving myself. I spend more time at gyms than the owners. And I spent a LOT of time and money getting facials and learning the latest methods for staying beautiful. And, I hate to say it, but I am a friend of botox, silicon, and a lot of other chemical and surgical enhancers.

No way I am going to turn into an old rag and get tossed out by my asshole husband.

I know, you wonder how I can call him an asshole, especially just for a few bad jokes. Well, read on, and when you have heard me out then maybe you'll understand how revenge can be sweet, and whether the punishment fits the crime.

Ready? Then let's rock!

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

The day it all came apart, the day my husband made a date for his comeuppance, started out typically. The night before had been late and wild. We had gone to a party, everybody got sloshed, harder drugs made their appearance, and we were the last dogs to be hung.

Well, at least Roscoe was.

I'm careful. I always have a drink, but usually I only sip, and then only until I can find a way to replace my whiskey with a Pepsi. This is just one of the ways that I preserve my appearance.

Roscoe, on the other hand, drank from every bottle, smoked from every joint, and took every pill. The amazing thing about this was that he was always the last one standing.

So last night he was in typical high spirits, literally, and when the wee hours hit I helped him to the car, pushed him into the back, then drove home.

Oddly, it was a relaxing time. Him absent from the world, the world wound down to the few people getting the really early start to work, and me enjoying the drive to our Beverly Hills mansion.

I waited for the gate to open, then drove up the long drive. I pulled the car up to the entrance, then set about getting Roscoe upstairs.

Tugging a body pretty near dead to the world out of a car is not easy. The body to be moved snorts and grunts, rolls and flings its arms and legs out, and is generally resistant to the idea of being transferred to a nice, comfy bed.

I struggled for several minutes, got him half out of the car, and thought about leaving him there.

If he had been all the way in the car I would have done it. He hates waking up to find himself in the back of the car, but the wages of sin, you know.

I thought about getting him all the way out and then just throwing a blanket over him, but that seemed a bit much.

So, sighing, I went into the house and knocked on Juanita's bedroom door.

"Juanita?"

A moment while I heard the squeak of bedsprings and the rustle of clothes being put on, then the door opened.

Juanita came over the border illegally, and we hired her. When the SHTF and people started looking around for illegals to deport, we realized that Juanita was worth her weight in gold, and we found a good lawyer to help her get legal.

"Si, senorita Sandy?"

"I'm sorry, I need help getting Roscoe upstairs."

Juanita smiled ruefully. "Senor Roscoe," and she shook her head. "Let me get the shoes on."

I waited, and within 20 seconds we were hurrying back out to the car.

"Senor Roscoe, he need take care of heemself."

"You're telling me."

We managed to get him out of the car, then, blessing of blessings, Roscoe woke half up.

"Hey! I'm being kidnapped by beautiful women!" We supported him, and we walked him up to the front door.

He stumbled and rolled, but managed to stay on his feet.

"It's Juanita! Are you taking me to Mehico?"

That's my rotten, husband. The bad side of good is that he flirts with every woman in the world. Of course, he protests that he is just friendly, that that is the Hollywood way. I always suspicion...but I never find any evidence. Lots of rumors, but rumors are cheap fare in Hollywood. It's how actors and actresses get famous, and to pay attention to loose lips is to sink rowboats.

So we walked/dragged my stumblebum, drunken man through the foyer, up the long, winding stairway, and down the hall to our bedroom.

"Hee getting heavier," Juanita puffed. She was a chunky girl, not in great shape, but I was in great shape, and I was puffing, too.

"Don't feed him so much," I grunted.

She giggled. "I just put plate out. He keep eating and eating."

We reached the bed and pushed him onto it. We had done this before, and we knew that a big push might get him all the way onto the bed. If we were lucky.

We were lucky, and Roscoe landed, rolled, and snored.

"Okay, Senorita Sandee?"

"Thank you, Juanita. Sorry to have disturbed your sleep."

Again, she giggled. "Thee more I do thees the bigger Senor Roscoe pay me at Christmas."

I shook my head ruefully. The good side of bad. Roscoe had more money than God after a tax return and he did like to share. He paid people who worked for him well, which was good, because they had to put up with his bad jokes.

"Get what you can, Juanita, and more power to you."

She giggled, she was a giggling girl, and left the room.

I took off his shoes, then his socks. Pew. He must have forgot to wash his feet. He was always in such a hurry, making deals, producing movies and TV series, that he sometimes passed right by personal hygiene.

When I complained he was abashed, but how could I blame him? He was in a hurry to make a billion dollars. Well, to be honest, a trillion. He often joked about being the first trillionaire on earth. It was a joke, but behind the joke was a serious hard charger.

I worked his body around and got his jacket off, then his shirt, then his undershirt. I pulled his pants down, he wasn't wearing underwear, and my hubbie was officially naked.

I stared at Roscoe. He was a handsome man. A few years and I was sure his hard living would catch up to him. But right now he was slender, well cut, and only a trace of the 'heaviness' that Juanita had observed could be seen. Of course his eyes were a bit puffy.

Sometimes, after a hard night of partying his eyes were so puffy that I had to put make up on them.

Oh, not mascara and eye shadow and all that, but a light foundation type of cream to disguise the shadows. He had to appear happy and healthy, and not drunk as a dog, if he was going to keep making those million dollar deals.

Though, to be honest, the bad side of my good, I often thought about making his eyes up the feminine way, and not letting him know. That would serve him right.

I stared at his manhood. It was big, and it just laid there, a sleeping slug. The good side of bad, when that slug engorged it was a monster. It filled my hand, and my pussy, and made me cry and moan and scratch his back.

But now, after a long night, I stood there and watched it sleep.

I was horny. I wanted a little pleasure. I had had a long night of flirting, it's what we do in Hollywood, with young stars and starlets, and my pussy itched. Hell, I was downright wet.

I leaned forward and placed my hand under the slug. I lifted it up, shook it. Damn, if it had woken up I would have jumped him, asleep or not.

But it was not to be.

So I took off my own clothes, put some blinders on so the sun wouldn't wake me, and crawled into bed. Within seconds I was snoring. Ladylike snores, of course. But snores, nevertheless.

And that was how the day began, the day that started the 'unravelment' of my dear husband. When we awoke things were going to get interesting, and even more interesting as the day progressed, and good things and bad were going to come to light, and the devil would get his due. My husband, the rich and fabulously wealthy power player known as Roscoe Tannenbaum, was about to get his just rewards.