Secondary Education
Chapter 14
Betrayal
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In Tyla’s harsh demi-monde, how shall she discern the betrayer from the betrayed?

Cautionary Note: This is adult erotic fiction (not fantasy) and should not be read by non-adults or by adults who are offended by violence or explicit erotica involving under-aged transgendered protagonists. All persons depicted are fictional, and any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental.

Author’s Note: If you like, hate, or otherwise react to this story, please post a comment or email me. Feedback, even if it’s critical, is what makes an author’s storytelling improve.

Teachers and politicians always tell you that education is the ladder that leads American youth from poverty to prosperity. The classroom does nothing of the kind for a young transsexual. School is where we are humiliated, ostracized, and sometimes murdered by peers. School is where we learn that we are freaks, hated by the girls who don’t want competition and by boys who are fearful the implications of our gender diversity on their own developing sexuality.

We can be cum Kleenexes for guys who want to try booty fucking and can’t get their girlfriends to submit. But a guy who fucks trannies risks being labeled queer, and so our trysts with the straight guys are on the down-low. If a trannie dares to show her sex partners affection in the confines of school, she risks humiliation, assault, or even murder. Indifferent school officials look upon transsexuals as a nuisance and do little to accommodate or protect us, until transsexual blood is spilled again.

Then, the few trans-friendly teachers and students hold memorial services. The guilt-ridden classmates pile flowers and stuffed animals in a little shrine to the dead kid. The school gets funding for a gender equity awareness program. When the next education budget crisis forces budget cuts, the dead trannie is forgotten, the awareness program is terminated in favor of new uniforms for the football team, and the cycle of teasing, taunting, and harassment begins anew.

To be trans in an American school is to be one of the damned. Transgender school policy is like a twisted version of George Bush’s ineffective federal educational program: “No transgender child left!”

I guess I am lucky that in LA there are so many trannie teens that LAUSD set up a special school to segregate us in. So I am watching the clock, waiting for Math class to end at EAGLES Academy, a special school for trannies located in former retail space near Santa Monica Boulevard and Highland.

I haven’t learned anything today. My classmates are too busy texting each other and their after school hookups to pay any attention to our lesson, and the teacher is just reading from the book. It’s the same stuff I learned last year, but this is remedial math. I am classified as a remedial because I am a high school drop out.

I took a forced medical leave courtesy of the Mara’s ladyboy surgical program, and an academic sabbatical to pursue my career in adult entertainment. But I didn’t have a doctor’s note for the recovery from my castration and boob job, and they don’t give work permits for porn, so Hollywood High wouldn’t accept me when I tried to get admitted as a Junior mid year. Consequently, I am getting a phony remedial education at EAGLES.

LAUSD classifies it as a continuation school, but it’s really just a garbage dump for teen trannies like me who got forced out of mainstream schools by transphobic peer harassment, administrative discrimination, or their prostitution arrest records. Most of the teachers here aren’t really into teaching, which is OK, because most of the students aren’t into learning

Most of the teachers at EAGLES are losers who washed out of real teaching careers and are looking for a paycheck by babysitting an unruly room of trannie teen hookers. Most of my classmates don’t give a shit about learning anything more than new make up and sexual techniques, and are just looking for a place other than their miserable homes to hang out before tricking time during the afternoon rush hour.

It pisses me off that I haven’t learned anything new today.
I feel like I am learning more tutoring my fuck buddy Antoine through the dummy math he is taking to keep from getting kicked off the Fairfax basketball team, than from my own so called education at EAGLES. I’ve been day dreaming, writing in my head, as our math teacher drones, about what, I don’t even know. Math class ends with a bell, and everyone leaves with the teacher struggling to teach us the same simple formula that began class.

I cross the hall to my Human Development class. At EAGLES, we get into it on a completely different level than it’s taught at Fairfax. One of my trannie classmates, Crystal, got busted for streetwalking on Selma over the weekend, and that’s what class is all about today. At first, I am bored. I know that cops are transphobe assholes, but what’s talking going to do about it? I would rather learn about transitive verbs than transsexual politics.

But my classmates, who couldn’t care less about math or English, are in an uproar. All of them are at one stage or another of transition, and most of them, like me, have been paid for sex within the last twenty four hours.

The teacher is a retired cop. She sits at the table and takes off her glasses. The contrast between the female teacher and the shemale students is stark. Our masculinity is hidden behind a shiny patina of cosmetics, hormonally or surgically altered bodies, and gaudy, skimpy attire. We are girlier than most genetic girls, or GGs. The teacher’s femininity is submerged by her middle aged slouch, dowdy hair cut, bad make up, lumpy body, and old, baggy clothes. None of the guys who pay big bucks for our trannie booties would even look at hers.

“Girls, I don’t expect you to agree with what I am about to say, but you need to know the other side’s arguments if you are going to live in this world. The cops arrest streetwalkers because they know that most of the guys that prostitutes solicit are married. Prostitution undermines marriages, takes money from the clients’ families, spreads disease to their wives and kids, and turns neighborhoods into sex bazaars. That’s why it’s against the law. Can someone argue against that?”

Gabrielle, a Latina TG with orange hair and acne pits clearly visible under her thick make up, is incensed.

“Sex isn’t illegal. Is everyone just going to give up having sex?”

“No, but coupling sex with money makes sex too easy, especially for married guys who don’t have the time or skills to pick up girls on their own merits. And the profit motive makes it too tempting for girls to offer sex to any guy with the money to pay.”

“So it would be OK if we were giving it up for free? How would free sex be safer?”

“I’m not saying it would be safer. I am saying there would be less availability,”

“What’s wrong with sex? You’re old, you had and took your chances, so you don’t care about it. We’re young, we’re hot, we like having sex, and so do the guys.”

“Do what you want, but not for money.”

“How are we going to survive without money to pay the bills?”

“Let’s say there was a deal. TGs give up hooking, the county gives you places to live, part time jobs, food, clothes, and a decent education. Would that eliminate the need for streetwalking”

The class erupts with contempt.

“They got that program. It’s called Juvie Hall.”

“No, it’s called foster care.”

“Foster care sucks. It’s all rules and no freedom.”

The teacher shushes us. “But the freedom you are asking for is the freedom to do harm, to destroy families, spread crime and disease. Society has the right to punish that.”

I know I should stay out of this stupid, pointless discussion, but I can’t resist. “Is a President getting free blow jobs from his intern any better than a Governor having two thousand-dollar sexual encounters with internet escorts? Punishing hookers is not going to change male sex drive.”

“Fair point, Tyla, but didn’t both those men get in more trouble than the girls?”

“Yeah, but that’s only because the guys were famous. Pay for play sex is different, and it’s tolerated, if it feeds the media. That’s why it’s OK to get paid to fuck a whole room full of guys in front of a camera, and illegal to get paid to fuck even one of those guys in a hotel room.”

The teacher is momentarily looks at me with newfound admiration.

“Good point, Tyla. And here’s why. The camera makes the sex into communication, and everybody in the world has the right to communicate. That’s what the First Amendment says. In the bedroom, it’s just the prostitute and her client that are getting their kicks. It’s the secret nature of the sex and commerce that makes prostitution a crime. Secret sex carries the potential for betrayal. And aren’t we all afraid of being betrayed?”

I nod, I have to admit that betrayal’s my biggest fear. But class is over, the bell rings, and we file out. The teacher’s question, and my unspoken answer, both reverberate in my mind.

EAGLES is a perfect staging point for streetwalking. It’s conveniently located near the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Las Palmas. An endless stream of trannie-chasing, BMW-driving suits cruise by on Santa Monica, slowing as they approach the grimy little strip center at Las Palmas.

They are not stopping to buy donuts or cigs at the mini-mart, or to fluff and fold. They are looking for a mouthful of trannie cock-cream before going home to kiss their “I have a headache honey” wives and bratty “buy me a new ipod” kids. I’m sure the retail take of the TGs working that parking lot in any given afternoon easily tops the receipts from the donut shop for the week.

I’ve decided to retire, that streetwalking is not for me. Since my Crip friend Antoine used me to whack my Mara friends Hector and Ocho, I am too hot for the street, where the police, or the surviving Mara could be hunting for me. Nowadays, I am a furtive presence on Craigslist, running a new ad for a couple of days at a time, then disappearing, and using a new name and pic for the next week’s ad. Bad for repeat business, but good for survival in a tough town.

It’s Friday. Later, it’s trannie night at Peanuts and Yukon. To work the trannie chasers most efficiently, I’m going to invest my earnings from last night, and get hotel room near Santa Monica and Fairfax. I put on big sunglasses and pull the broad brim of my sunhat over my eyes. I wait for the bus and watch my friends troll for customers. It’s a sellers’ market today.

Crystal gets into white guy’s CTS, and then Gabrielle gets into an S-Class Mercedes driven by a scared-looking Asian. The only girl left is a tall, scraggly looking black TG who has been working here so long that she has probably already taken a ride in most of the passing cars. A black Audi slows to a crawl as it passes my bus bench. The window rolls down and the driver says “Hey sweetie, would you rather ride with me. It’ll save you a buck.”

He’s middle aged, white, perfect teeth, nice hair cut, OK looking. The afternoon is hot, the bus is late. I can feel cool air wafting toward me from the open wind, inviting me.

“Let me think about it. Drive around the block and pull into the lot.”

I text Antoine. He’s running his own scams, but I am supposed to tell him what I’m doing. “Audi offer ride. OK?”

I squeeze my phone and think. The guy is definite not a banger, and cops don’t drive Audi’s. He looks OK. But you never really know. The phone vibrates.

“OK. Txt me more l8r.”

The Audi returns and the window rolls down again. I have barely enough cash for my hotel room and nothing for dinner, so I decide to suspend my streetwalking ban and get in. The driver gives me a nervous smile, and puts his hand on the gear shift. I put my hand over his. “Let’s talk for a minute before we go anywhere. Are you cool with this?”

I pull his hand from the shift to the space between my legs and press it against the soft bulge beneath my thong.

He grins and nods. “I am hot for that, baby. I always try to drive by this corner but I have never seen anything like you here before.”

“I don’t hang out there with the others. I was waiting on a bus.”

“Then it’s my lucky day. I made a killing on my gold futures today, and now I get to share the wealth with a beautiful woman.”

I lean over and kiss him. “That’s so sweet.” Do you have a room nearby?”

“Let’s find one. Where were you going?”

I improvise. “I was going to the library to do some homework. But I know a decent hotel about two miles that way.”

He pulls out of the parking lot.

“What are you studying?”

“Just the usual boring high school stuff.”

He gives me a nervous glance. “How old are you?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“It doesn’t matter, I suppose.”

“It doesn’t matter unless one of us is LE. Are you?”

He shakes is head and laughs. “I like your attitude. What do you like to do?”

“I’m versatile, but I’m a natural bottom.”

“Perfect for me.”

We pull into the self park at the hotel and he tells me to wait.

The car still smells new. It’s a Audi A8, all leather, navigation. I text the specs to Antoine. My date calls me and tells me to come to room 504. I text Antoine that I am going in.

I enter the hotel lobby, and brush off the suspicious glances from the front desk. From the corner of my eye I see the clerk call security. I take the elevator to 7, get off, push the down button. One car descends from above, as another car ascends, 2, 3, from the lobby and stops.

The descending car arrives first. It’s empty. I gasp relief, get in, wait for the doors to close. Ding, ding, ding, the other car is ascending again, 4, 5, 6, from the lobby. I get in and the door is closing just as the call bell sounds the arrival of the other car. I glimpse the house detective as the doors snap shut. I descend to 5 and hurry down the hall, with the elevators’ bells ringing in pursuit. My heart is pounding when my client opens the door at 504.

He’s flicked on a porno on the TV lies on the bed in his boxers. He’s average height, about 5 10”, and middle aged, but he’s in good shape. His abs are flat, his legs are thick and strong, and his chest bulges. And he’s not hairy at all for a white guy, which is a plus. He’s drinking a beer from the mini bar and gestures toward it.

“Help yourself, I’m not checking ID’s today.”

I grab a bottle of Arrowhead. “I need to clean up. My school is a real dump, and boiling hot.”

“No worries.”

Antoine had banged me extra hard last night, so my ass has been paralyzed, and I hadn’t pooped all day. I hate messy fucks. It really embarrasses me when my ass leaks a slurry of poo while I am getting fucked. It just ruins it for me, and the guy.

So I strip, lube my ass, get in the shower, gap my butt, brace myself for the momentary twinge of pain I get whenever I am penetrated, and push the Arrowhead bottle into my ass. My anus gently parts, I push my ass against the bottle’s neck. God, I am such an ass-slut, I love it when my ass is stuffed with whatever. I push it in deep, up to the label. I squeeze the bottle and savor the cool rush of liquid. Water fills my bowel like a giant load of bareback cum. I throw the crumpled bottle into the trash and let the water work its cleansing magic as I shower away the filth and sleaze of EAGLES.

I soap my boobs, squeeze them together, clean my pussy stick, reach back toward my ass, and touch the taut ring, now straining to contain the increasingly urgent flood inside me. I wash my face, and shampoo. I feel like I will burst, but I will get myself totally clean inside by holding it in as longer. The warm shower cleans and calms my outside while the inner bath scours my interior. I squeeze my buttocks together, to contain the cool river roiling inside me. When I can’t hold it any more, I shut off the shower and get out. The air conditioning chills my nipples to erection as I towel off. It’s freezing, so I put on the bathrobe, go to the toilet and let the flood sizzle out of me.

I put on some eyeliner and lip gloss and some of the hotel’s body lotion, poo a little more clear liquid. Now, I am clean and perfect. I smooth my puckered butt with some lavender lotion.

My client is drinking his second beer and watching one of the old T-Girl Prostitutes videos. Sapphire, then a skinny, but fresh looking Hawaiian TGirl, grimaces as she gets her ass hammered by a tattooed white guy. I cringe. You can still see Sapphire, her face hardened with age and hard use, trolling the parking lot at Yukon in the mornings early hours. Will I become like her in five years?
But my client is enthusiastic about our similarities.

“You should be in one of these. You’re much prettier than this model.”

“Thank you. I did a film, Teenage Gang Initiation, but my producers retired. Now I do private performances only.”

“I’ll make sure to buy it. Come here baby. You look so sweet and innocent with your wet head, I just have to have you now.”

“I want to make your head wet too.” I curl on the bed next to him and pull his cock out of his boxers. It’s cut and pretty big for a white guy. He’s showered too, so he tastes fresh and good. I slide the boxers down over his firm butt, rise to my hands and knees, crawl on top of him in 69, and start gliding my head down onto his cock, deep throating him. He’s just narrow enough to penetrate past my tonsils into my esophagus.

I love the feeling of a cock going deep into my throat. I used to get scared and grossed out, but now I get turned on by blowing guys. I enjoy the momentary strangulation that I feel as a cock fills my throat so full that it pinches the trachea, the relief when it pulls back and allows my breath to flow again, the endless the cycle of suffocation and revival.

My eyes water, my saliva drools onto his pubes. He explores my ass, first with one finger, and then two, and then three. I press back and gape, clamoring for more anal stimulation. My ass is throbbing with apprehension. Grinding my ass against his prying fingers momentarily sates my appetite for penetration.

I squeal, my cries muffled by the gag of his cock in my throat, as the pain and pleasure of this exploration suffuses me. He pushes into me until his knuckles bang into against my coccyx, and then he pulls back and spreads his fingers. I gasp and cry out a faux protest. He desists, grips my buttocks in his hands, spreads my cheeks, and leans upward to lick my well-opened hole. His tongue flicks in, out, in, out, a gentle penetration, warm and wet.

I am going wild with pleasure, and piston my throat over his cock with ever greater abandon and velocity. He draws his tongue from my ass across my perineum to gobble up my pussystick, sucking it in all of the way, and resumes finger-fucking my hole. I blow him with even greater increasing intensity until the murky of taste of precum fills my senses. I feel the early spasms of his impending orgasm. I slow down to a leisurely, relaxing pace, and gradually bring him back from the brink.

I lie down next to him and we kiss. He fondles my breasts tenderly.

“God, you’re amazing. Barely more than a child, and yet so gorgeous and talented.”

“Trannies have a special understanding of male pleasure.”

“But you are so young. How old are you?”

“Ladyboys live dog years. I am older than the calendar.”

“You are as wise as you are beautiful. I need to fuck you now.”

“That’s what I saved you for.”

I sit on the side of the bed, retrieve a condom and lube from my purse, and beckon him. I pop the condom in my mouth, pull him toward me, I grasp the condom between my lips and gum-roll it down his cock. I jump onto the bed on all fours, daub lube on my ass, and tilt it back toward him. He kneels behind my proffered ass. I reach back and guide his cock toward my hole.

“God, you are so tiny. I’ll be careful.”

I feel the first prickle of pain as he slips through the outer ring. I look back and tell him, “Going slow just prolongs the pain and delays the pleasure. Just do it, fuck me hard, now.”

I pulse my hips backward as he lunges forward. I squeeze hard at my own cock to divert my attention from the agony as his slips cockhead slips through my anus, and then, in one swift motion, bursts through the inner ring. His cock plows like a bullet into my bowel, forcing straight its sinuous curves, stretching its narrow channel. He rams inside me to the hilt in one savage motion.

I convulse, blinded by the excruciating, hot ripping of my flesh and implosion of my senses, as his hard blade of flesh stabs me. My lips quiver as the paroxysm pain spreads, and ripples through me.

I once dreaded the first moments of anal penetration, but now I savor, and try to intensify this abyss of obliterating agony. Submission to the unendurable is like a drug that opens the doors to my female being. In this interval of suffering, a mutilated boy is crushed and destroyed, so his fragments can sculpted into the idol of the perfect woman.

I cry out, “No, aye, oooh.” But that’s not what I mean. My vocalizing is part act, part reflex. I love it when the agony of my violation engulfs me, and submerges my male ego in feminine torrent of pain. I push back into and wriggle my ass against the saber that has rent my soft inner flesh, sacrificing my body to my femininity.

My body tries to expel the intruder. I involuntarily recoil as his cock retracts. I feel momentary physical relief as his cock head slides back to the notch between my inner and outer sphincters. But though my body is salved, my soul feels empty, bereft, and abandoned. I tighten, to hold him in, and then thrust myself back against him until he is buried in me again. The furies inside me ignite, and wildfires sear my senses. I am crying, biting my thumb to contain the anguished cry that is rising in my chest. Then he retracts again, and the fires recede.

He strokes my hair. “Baby, that feels just amazing, but are you OK?”

I look back though squinting, dewy eyes, bite my lip, and nod.

“Just fuck me, fuck me, hard, ahh.”

“God, my cock feels like it’s inside a warm, wet hurricane. You’re incredible.”

I jerk my ass hard against his forward motions, and pursue his retreats.

“Don’t stop, fuck me more, harder. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He rides me hard from behind. He yanks my hair, slaps my ass, squeezes my boobs. He braces against my shoulders to force me back against him. My skin prickles with perspiration. His sweat drips onto my toiling buttocks. He bucks into me over and again, and I bang my ass back into every thrust. My boobs sway like spherical pendulums, my legs tremble, my damp hair sticks to my perspiring back.

The bed rocks and creaks, its headboard thuds against the wall. I am overcome with fatigue, and cry out, “Oh God, I can’t take it” and collapse from all fours into to down doggy. He slumps down on top of me, saturating my back with a flood of manly sweat, and burying his cock even deeper into my belly. I feel a painful twinge as it presses the abdominal wall behind my belly ring.

I am exhausted, and lie still as a rag doll as he pounds away at me, gripping my pussy stick in one hand and a boob in the other. Finally, he too tires, and the drum beat inside me subsides to a gentle patter.

He pulls my matted hair from my cheek and kisses it. I turn and part my lips. We kiss.

“Sorry if I hurt you. I get over excited by a beautiful ladyboy like you.”

“It’s OK, I like it that way. You’re great.”

“You make me great.”

He rolls me onto my side, cups my breast. We lie side by side, spooning. I lean back and offer my lips, and he kisses me, soft and tender. Flavors of my lavender lotion, the cherry flavored lube and precum blend as our tongues twirl. The storm inside me has quieted, and now, we rock like two boats moored in rolling ocean swells. I feel lubricious, comfortable.

He pulls my damp hair aside and whispers “This is nice. Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, I feel great. I’m ready for more, whenever you are.”

He rolls to his back, pulling me with over so I lie atop him. Then, he pushes my shoulders upward until I am seated astride his prone body, impaled on his vertical cock. It gouges deeper than before, drilling deeper into my inner caverns. Only now do I notice the Macbook pointed toward me. I center my face on the screen, adjust my feet so that I am in a well balanced crouch, and bob energetically atop his pillar. On the laptop’s screen, my face contorts with alternating visages of lust, fear, hopelessness and joyous lust.

“I didn’t tell you were making a home movie of us.”

“Just a little memorabilia of this fantastic afternoon.”

“For you to post on the internet?”

“Don’t worry, my day job doesn’t allow me moonlight in porn.”

“Neither does mine. I am still on a contract for four movies.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep this one private, and make it worth it for you.”

I really love a camera getting my images while I get fucked. I bounce up and down on his up-thrusting hips with increased intensity, impaling myself vertically, ascending and descending on his cock. I cradle my jouncing breasts, grip my pussy stick, and add variations to my porno star facial montage: thoughtful, stricken, helpless, wanton, submissive, gasping, contemplative, lustful, outrage, acquiescent, dreamy, joyful, forlorn, confident, and helpless. I bite my finger, cover my eyes, and moan and cry out, “fuck, fuck me, harder, more, deeper, fuck me.”

He grasps my hips and spins me in corkscrew so that I face him, ass to the camera. He peers at the screen, adjusts a remote control. I imagine the image, the Mara tattoo rising and falling over my penetrated ass. His cock twists inside me and finds new crevices to explore, new avenues to bring me torment and pleasure. I ride frontal cowgirl, bend forward, and feed him my breasts. His tongue circles my areole, he gulps the fleshy tips of my boobs and devours them, left, right, left. He grips my butt and yanks me down.

My ass slaps against his thighs. He cradles his hands under my buttocks and elevates to within an inch of exit. My ass anticipates relief, but then he pulls me my ass down on his up lunging cock again, and a fresh pang rips me asunder. The KY has melted, my internal lubricants are evaporating. My ass is contracting into a dry hole. I collapse on his chest. His thrusting abates. He’s tiring too. I feel the thick slab in my bottom begin to recede. He clicks the remote.

“Let’s take a break.”

“OK, I am tired too.”

We lie on our sides. My lungs burn, my breath heaves. Sweat gathers on my neck and dribbles down my shoulder. His breath tickles my flesh, but cools me. His arm reaches over and fondles my boob.

“Later, I’m too hot.”

“Me too.”

He gets up, turns up the AC, and goes to the bathroom. I hear the shower door open and the water running. I get up and play the video.

It’s amateurish, poorly lit, and the sound is muffled. I fast forward to the reverse cowgirl scenes. It’s identifiably me, and when I turn, he zooms to my whore-tag. The MS logo is clearly legible.

I start thinking about this video, and get frightened. Roberto and the scattered survivors of Hector’s crew have lost track of me in the diffuse wonderland of LA. This video, posted in the wrong place, is a potentially death sentence for my companion. and a life sentence in the clutches of the Mara for me. I decide that this video can’t go anywhere. The MacBook has to be mine.

I grab my phone and text Antoine the color, make and stall number where the big black Audi is parked.

He texts back, “Thx, on way.”

I get back in bed.

“I’ve been with a lot of TG’s but you are the greatest. Do you want me to post a review?”

“Sure. Whatever. What do you want to do now?”

“Now that I am clean, suck me again.”

He moves the computer onto the bed beside us, sits astride my chest and starts tittie fucking my sweaty boobs. I flick my tongue at his cock head as it protrudes, but he can’t really get hard. Even when I blow him again, it’s large, but soft and squishy like a tranny’s hormone cock. I suppress an urge to check the clock. Instead I smile, give his cock a good bye kiss.

“Don’t worry, take your time. I want both of us to remember this afternoon forever.”

“Can I cum on your titties?”

“Sure, there, or give me a facial. Whatever.”

He starts spanking the monkey. I look at the screen. The cock is dancing in my face. The video thing is pissing me off. I am beginning to really loathe him. He circles his cock around one nipple, and then the other. I look up, porn star cock-worshipping, like I really care about him.

“Mmm, that feels good.”

“Push your tits together.”

I lube the crevice between them, form a deep cleavage, and he stabs his tumenescent cock between my breasts. I watch it like I love it, but I am thinking that I want Antoine to track him down, rob him, to take his car and bring me the computer with the illicit porn he made of me. I want his money, and for him to get out of this room. I want him to leave.

He leans forward, I part my lips and kiss his cock head as it comes and goes between my boobs. I want to shower, dress, go to Peanuts, and find more money fucks to bring to this room. He’s taking so long to pop! But I smile at him adoringly.

His ass starts gyrating. His eyes open, close, open, like he his making and imprinting images of me in his mind. I give him a wanton smile.

“Finish, baby, cum on my tits and in my mouth.” I open my mouth and eyes wide, expectant, enraptured.

A wet grey cloud shoots forth from him and blankets my face. I close my stinging eyes. His sweaty body presses collapses with his release. His hair belly jams my head akimbo. Semen splashes down my cheeks. He is still pumping, smearing my face as he collapses.

I glimpse the computer screen and look into my own cum spattered eyes. I blow a little kiss at myself, push him off me to the side, clamor over the computer and grope my way to the shower. I spray away the sweat, lube and cum and smooth back inside the splayed open walls of my overworked ass to make it tight and puckered for the next customer. A cute young ladyboy needs a tight ass, doesn’t she?

When I emerge, he’s dressed and shutting down his computer. There’s a pile of money on the bedstead. I count $300.

“That’s not much for a two hour session and a personal porno movie.”

“I paid almost a hundred for the room. You can keep it for the night. It’s a short drive from Peanuts.”

“My movie fee is $750.”

“Fuggitabout it. Here, take this.” He pulls out another Franklin from a thick wad in his wallet.

I take it and scowl. He’s going to pay more, whether he knows it or not.

“Thanks. Are you going to Peanuts tonight?”

“No, I’m done with my tranny time for today. Write down your email and website. I need them for my review.”

“Look for my ad on Craiglist under Jessebella. My info will be there tonight. I could take the ad down and get a good night’s sleep if only you would pay me what you should.”

I give him a hurt, pathetic look. He looks back guiltily.

“OK. Here’s another hundred.”

He pulls another bill from a thickly stuffed billfold, kisses me, presses his body against my towel-clad frame, opens the door a crack, waves goodbye, and leaves.

I’m tired, so I grab a bottle of vodka from the mini bar, slug it down, and set an alarm for 10, plenty of time to get ready for Peanuts. I flip on the TV to “Dancing with the Stars,” A dancing white guy lifts and spins a pretty Asian woman.

I want to be her, to glide above a glittering dance floor before a respectful camera instead of the prying eye that captures my cock and ass. I’m pretty too, but because of my cock, I’m a freak, trapped in tranny whoredom, and its environs of crime and disease. I need to escape, and pretend that I’ve become her, that I am the star. I swig another vodka, and drift into a nap.

I am still dreaming when the alarm rings. I am exhausted, still a little buzzed from the vodka, and sore all over. It’s 10:00, and the news is on. The first image is see is of my client, with the caption “Found dead in Hollywood.”

I flip on the sound. “Celebrity photographer and producer Alan Nadler has been founded shot and killed in an alley near La Brea and Highland.” I don’t need to hear more. I mute the TV and dial Antoine.

“What the fuck did you do to my trick?”

“We jacked him and whacked him, got his cash, car, computer. The car’s already in the chop shop. I kept the computer for you. Nice movie, beeeach.” Antoine laughs.

“Guess what? It turns out that he’s a celebrity, they found his body, and it’s all over the news already.”

“Fuck, why didn’t you tell me he was famous? We would have dumped him out in the desert. Now we’re radioactive, beeaacch. You’ve got to move your sweet little bootie out of there.”

“No shit. Meet me at the corner of Santa Monica and La Cienga in a half hour.”

I curse my bad judgment. My dead customer was just the kind of sponsor who could have gotten me a gig on a real show. He’d liked me. He was stingy, he’d shorted me, and now my greed and resentment had gotten him killed. And this hotel room, doubtless paid for with his company Visa, was the most direct link to his killer.

It’s not my fault. I didn’t want Antoine to kill him, only to heist him. But shouldn’t I have figured on Antoine’s trigger happy ways? Now, I’m a stone cold killa too. I could go to jail for life in a men’s prison, no hormones, non stop rape.

I grab a packet of wipes from my purse and begin wiping down every surface in the room, to eliminate every trace of my fingerprints, and DNA from the dead man’s room. I wipe down everything I touched, the bottles, the remote, the bed, sink, god, my fingers were everywhere. Thank god I didn’t cum with the dead guy. I rip the sheets from the bed, dump them in the tub, and turn on hot water.

I can’t wipe away my bitterness and regret. But whores and murderers cannot cry over the bodies they leave behind them. I hold back my tears, for I know that they too will betray me if I leave a trail of them behind me. And I have to move on.

TBC