Secondary Education
Tyla Flowers

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Chapter 1, Homework

I am riding on the back of Matt Frawley’s motorcycle. I press myself against him, and my breasts tingle as they tease his bulky, sweat stained back. We careen around curves on the Angeles Crest Highway, and we exit down a winding road into the National Forest. We roll to a halt in a gravel parking lot strewn with remnants of bikers’ parties. Matt hides the bike in a stand of oaks. He puts his arm around my waist, and steers me toward a trail head. My heart is pounding, my muscles weak, I cannot climb the embankment, so he hoists me on his back like a fireman and carries me up, and then eases me to my feet. I kiss his sweaty neck, and say thanks. He takes my hand, and we hike down to a place where a smooth flat rock shelters beneath the trees. He hands me his sleeping bag and makes a gesture, and I roll it out to make a rustic bed on the rock, while he pisses in the bushes. We undress, and I kneel on the sweaty sleeping bag, dank and sticky from our past trysts, and redolent with the odors of his other conquests. He stands before me and I hold his soft, but massive cock in my hands. I squint up at him, silhouetted in the filtered sun, and smile at him adoringly, like a supplicant to a Greek god. From afar, I hear a voice call my name.

“Mr. Flowers, what is it about this Fibonacci sequence that you find so amusing?”

I look at the white board. I peruse the bewildering equation, and then notice my livid teacher. Mr. Knudsen is an Iraqi war veteran whose scarred face and amputated arm match his fearsome bad ass Marine attitude.

I dread detention with Knudsen, plus a walk home in the dark was risky for a skinny Goth like me. I remember a show I had seen on the Discovery Channel TV a couple of months before, and decide to improvise. “I was thinking about how the Fibonacci sequence is alive in nature.”

Knudsen’s glare softens. “Give me an example.”

“Take the ancestry of bees. If the egg is laid by the queen and is not fertilized, it hatches a male. But if the egg is fertilized by a male, it hatches a female. It makes a Fibonacci sequence if you trace back the ancestry of a male bee. He had 1 female parent.”

Knudsen nods and marked one on the board.

“That female had 2 parents, a male and a female.”

Knudsen nods again and writes, plus 2.

“The grandmother bee had two parents, a male and a female, and the grandfather bee had one female parent.”

Knudsen grins broadly and marks the board with a big “plus three”.

“Those two females, the great grandmother bees, each had two parents, and the male had one.”

Knudsen marks the board with a plus 5. His empty sleeve flaps as he flourishes his approval.

“Mr. Flowers is exactly right. The bee generations make a Fibonacci sequence. Mr. Flowers, that’s excellent. You’ve earned…”. His accolade was interrupted by sniggering from the back row.

“OK, Frawley, get your butt down here and tell the class your insight on Mr. Flowers’ example.”

The idyll of my recent fantasy rises. “We were just wondering how many bees it takes to make a little faggot like Tyler Flowers…”

My ears burn and my eyes blur as the cackle of my classmates’ laughter subsides. Mr. Knudsen walks toward Frawley. “You’re lucky I am missing this arm or I’d take your head off. So instead, I am just going to recommend a suspension to be served at school, but from all athletic activities, for a week.”

The class lets out a collective groan. Matt Frawley is the catcher on Fairfax High’s baseball team, and we are in the playoff based in no small part based on his hitting streak.

I would now be the cynosure of my classmate’s hatred, as well as their scorn.

“No, don’t do that, please. It’s not true, I’m not gay, and so I’m not offended.”

Knudsen looks at me, surprised. “You’re not, I mean, you’re not offended?”

“Well, I mean I am offended but I don’t feel insulted. Because I’m not gay, and so I don’t care if people think it, or say it.” The truth is, I’m transsexual, but I am not going to try to explain that difference to a class that can’t get its collective head around Fibonacci sequences. And, although my feelings are a little hurt, even more so I am flattered that Matt has noticed me.

“OK, then, Mr. Frawley, Mr. Flowers isn’t gay, so he isn’t insulted. So apologize and shake hands, and I let it go with detention this week, to be served before school so you can go to your precious practice.”

I practically faint as Matt Frawley touches me for the first time, even if it is only my hand. I squeeze back against his firm grip, and smile and look into his dusky, grey blue eyes. I look for a spark, but there is only perfunctory glance. Is he disgusted to touch the hand of one he believes to be gay? Or that the cripple Knudsen has stared him down. I gave Matt what I hoped was a manly shake, and he says, barely audibly “Sorry about that.”

“No worries.” I give his hand a final shake and squeeze before he takes it away, turns around, and returns to his seat. There is a brief riffle of comment, Knudsen bangs his pointer against the table.

“All right, then, can we get back to the Fibonacci sequence?” Knudsen resumed squeaking his marker across the Whiteboard.

My classmates studiously ignore me when I clamber onto the bus. I take an empty seat next to a powdery smelling old lady. She smiles at me. “Good afternoon, dear,” and offers me a lemon life saver. I take it and thank her and we ride along up Fairfax and cross town on Santa Monica Boulevard sucking, thinking about Matt’s cock. I have wanted to be a girl for as long as I can remember, but only in the past year have I wanted to be a sexual woman. My own long delayed puberty had come, and my male hormones are rising, and colliding with my female psyche. But I had conquered them with science. I will become a woman, and be desired, conquered and loved by the boys who now scorned and ridiculed me. I look inward at my self, and see a goddess striving to be born. The grandma next to me nudges me. “You are a happy child.”

I smile and say “I will be. Some day.”

She pats my hand and mutters in Tagalog.

The storefronts become more battered, the street corners more graffitied and trash-strewn, and the languages shift from English, to Korean, to Thai and Spanish as the bus bumps across the variegated Hollywood landscape. My Fairfax High classmates gradually thin out and are replaced by off duty day laborers and domestics. I am home, in a no man’s land east of the 101 Freeway.

The corner hooker is busy, so no one greets me. I open the door cautiously, but home is dark and quiet. Mom is at her welfare to work gig, a nurse’s aid in Irwindale. I wonder if she’ll come home, or sleep in her car. Or maybe she has found a new boyfriend.

The fridge is still empty except for the dregs of a carton of milk, three days past use by date. I pour the crumbly remnants of the Trix into a bowl, sniff the milk, and pour it. There is barely enough to wet the cereal. I eat as I flip through the mail. There is a letter for me, from my dad, from his new home, the California City Prison

“Dear Son

I hope you make me prouder of the Flowers name than I made my daddy. I am in for life now, the appeals court denied my three strikes appeal. My lawyers tell me I don’t have a chance with the Supreme Court. It’s terrible bad luck to get life for writing bad checks but they don’t care and I am paying for the sins of my youth. Stealing is wrong and I hope my bad example sets you straight and you do right. Come visit me here but don’t bring that whore your mother or don’t you come at all. Love, your Father.”

I rephrased his salutation. “Love my father?” I shook away the thought, and the flood of memories of his cruel and arbitrary punishments, the rages, the beatings. Had my mom strayed? Yes, but he’d had too. Had I provoked him? I had played with dolls, and preferred girl playmates to boys. He had drowned my puppy. We were free of him. My mother was free to abandon me, and sleep her way through the hospital where she worked as a menial and to try to free herself from the addictions he had visited upon her. And I was free, to pursue my dream of becoming my father’s daughter.

Mother never throws anything away. The cabinet beneath her sink is time capsule of the downward spiral of my family, of past cosmetic trends and birth control technology. Now, it was my make up kit, and pharmacopoeia. In the past three months I’ve already consumed half used packages of Ortho Novum and Demulen. I again spelunk into the cabinet's lower depths, and recover a half-used package of Diane 35. I read the ingredients, 2mg cyproterone acetate and 0.035mg ethinylestradiol. I dissolve one under my tongue, savoring its bitter flavor, and fill her stained tub with hot water. I take off my stained Adidas and anklet socks, strip off my burgundy corduroy pants and my baggy oxford, and slide out of my hated jockey shorts. My body remains slender and graceful, like a young boy. My pubic area is fledged with a thin tuft of down, which I pluck assiduously as I bathe. Someday, it will all be gone.

For the past year, I have often heard myself called a faggot and cocksucker in the locker room. But I am nearing the end of the school year, and I vow that before the end of summer and I will check out of Fairfax for good. Over summer break, I’ll transition and go full time, and then check into some other school where they will know me only as a girl. I’ll come back to Fairfax just once, before graduation. Then, I will stun them with my transformation.

But in for now, every day is a battle to survive. I have to In Knudsen’s class, Matt’s epithets hurt. In the locker room, they could lead to a beating. Or, in my fantasies, and exquisite, day long gang bang.

I have been improvising my hormone replacement therapy from Dr. Mom’s medicine chest for three months. I notice my nipples are swollen, I press them, and they tingle a message of pain, and possibility. I dip into the water, and let it lap over my cock. I arch my back, my nipples break the surface. I tuck my cock behind me. The undulating water magnifies my breasts. I am, for an instant, a beautiful woman. I gasp at the revelation.

I arise from the tub. I grab a threadbare towel and gently pat myself dry, and the chilly evening air erects my nipples. The Diane 35 seems stronger than the Ortho Novum and Demulen. I am almost woozy with its rush. I crave it, so I crush another and swirl the bitter crumbs in my mouth. I moisturize, and then I put on my mom’s robe, a once prized, but now tattered and stained blue silk kimono decorated with a Chinese dragon.

My hair is fine, straight, and light brown. At school I let wear it in a non-descript goth middle part. My skin is frappuchino, my lips are mocha. I avoid the sun and wear SPF 45 every day, even in the rain, so my skin doesn’t turn ruddy and puffy like my Caucasian dad. At least, I reflected, incarceration might save him from melanoma.

My eyes are brown, like my Hmong mother. She is a caramel colored, hour glass-bodied tribal whose family airlifted to Fresno after we lost the Vietnam War. My dad was a vet who never outgrew the trauma, the drugs or the women he had experienced in Nam. He had tried to prolong it with marriage, but our family’s life had been a nightmare of periodic incarceration, drugs, and abuse. My mom told me that she had been glad when prison separated them for good. But Phuoc had not lost her taste for bad boys, or her exotic and provocative good looks. Ten boyfriends later, she is still looking for the best fuck, the best car, and the best highs. And she doesn’t have any trouble finding them. I hope that her estrogen would give me curves that approximate hers. Her tits, she always says, are her best attribute. Some day, I hope so will mine.

I study my face. For the past few months, I have been fighting off a welter of tiny blackheads, but none are visible tonight. My skin is smooth and soft. The Diane-35 is quelling my acne. I study the basket of discarded, half-used cosmetics. I apply eye cream and pat on concealer. I spread liquid powder across my cheek. The blemishes disappear. My skin looks clear and vibrant, a perfect golden canvas for the magic of cosmetics.

I spread copper shadow on my eyelids, and highlight them with gold, accented with a trace of dark brown liner. I brushed a thin patina of mascara on my upper lids, and stud myself.

My eyes are perfect, seductive and inviting, like an US magazine celebrity’s. I am Angelina. But my brow is my fathers, my cheeks are too narrow. I want my mother’s open and willing face. I spread a thin smear of dusky rose blush from the top of my cheekbones to my ear, and blend it until I can barely see it. The shadows disappear, and my face is wide and round, like my mother’s. I spritz myself with a with her cologneI gloss my lips and blow dry and feather my hair until it sweeps past the curve of my neck and settles over my shoulders.

I make exceptions to the 10 commandments, and to my father’s advice, and, on occasion, I steal. Last week, I stole black panties and a matching lacy 32A bra from Victoria’s secret at Santa Monica and Highland, and a size 2 party dress from Ross on Sunset. I tuck my cock between my legs, affix it to my ass with first aid tape, and slip on the panties. Their low slung profile accentuates the slight curve of my hips. The panties have a slight bulge, like a girl’s mons. I fasten the bra clasp and turn it around. The slight padding of the bra makes it look like I have pubescent boobs. I slip into the dress, wriggle my slender shoulders threw its spaghetti straps, put on a pair of my mom’s gold faux-Manolo sandals, and toss my head. I add dangly silver earrings and necklace, and a bracelet. I want to take my picture, to remember this forever. For the first time, I really look like a teenaged girl, ready to party, ready to be fucked; to be fucked by Matt Frawley, and then fucked by all those cruel boys in the locker room.

I let that fantasy linger as I walk around the apartment, practicing walking in 5 inch heals. The straps dig into my ankle and the soles of my feet are soon killing me, but when I check the full length mirror on my mom’s closet door I see that it’s worth every bit of my pain. The elevation of my heels elongates my calves and makes my leg’s worth of a pop star diva. I turn and pose, throw my head back and pout. I look great. I am happy for the first time that I can remember.

The second Diane tablet hits with a rush, and I feel week and dizzy. I laugh to myself that two at time is too much of a good thing. I fantasize about Matt and his friend Eric pumping at my mouth and ass in unison. The emotional rush weakens me even more, and I stagger to the living room and recline on the couch. The room spins. I turn on the TV, American Idol rerun. Simon is savaging a young female contestant. Randy demurs. Paula offers a conciliatory rejoinder. I am too tired to follow their banter. The second hit of Diane-35 has made me drowsy. I slip into sleep.

I am on American Idol, a contestant. Simon is heartless. He orders me to walk across the stage, and I stumble. My heel has broken, now I limp on uneven heels, and he laughs. Randy and Paula join in his cackling laughter. Then, I am naked. I fall to my knees, and crawl, and the crowd responds to Simon’s exhortations, “Lady-boy, lady-boy, lady-boy.” I awake with a pounding heart and flushed face from this nightmare. The room is dark, and on the television, House is pontificating. Then, the television flicks off.

“Who’s there?” My heart is pounding even harder.

“Who cares?” I cannot place the unsettlingly familiar voice.

“I do.”

“Who are you? I didn’t know Tyler like hot girls like you.”

I am flattered, but nervous. “Thanks, but who’s dishing the props, and what are you doing here?”

The mysterious voice draws nearer. “You should check your voicemail before you get comfortable.” In the fading light of the oncoming dusk, I recognize my mom’s boyfriend’s son, Cesar Robles. He’s 18, a couple years older than I am. He’s got a tattoo of the devil on his ripped bicep. He shaves his head. I think he might be in a gang.

I had met Cesar at mom’s company picnic in Griffith Park a few weeks ago. Cesar had wanted nothing to do with a skinny little kid like me then. He’d mumbled a few words and shambled off to join a pick up basketball game with some of my toughest classmates. My mom had given me a look, like I should follow, but I had just rolled my eyes.

When I looked up from my book I had them pointing in my direction and laughing. I’m the smallest boy in the junior class at Fairfax High, only 5’5”, and just over a hundred pounds. I hate sports, but the brutality of that game had kind of turned me on. But I was too afraid of mockery, injury or embarrassment to play. Mockery and cruelty were all that my classmates had learned. In my Biology II class, I am learning the basics of human endocrinology. And now, I am performing a magnificent experiment on my own body.

For the rest of that day, Cesar never said another word to me, as if he were embarrassed to be associated with me. But now that he is alone with me, and I am vulnerable, he is extremely interested.

Cesar pulls up a chair next to the couch and leans over me, close enough for me to feel his breath. “Your mom left you a message on the machine, I got kicked out of my mom’s place, they gave me a key, and I’m staying here for a while. I think we are going to have fun being roommates. He flips on the light, flicks out his phone, holds it high and says “Smile.” I hear a slight snick, and he holds the new image. “See what I mean, you look kinda hot.”

I study the image. I look pretty, but very recognizably the camera shot depicts Tyler Flowers in drag.

“What are you going to do with that picture?”

“Blackmail you with it, of course.”

“I don’t have any money. We’re even poorer than you are>”

“You’ll have to work it off then.”

“I’m only fifteen, too young to work. I can’t even get a permit until next fall.”

“But you’re not too young to suck my cock, bitch.” He pushes back his chair, stands, grabs a handful of my hair, and yanks me to a sitting position. My neck twists.

“Ouch, you don’t have to be so rough.” I look up at him. His eyes are pitiless and hard. He unbuttons his jeans, and pulls down his fly. His baggy jeans slide to the floor, followed by his underwear. He reaches for his cock, which is already becoming tumescent, and waves it back and forth, brushing my lips and nose. I close my eyes, and say, “I’m scared.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never sucked cock before! You’re a virgin?”

I nod, and sob.

“You shouldn’t get yourself girlied up like that if you don’t want to be treated like a little girl. Girls suck cock. Don’t they”

“I don’t know.”

“I do. You’re going to suck my cock or I’m going to send this pic of you to my homies at your school. They’ll be really interested in you then. So it’s either them, or me.”

“I don’t know how.” I’ve fantasized about sucking Matt Frawley’s dick every night all year, but all I ever did was play with my own cock and ass. I look into my fantasies, trying to remember how.

“You’ll learn. You’re the nerd who gets all A’s. You can ace this pop quiz on cock-sucking right now.” He brushes his cock across my lips. His cock is uncut, 8 inches, and his ball are hidden in a thicket of black pubes. I pucker my lips and squint my eyes, trying to take myself far away from this waking nightmare. I imagine that it’s Matt standing over me, so I don’t see Cesar’s hand swinging toward me. My head jerks, my cheek burns, my eyes blur, I topple over, and then pull myself upright. I start crying. Through my tears, I see his other hand is poised to strike me.

“Don’t hit me, please.” But he smacks my other cheek with such force he knocks me off the couch to the floor.

“Now suck me now or I’ll beat the shit out of you and fuck your ass.” His cock is fully erect now. I open my lips. And flick my tongue at the tip. The cock shudders, and pushes into my mouth. His foreskin peels back, and caught on my lips, suffuses my mouth with a mossy stew of stale penile emissions, piss and sloughed skin. His cock head penetrates to the back of my throat, and I gag, and chomp slightly on the shaft. He groans, pulls out, and shouts “Don’t fucking bite, you fucking slut.” I close my eyes from the blow that I know will follow. He smashes my ear, banging the earring into my neck. My ears are ringing. I dig my face into the couch,

I hear his footsteps, the banging of drawers from the bathroom, the rattle of piss in the toilet, a loud fart, and cower, sobbing, waiting for him to return.

“Let’s see what the little girl looks like naked.”

He throws the party dress over my shoulders, pulls it over my head and throws it on the floor. He pulls unhooks my bra and pulls it off, and then my panties.

“Jesus, don’t you even have a cock?”

“I tuck it back.”

He has a tube of Neosporin, and squeezes some on his fingers. He reaches under my ass, finds my rectum, and rubs it on the rim, circling it a few times, and then jabs in his index finger. A crackling pain rips up my centerline and down to my toes.

“I can’t find anything except this ass.” I couldn’t feel it either. Fear, and the Diane 35 had shrunken my penis to almost nothing.

He strokes my nipples. They are visibly inflamed and engorged, on fire with sensation. I have been taking hormones for a couple of months, and now the double dose Diane 35 is pulsing through me, and my nipples are on fire. He pinches first the left, and then the right, and then sucks it so hard that when he disengages his lips smack. My nerves crackle. Pain and pleasure zings from my breasts to my ass. I wriggle beneath Cesar’s grasp.

“Mmm, just like eleven year old girl tits. Tyler, are turning into a girl, I mean, are you a trannie?”

I am ashamed, and afraid, and I shake my head.

He raises his fist again. “You lying bitch, I think you’re a trannie. How does a guy get tits like these if he’s not going trannie.”

I nod my head. “OK, I’m experimenting with hormones. I like the way they feel, and how they are changing my body.”

“Well, if you want to be a girl, then you must want to get fucked.”

I want to save myself for Matt. I shake my head. “I’m scared. I’m not ready.”

“Guys know when a bitch it ready, and I think you want it. When I guy says go, real girls just go with it. You’re the girl, so get down and go.”

He sits astride my chest and rises to his knees. “First, I’m skull fuck your face. No more teeth or I’ll smack you, one smack for every nick on my dick.”

Before I can answer he sticks his cock in my mouth, and slides it in and out, faster and faster. I hold onto his ass cheeks. They are firm and strong, as I imagine Matt’s. I pretend that Cesar’s cock is Matt’s, and let my lips surround and cling to his cock as it enters and exits my mouth. I arch my palate and elongate my tongue as his penis slides in and out, and match his lunges with a slight bobbing of my head.

“That’s better, that’s a good little cock sucker.”

He held his phone high. “Look at me while you suck it, bitch.” I open my eyes, and he says “Smile for the camera.” The camera snicks again, and he shows me the image: Me, looking up with a frightened gaze, an anonymous cock half buried in my mouth.

“OK, suck me off and then shut up about it to your mom, or that picture gets posted all over your school.”

A slick of salty cum spreads seeps from his cock. It reminds me of the dirty ocean water around the storm drain near the Santa Monica Pier. But it is boy cum, and it somehow sooths a hunger, and makes me want more. I bob, and press harder against his buttocks. I feel as if I am in control. He stops, and pulls out. “I don’t want to cum this way. I want to fuck your ass.”

He is almost ready to pop, and I want to save myself for Matt. Or at least someone cuter than Cesar. “No, I want you in my mouth. I promise, I will suck you and swallow.”

“Not this time. He slides back and throws my legs over his shoulders. My mom’s heels flails above me. He cups my baby breast, and quashes my futile wriggling. He flattens me with a thrust of his thick forearm and to my panting, gasping rib cage. He levers himself up and guides his cock to search out my hole.

My Matt fantasy ends, as apprehension again engulfs me. They drum into us in Human Development a visceral fear of HIV, and I vibrate with anxiety. I calm myself and ask “Shouldn’t we be using condoms?”

“Why bother? I know you’re safe. You’re a virgin.”

“What about you?”

“You’ll just have to trust me. Anyhow, you’re the first dude I’ve ever fucked.” He finds my hole and presses against it. His cockhead dances around my tight anus, unable to enter. The pressure is pleasant, and trills of sensation roil through me. I feel much as when I have penetrated myself with small objects and my fingers. I smile, and Cesar notices.

“Oh, you like it there?”

“That feels alright. Be gentle, OK?”

“Oh, sure.” He squeezes Neosporin on his cock and rubs it in, then wipes the residue on my butt cheeks. He touches his middle finger to the center of my ass, and swiftly shoves it in. I wince, but as he circles it around first once, and then again, it begins to feel good. I work hard to control my breathing, to relax my muscles. His index finger presses against my sphincter and joins its neighbor, they wriggle and spread. My ass send shivers through me. My nipples are hard. My penis, swaddled between my legs and encased in surgical tape, strains to erect.

He leans forward and sticks his fingers between my lips. “Lick them clean.” I suck first one, and then the other. The Neosporin is harsh and rank. “Now for my cock.” He slaps it twice against my ass, and then targets it on the center.

I close my eyes and dream that Matt is atop me. I expel every draught of oxygen from my lungs, and slowly inhale as I savor again the pleasant pressure of his cock on the exterior of my ass. He presses his body upward, and then drops and thrusts with all of his strength and weight. He enters me with a seemingly audible pop. Cesar’s cock bursts through my sphincters. I am consumed by a searing bolt of fire he ascends my colon in a single, brutal thrust. He pulls back, and I gasp for breath, unable to speak. He knocks the breath from me with his next thrust, and the agony redoubles.

I thrash my head and with my feeble arms try to push the beast back, but he pins my wrists behind my head with one hand pulls my ankle even higher with the other as he thrusts again, deeper than before. His pelvic bone bangs into my ass cheeks. His cock is buried deep inside me, and the fire has spread from my colon deep into my belly. When I take my first breath, the flame spread to my lungs. I expel it with a shriek.

“Oh yeah, that’s a tight ass. I like that tight ass.” He drums ten short strokes inside me to punctuate his sentiment. I moan with each blow, but the fire is subsiding to hot, glowing coals.

I open my eyes. The camera phone is aloft again, and snaps another picture. He examines it and shows me, a surprised smile graces my now slightly face, a partly withdrawn cock is entering my legs. “That one’s really good, isn’t it. My homies are going to love that shot.”

He swung my leg over his head, hoists me over the back of the couch, and mounts me from behind. “Oh that ass feels even tighter like that.” His cock drills deep and retracts. He withdraws so recklessly that his cock exits my ass with a painful pop. He reenters me instantly, and burrows so deep that I think it will run me through, and exit my navel. His relentless thrusts stir lubricity from within me. I am wet inside, and the wetness smoothes his strokes. I am warm. My face is flushed, I cease struggling, and meet his surges with rises, and pull back as he withdraws.

“That’s it, baby. That’s how to fuck back on your daddy’s dick.”

I look back, and force my self to smile alluringly. “Keep doing that thing, and I could learn to like this.”

He pulls me over on my side. The cock finds new curves of my colon to breach and each one brings a wave of pain, followed by a surge of pleasure. I look over my shoulder, smile, grab his butt, and press him against me.

“Now you love it, am I right?” I nod, and he reaches between my legs. “Where’s your cock?”

“I tucked it behind. It’s beneath that surgical tape.”

He fumbles, finds the ridge of the tape, and rips it. I gasp as tufts of my few silky pubes rip off with it. He rolls my cock between his forefinger and thumb. His thrusts modulate as he explores. “It’s hardly more than a clit.”

“I know. It’s so small, and I am so hairless, it’s so embarrassing in the locker room. They all look at me like I’m a freak.”

“I know what they mean. You are a bit freaky.”

I shake my head, and pout. “In a sexy way though. My B-ball homies thought you were a hot maricone.”

“I’m not a gay.”

“I didn’t say that. I am not sure what you are.” He gropes further. “Where are your balls?”

“I take female hormones. That shrinks them.”

“Hormones, no balls and baby boobs. I think you ought to be a girl.”

Now he rocks gently inside me. I am oozing warmth from within. I turn my head and smile.

“I am a girl inside. Do I look like a girl to you now?”

“Yeah, like a hot twelve year old. I wouldn’t fuck you if you looked like a dude.”

“Thanks.”

“For fucking you?”

I giggle. “No, I meant for the compliment.”

“And do you like getting fucked by me?”

I look back, and bat my lashes. “I like it now. You were way too rough at the beginning.”

“I had to train you. And I like to do it rough.”

I push back firmly against him. “I think I could handle it rougher now. Especially if you put on a condom.”

“I don’t have any.”

“My mom keeps them in the drawer on the left side of her bed. If you promise to put one on, I’ll suck you again, and you can do whatever you want for the rest of the night.”

“Whatever I want, whenever I want it?”

“With condoms, yes.”

Cesar reluctantly pulls out and staggers to the bedroom. He returns with a glittering gold wrapper. He had selected a Trojan Maxxum.

“These are probably what my dad uses when he fucks your mom.”

“I think they are too high on crack to have sex much.”

“They won’t miss this one then.”

I circle my arms around his thighs and pull him toward me. His cock is soft, so I take the tip inside my mouth and swirl my tongue around the helmet-like head. It is tangy, with the fluids that had oozed from my battered colon. It has a slight musty flavor.

“That’s it, baby, clean your poop out of my pipes.”

I nod and give him and adoring upward glance. His cock wasn’t foul tasting as I had expected. My ass juice tastes like mushrooms, but I know the colon seethes with fungi and bacteria, and the thought of sucking it in this condition is intolerable. I resolve to insist on condoms for ass play in the future, for aesthetic as well as safety reasons.

“Mmm, that cock looks ready to me. How do you want me?”

“Just keep going, I think I want to pop in your face this time.”

I give him a vigorous blow job. It’s not hard. Just relax your palate, and breathe between the strokes. Breathe, it’s like throat yoga, and easier than getting fucked. I was looking forward to a warm blast of cum in my throat, and when he yanked out, a spray of the last shots on my lips, cheeks and boobs.

But Cesar pulls out and said “I want to fuck you, down doggy.”

I roll on the condom. It’s bigger than he needs, and I worry that it might leak. I roll onto my tummy and thrust my ass up. I reach between my legs and guide his cock to my ass. I push back against him, and he thrusts forward. It still hurts when he ploughs past my sphincters, but he pauses and gives me a chance to breathe, and adjust to the invasion. I look over my shoulder and smile.

“Thanks, that’s better that way.”

I reward him for his kindness by thrusting backwards against him and impaling myself to his hilt. I am woozy with the effort and overcome with the sensation, but the lubricant and smooth surface of the condom make it more bearable. He grabs my shoulders and massages them. The tension he releases with this touch energizes me, and I feel myself wanting to be fucked harder, and I tell him.

“Harder, harder, more, more, harder, harder, deeper, more.”

He responds, aargh, ahahaa, oooo, you goddamn fucking, whore,” and flails me furiously. And all I can do is demand “more, more, more,” until his heaving and bucking reach a crescendo and he roars incoherently as comes, and I feel him shiver and shake inside a final time. He collapses on top of me. I can hardly breathe, but I can’t move. His dick is slowly slipping out of my ass. I push it out with my sphincters, and the too large rubber slips off and spills his load onto my thigh.

“Cesar, get up, the condom’s going to leak on the couch.”

He grunts and rolls off of me, and staggers to the bathroom. I hear his piss hissing in the toilet. The shower knobs squeaks on, the plumbing rattles to life and I hear the shower’s rattle on the curtain. His clothes and mine are strewn around the couch. I stack his in a neat pile, and notice that he has left his cell phone on the floor.

I can erase his blackmail pictures. But if I do, he will know. He will be angry, will rape me again, with even greater brutality, and take new pictures. The pictures make put me at his mercy. I am his sex slave. He says that I should trust him. Lacking a better alternative, I decide that I will.

Secondary Education
Chapter 2, The Trouble With PE
By Tyla Flowers

[email protected]

I am rounding the last turn of the mandatory mile. Each footfall is unbearable. The sun, the smog, and the heat are relentless. Coach is screaming words I cannot hear over the blood pounding in my ears. I cross the finish line and collapse at his feet.
“Get up, move around before you puke, Flowers.”
“I can’t, Coach.” It is too late. I retch on the ground at Coach’s feet, a watery gruel. I hear groans of disgust from my classmates. I wonder if they will see the remnants of the Cesar’s semen in the spew.
Coach springs back from the vomit. “Christ, Flowers, why are you wearing a frigging sweat suit, anyhow? It’s 90 degrees.”
“My muscles cramp.” I cannot say my real purpose: to hide my breasts, which have blossomed to fill an A-Cup.
“What muscles?” The insult is punctuated by cackles. I search out the source of the derision. It’s Antoine Lewis, one of Fairfax’s Crips. He’s a scary dream, a failed jock on his descent to badass gang banger. I look away, desperate to avoid eye contact with the gaggle of guffawing classmates.
Coach flips through his clipboard. “9:50. Your mile time is even slower than when we started this unit in March.”
Coach is right. And I know why. That’s when I started hormones. My breasts and hips have grown, but my muscles have softened and weakened, especially after I began with the potent Diane 35 earlier this month.
I endure hormone induced hot flashes and nausea every day. But it’s worth it. If I can survive this gym class, at this rate, by next fall, I will be able to pass as a girl. I will check out of this school, and check into Hollywood High as a girl. “I’m sorry, it’s just so hot. I feel sick. Can I go to your office? I’ll straighten up. I’ve got a free period next.”
“Sure, if that’s what it takes for me to pass you this quarter, Flowers.”
I hear another Crips’ voice. “Hear that, Flower’s gets a period!” It’s the one they call the Freeze, for his reputation for cool brutality.
Coach hears it to. “Shut the fuck up, Lewis. All the rest of you ladies, let’s see another mile, and if it’s under seven point five, another one after that.” Coach gives me an umpire “your out” sign.
Fairfax is a product of bussing. Thirty years ago it was abandoned by the middle class Jews from the neighborhood and populated by bussed in populations of poor whites, Latinos, Samoans and Blacks. Along with students like me, attracted to its magnet program in visual arts, it also draws a tough gang-banger element. I think there is a transgender Samoan girl but she is so stealth, and cosseted in her community, I can’t even talk to her. I am totally alone, and I have to get out of here.
Over the summer, I’ll check out of this dump and transfer to a new high school with the OASIS program, Hollywood High, or as the bangers here call it, Homowood High. No more Matt Frawley’s to moon over, but no more Antoine Lewis’s to taunt or threaten me, if I can survive until summer break, a month from now.
Coach’s office is a cramped, filthy corner of the locker room. Volunteering as his factotum had been a brilliant strategy to curry his favor while also avoiding the embarrassment of changing in the locker room under the pressure of the bell and the gaze of my inquisitive, but intolerant classmates.
I had always been self conscious and uncomfortable when changing after PE. I am younger than most of my peers, and my physical development always lagged theirs. They have grown tall and broad shouldered, and sprouted manly pubic hair and whiskers. I remained a slender peach fuzzed child. Now, under the influence of estrogen, my development has taken a different, and now noticeable direction. Thus, I linger in Coaches office, sorting and organizing, until the crowds of outgoing and incoming classes thin from the locker room. I will change of my gym attire in solitude, during the next period.
Coach leaves me plenty of work to keep busy. Coach is a control freak on the field, but totally ADHD at his desk. I put a disorganized pile tardy slips into alphabetical order, sorting them by days, and input them into his computer,
At 2:15, Coach pokes his head in and cocks his thumb over his shoulder. “You can finish up next week, I am locking up and taking a coffee break.”
I pick up my gym bag and slip into the empty locker room to change. It is dank and redolent of the odors of youthful masculinity, magnified by years of use. I slip out of my sweat suit, cover up with a rough towel, and slink into the shower. I choose the handicapped area. It’s separated from the main area by a low, soap scummed partition which partially blocks the view. The tap groans and spits first freezing, and then scalding water. I flinch as it scours my estrogen softened skin.
I shower off the residues of my sweaty run, and last night’s sex with Cesar from my body. I feel my breasts. The are puffy and tender from the incessant fondling and sucking by Cesar last night, and the relentless action of the Diane 35. The areoles have enlarged to the size of quarters. The nipples rise above the conical mounds that have risen in the past few days.
I touch them and am filled with a mixture of delight and distress. They have a shape and size which I know will be noticeable to careful observers, so I am taking extra pains to be discreet. I am aware of them constantly, for their tissues are engorged with fluid and palpably seethe and tingle with what feels like rapid tissue development. When I touch them, I shiver with sensation.
I run a smooth, soapy and over my penis. It is soft and smooth, the way I remember it as a child. I stroke my hand between my buttocks, press a soapy finger into my ass and twirl it. My anus is puckered and sore from last night with Cesar. He has become my thrice weekly lover. He is still seeing a girlfriend, Lucia, but he needs more sex than she will give him, so he takes it from me. I indulge him. I have grown to welcome his visits, and the supply of estrogen that he brings me from the drugstores his gang jacks in search for ingredients for the meth they brew, and sell to junkies like my mom. Cesar is a convenient source for my drug of choice, estrogen, but his father feeds my mom’s drugs habits. How I wish I could leave behind my pathological roots.
I am lost deep in my thoughts, and lingering too long with them. I sense danger approaching. Over the hiss of the tap I hear echoing, indistinct voices. I make myself still, and listen more closely. I turn the tap down, and hear footsteps and voices coming nearer. I hear Antoine Lewis.
“I’d fuck a trannie once, just to try it. I fucked a bitch’s ass once, a girl ass, and it’s tight. Ass just grabs your Johnson and squeezes the jiz out.”
I recognize the voice of Antoine’s friend, “the Freeze.” “Flower’s no trannie. He’s just a twink. If you fuck him, and you’re a fag.”
“No, bro, I tell you, I seen him riding with some Mexican, maybe Salvadoran guy, driving up Fairfax, and he be done up like a ladyboy, all made up, dressed sexy. Look at the way him run, all bow legged. Flowers does everything like a girl, walk like he’s just took it up the ass. His ass probably all wet and ready. I want that ass.”
I twist the tap off, and crouch behind the partition. The steam billows above me. I imagine it’s a protective fog, that I am camouflaged.
I hear the squeak of Nikes on the wet shower room floor. “Where’s that steam coming from?” Antoine’s voice is anxious, as if he fears ambush.
Shadows loom above me through the haze of steam. “Aw, fuck, speak of the Devil, it’s only Flowers.” I hear a snick of metal. Antoine has closed his knife. “Get up, Flowers, and settle our argument. The Freeze says you’re a just a uke, but I say you’re a full blown trannie.” I cower, covering up, but Antoine grabs my wrist, turns and exposes me. He paws my left breast with his sheathed knife. “Lookie, lookie, I see little titties. I tolja, Freeze. Now, as winner of our bet I get the first fuck.” Antoine twists my arm behind me pulls me toward the towel room, a dark, mildewed crevice adjacent to the shower room.
“OK, I’m coming.”
“You got that wrong. I’m cumming, you’re receiving, bitch.”
“Please don’t hurt me. I don’t want scream.”
“If you scream, I’ll cut your tits off.” He flashes the knife.
“You don’t need that. I’ll cooperate.”
“You’re going to love it, bitch.”
He pitches me face first into a mountain of used towels. “Stay there.” I try to breathe away my fear. I am in Yoga class. My leotard clings to me, my poses are perfect. The teacher praises me, I look into my third eye, and see myself, a perfect girl. My boobs rise and fall with my even breath, my lotus is square and flat, my groin is a perfect diamond, as if no cock had ever marred it its smooth contours. I am an Asian princess, awaiting her defloration by her Emperor.
Fingers entwine my hair and yank me to my knees. A huge, half engorged black cock sways in the dark before my eyes. I can’t believe it. It looks like a coiled black cobra, already twice as large as Cesar’s. “Suck it, you little pussy.”
The towel room is a twilit dungeon. Outside its door, the Freeze is keeping watch.
By the time my lips touch it, Antoine’s cock is almost hard, and it grows alarming larger with each passing second. I pout my lips, and cover my teeth. He thrusts into my mouth. The cock’s helmet-like head almost fills me to the gag reflex. I cup my hands over his buttocks, and glide my lips, tongue, palate and throat over the glistening brown monster.
“Oh, you suck it good, bitch.” I nod, praying that he will erupt in my mouth and spare my hole from this massive thing.
His cock probes down my throat, but Cesars’s slaps and chastisements have taught me to stifle my gags, and to never bare my teeth. I breathe, and moan. He grips my skull and forces himself deeper, and I will my throat to yield. As he thrusts, I guide him, digging my fingers into his round, bowling ball hard buttocks. His stomach is rippled with muscles and matted with the same nappy hair that he wears unkempt beneath his blue dew-rag. Antoine runs the fastest 100 meters in my PE class, and I am the slowest. We will be an uneven match as lovers.
I push him away, and in the dark, admire the black monster that I have unleashed. It looks more like a stool than an organ. Its impending penetration of my ass will defy the laws of physics.
“OK, time to bend over, bitch.” Antoine piles a mound of towel and pushes me over it. My ass is inclined. He clears his throat, and spits. His fingers spread warm saliva over my butt. A finger presses on the ring. I breathe deep the rank odors of a thousand damp towels. Antoine presses my face into the miasma. His cock dances against me, circling the wet sphincter, searching for the passage to my center. I breathe deep, searching the third eye, and just as I make contact, I explode from the searing jolt of Antoine, piercing me from below.
I scream into the black hole of the towel room, forcing myself deeper into the stinking well of mold and filth. He pulls back, and I feel my center ripped out of me. I am torn apart by this massive cock, and then he plunges again and I wish I could flee downward to the fires of hell, to escape from this torture. He pulls out, and I inhale the moist air, and it sooths me. I fight back against pain and panic with breath and meditation. I cannot extinguish fiery caldron that is alight inside my bowels. I must control myself, or I will explode. I breathe deep into my abdomen as he withdraws, and exhale as he lunges. The breath controls the conflagration. Now his cock’s rises and falls spread warmth from the soles of my feet to my finger tips.
“How’s that feel, bitch?”
“Like a big black saw is cutting me in half.”
“You like that, bitch?”
“You’re killing me.”
“Good. Then I’m going to fuck you dead,”
He rams me thirty times hard and deep. I press back against each entry, retract from each withdrawal. “That’s it, bitch, fuck back at me.” He slaps my behind, and jams it faster, and harder, until he is winded. He sinks himself so deeply inside me that it feels as if his cock expels the dregs of the air from my lungs. He is working me like a bellows to a furnace, and my insides glow and melt. I start to enjoy being filled up with his bulky cock.
My ass syncopates to his rhythms. He slaps my buttocks with both hands, and bounces with enthusiasm. “Oh yeah, baby, keep on doing that thing.”
Now he and I are racing. For the first time, I match this star athlete’s performance. His breath is hot and hard against the nape of my neck. My back is wet with his sweat. Our bodies slide against one another. His dark, hard flesh is sculpted. Its contours are palpable as they glide over my soft, slender back. My senses are awakened from their retreat from the pain. My ass adjusts to its massive, jolting cargo, and now I perceive each striation of his ribbed penis. He slides in and out over the wrinkled hole, the firm bulwark of my rectum, and into through the dark caverns of my lower colon, and bang against the first curve of my lower intestine. I twist and growl within. I feel floods of warmth building in the flesh of my abdomen.
Antoine feels the well brimming inside me. “Oh, yeah, I like that hot, wet ass pussy.” He speeds his pace even further. My cock, which had retracted into a tight nub, now hardens to its full four inches. I touch myself. It is slender, almost hairless after months of hormones and plucking. The estrogen is winning the hormonal struggle. My testes are soft and shrunken. I imagine they are gone. My scrotum feels empty and smooth, almost merged into the smooth skin of my perineum. I imagine I am a castrati, indentured to the Church. I sing my Lord’s praises in perfect, perpetual soprano. I carry a candle to the alter where I worship my god and receive his love. My god is with me, and he commands me to be a woman, beautiful and submissive. I thrust back hard against Antoine, and squeeze my sphincters over the bulky engine that is now bucking and jolting, a runaway train is rattling on its track.
“Oh yeah, squeeze my cock with that ass pussy.” His strong hands grip my slim shoulders. My tension releases, and I feel it throbbing down my spine, and my ass shudders. Antoine’s grunts, and a hot geyser floods my insides. The cock plunges again, and again. The flood deepens and spreads. It is warm and lubricious. I wriggle beneath it, and more comes. I am brimming, distended, as Antoine modulates, slows, and finally stops. “Oh, that was good. Freeze, want some of this nice wet ass? Get it while it’s fresh from the oven.”
I am ready, but relieved when Freeze replies. “Sound’s like you used that ass all up. Don’t want no sloppy seconds. Let’s get going. I hear someone coming.”
“OK, we’re almost done.” He pulls me to my knees and thrusts his penis toward my lips. “Lick me clean.” I slip the soft penis into my mouth and suck it. It is redolent of ass juice and jisim, pungent and sweet. “Squeeze my balls, harder.” I grip and squeeze each testicle. Even spent, they are golf ball sized. A residue of semen filigrees down my throat.
He retracts and gives my face a gentle slap. “That was good, bitch. I am claiming you for the Crips. Right, Freeze?”
“Whatever you say.”
“And you keep your mouth shut, right?”
I nod.
Antoine pulls on his hoodie and hoists his pants. His belt buckle clanks closed. “Stay here until we are gone, bitch. And enjoy that cream pie.” I hear their squeaking Nike’s retreat through the locker room, and the door slams shut.
I am alone. I stand, and reach between my buttocks. A slurry of cum and ass juicee sluices from my anus and oozes down my thigh. I don’t dare return to the shower, so I wipe my ass and thighs dry with a filthy, rough towel.
I hear the bell. The next class will be here in a moment. It’s too late to shower again. I will be perfumed with Antoine’s sweat and cum until I get home. I pull up my black skinny pants, pull on my black cotton knit sweater, and tie my black sneakers. I run out of the locker room just as the next period’s class arrives. Coach looks at me accusingly. I smile and say goodbye, and he gives me a dismissive nod. I emerge into Fairfax High’s frenzied, packed halls. As I bump my way toward Knudsen’s class through onrushing throngs of students, I avert my eyes from their faces. Whom among them have already heard about my encounter with Antoine?
Knudsen gives us a pop quiz on the quadratic equation. I’ll probably flunk it. I can’t concentrate, my head is spinning. As the clock jitters toward 3:30, schools out time, I brim with irrelevant memories. One day when I was five, I discovered I was a little girl trapped in a boy’s body. My mom caught me wearing her clothes at six. She burned my Barbie.
Knudsen is writing the homework on the white board. My classmates are shuffling out. I carefully copy the homework assignment into my notebook, although I know I will not do it. I need an excuse to wait. I need to talk to someone. I choose Knudsen.
“Flowers, what can I do for you?”
“Mr. Knudsen, I need advice.”
“My advice is to pay attention in class and do your homework. For a time, it seemed as though you were the only one here who cared about learning. But now you seem to have lost it too.”
“It’s hard, when I have so many problems.”
“We all have problems, Flowers.” He held up the sleeve of jacket, then let it flop to his side. “You learn to deal.”
“I am trying, but the whole world is against me. I am completely ostracized because everyone thinks I am gay.”
“You’re not gay?”
“I wish I were, because the truth is even harder.” I close my eyes, breathe deep, and squeeze from my soul the words which I have repeated like a mantra for my whole life, and never spoken aloud. “I’m a transsexual. I am really a girl, and I am going to become one. Soon everyone will know.”
Knudsen flinches, his eyes gape. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.”
“Does that disgust you?”
“Death and destruction disgust me.” He flapped his empty sleeve again. “Nothing else comes close, especially not a nice, bright kid like you.”
Knudsen smiles, clasps my right hand with his left. It’s a good gesture, not sexual, or macho, just human. I am glad I told him my secret.
“You’re a smart kid, and I am sure you have thought this through, but how can you be so sure? People change as they grow. You are young.”
“I have known that I am really a girl since I was a toddler. My male hormones can’t change my heart and soul. They are already completely a girl’s. But I can change my body with the hormones.”
“You are on estrogen? That’s a pretty heavy choice for a sophomore”
“I didn’t choose my identity. It chose me.”
“You are choosing to take hormones.”
“It’s that, or become a freak, a man in woman’s clothes, when I am older. Waiting until later to start female hormones is a choice, and for me it would be the wrong one.” I wave my hand out the window at toward the field where the baseball team is warming up. “I need hormones to keep me from becoming one of them.”
“So, take your hormones. Why drop out.”
“My transition is getting too obvious. I am being harassed.”
“We have policies against that.”
“Policies won’t protect me. That means I have to choose between finishing school and being hurt and humiliated every day. I can’t take it anymore. I have to drop out.”
“You have chosen a difficult road, Flowers. Don’t make it harder by ruining your education.”
“I need to drop out. I’m going to kill myself, or get killed, if I stay here.”
“Don’t. Even if you are a transsexual, you still have great potential. You need to stay in school to reach it.” He looks at me, and I can tell that he senses my fear. “What’s happened to you?”
“I can’t talk about it. It’s too dangerous.”
“You have got less than a month in the school year, Flowers. I’ll talk to the administration. They can work something out. Meet me during lunch at the principal’s office.”
“I can’t come back here tomorrow, or ever. I just wanted to tell you goodbye, because you have always been nice to me, and you are a great teacher.”
“I’ll write a recommendation to the principal’s office that they authorize independent study and take home finals for you.” Knudsen is clutching at me with his lone arm.
“That’s really nice of you, Mr. Knudsen. Thanks for trying to help me. But whatever they decide, I can’t come back here again. I will always be identified as a boy here, and I’m not going to fool anyone here anymore. They’ll never accept me as a boy or a girl. I need to start over, and to go full time as a girl, starting now.”
I get up from my chair, woozy with exhaustion and nausea. I need to go to the bathroom. I never use the toilets at school, it would be instant rape. I have an hour of gut busting agony to get home on the bus. “Thanks, and goodbye.”
“Wait.” Knudsen scribbles his cell number and hands it to me. “Just call me, OK?”
I nod half-heartedly. I look warily down the corridor, but it’s empty. The stragglers are having their last smokes on the barren schoolyard. It’s 4:00 p.m., and the afternoon haze is settling over the Los Angeles Basin. I look back with no regret as I leave Fairfax High for the last time.

Secondary Education
Chapter 3
Self Improvement.

Our apartment is dark, hot and empty when I get home. I am a latchkey kid, and have been since my dad went to jail for the penultimate time, when he got his second strike for dealing meth back in ’02. Now, he’s in for 25, and I am sure Mom is heading back into custody for parole violation. In her waste basket I find used syringes. Soon, she’ll be incarcerated for the rest of her five year term for meth possession. But crystal meth would be preferably to her current dalliance with heroin. Meth makes you crazy, heroin makes you die. I am worried. I am still fifteen, too young to emancipate. They would put me in foster care for a year, which would totally screw my transition. I need to become more independent. But transition has made me alone. My only ally is Cesar, who is unreliable, unemployed and uneducated. He is not tough enough to survive on his own, much less to protect me. I need to find someone to help me through this most difficult of transitions.
I am on the toilet, pushing out the residues of my encounter with Antoine. Antoine forced me, but had I provoked him? He’s probably regaling his gang banger buddies with his account of it now. They’re playing ball, and talking trash about me. God, they’ll all expect to fuck me. That would a rush, if I lived to tell the tale. It would be better to just leave Fairfax High forever, get a GED someday. I should just forget it happened, and avoid ever seeing Antoine or anyone else from that school again.
My ass twinges and reminds me of Antoine’s big black cock ramming inside. The memory of that huge thing both frightens and turns me on. I can’t believe it even fit. It probed so deep, it felt like it was going to come out through my throat. It looked more like a tool than part of a man, and it left me feeling as though I had been hammered and drilled rather than fucked. I ache from deep within, and my rectum burns.
I stand in front of the mirror, bend over, and I quickly examine my ass. It is swollen and raw, and gapes open to show a rosy, infamed interior. My asses appearance both alarms and excites me. Having survived the encounter, I am a enraptured by the memory. The way Antoine used me makes me feel like a slut, a fuck hole available to whoever wants to take me. This image both excites and frightens me. But the grim reality of Antoine’s hateful scorn as he fucked me reminds me of my vulnerability. I need a protector.
Cesar knocks. “Hey chica, is that you in there? Hurry up, I need to piss.”
“Sorry, something I ate is making me sick. Let me clean up.” I wipe the gross and incriminating splatters from the rim of the toilet and flush again.
“It’s late. I want to take you out with me tonight, show off my little chica.”
“I’m almost done. Sorry I am late.”
“Yeah, you should be ready by now.” A note of suspicion has entered his voice. “Why are you so late?”
“I was just talking to a teacher about some things. He told me I was doing well in his class.”
“Big deal. It won’t make any difference. You should just quit school and hang with me. I’ll get us initiated into the Mara.” That’s the gang that he is affiliated with; the gang that rules this part of LA.
“I don’t think I would fit in.” Mara Salvatrucha is ruthless, macho and violent. Even Cesar is a mere wannabee, too soft for them.
I emerge, and he slaps my ass. “I am working on getting us initiated right now. If you can learn to look and act like a full time chica, I am going to get them to take you as a girl”
The prospect is both thrilling and frightening. Mara owns this block. They control the neighborhood from Sunset to Olympic, from Alameda to Vermont. Even Crips don’t confront Mara on its turf. “They wouldn’t take long to figure out what I am. Unless you are going to buy me a sex change operation.”
“It’s OK for a cholo to screw a maricone. We don’t think it’s gay as long as the maricone is the bottom.”
“You know I am OK with being submissive.” I give him a seductive smile and put my arms around his shoulders. “But how do you know the Mara will not hurt me? The Crips at Fairfax love to stomp the gay students.”
“I told them about you, and my Mara bosses like a good looking maricone. We’ll be a package deal. A street soldier and a bed warmer.” He laughs and waves toward a pile of packages on the floor behind the door. “That reminds me. I got you your transie drugs out of the drugstore we jacked last night.”
I look through the pharmacy boxes. Diane 35, Estraderm patches, Estrogel and Depo-Provera.
“Didn’t they have the other ones the list, Proscar, Propecia or Spironolactone?” He’d missed the anti-androgens completely.
“I had to hurry. Jose didn’t tie up the security guard right, and he got free, we had to beat the shit out of him and split.”
Still, I am very happy. I have enough estrogen to last me through the summer and beyond. But I pout. “I need everything on my list if I am going to make these boobs grow, and keep from getting one of these.” I point to my larynx, where I can feel an Adam’s Apple forming.
“You bitch just like a chica. Don’t worry, after we cool off we’ll jack another Pharmacia. At the rate the cristy is selling we’ll need more pseudophedrine to keep our lab supplied. We are going to cook this up tonight here.” He opens a duffel bag stuffed with Sudafed and Advil Cold and Sinus.
“You can’t use the apartment. What if mom comes home?”
“Don’t worry about her. She and my dad are out copping smack. They won’t come back until they have shot it all up.”
His cell phone sounds a raucous hip-hop ring tone, and he answers “Hola. Hector.” Then he listens as a voice barks orders in muffled Spanish. “OK, I got it. I hand off to the silver Acura MDX that’s going to pull up in front of the Duncan Donuts, five minutes.” He got up lazily, put on his black hoody and grabbed my butt as he passed. “Got to go make a delivery to a chele. And I’ll have some of this when I come back.” He smacks my butt. I suppress a wince and smile.
“I am always down for that, Cesar.”
I sweep up my hormone trove and pop my afternoon dose of Diane as I head for the shower. The bathroom door handle wobbles uselessly in my hand and I jerk the door open. I step into the peeling, dank bathroom. I try to keep it clean, but there is no money for cleaning products. The micro-organisms are in full rebellion.
I strip off my boy clothes. I look at my gauzy reflection in fogged mirror. My butt is too skinny, my arms are too long. I am already too tall to be an Asian girl. In profile, my boobs are barely perceptible bumps. I must hasten my transition, before my boy hormones change me irrevocably. But Cesar failed to get the anti-androgens I need.
The mold splotched curtain billows in the steam and I step into the asthmatic shower, which alternately hisses a spray of hot and freezing water, never enough. The soap is a multi color mélange of remnants squeezed together. I rub my ass gingerly, and insert a tentative finger. It is puckered and abraded. I hope Cesar doesn’t notice. I towel off with a stiff, grey towel, and moisturize.
I wince as I rub my buttocks, and look down. A purplish welt is forming on my left butt cheek. If Cesar sees it, he will ask questions.
Now I am worried. Cesar could deduce my encounter with Antoine, misconstrue my helplessness as consent, and punish me.
Over the metallic whir of the bathroom fan I hear Spanish chatter. I peek out into the living room. Cesar has returned from his drug deal, and stares intently at a game show playing on Univision. He doesn’t notice, so I close the door and squirt tap water into my ass from an old douche bottle. I hold it in as long as I can as I put on my make up.
Cesar wants me to dress as a girl when we are together. He brings me new clothes and make up, so I am okay with that. In public, I attract fewer gawks and tittering stares as a girl, than as a boy. I finish my eyeliner, putting on more than I like, to look a little slutty, the way he wants me.
As I finish with my eyes, my bowel starts spasming. The crude internal cleansing and Antoine’s rough treatment of me forces me to the toilet. The seat is loose, broken from its brackets. I have to hold it steady with my hands when I sit. I let the brackish flow of water, semen, mucous and shit hiss into the toilet bowl. It burns and hurts me. I double over, fighting back tears of pain and anxiety. When my stomach stops heaving, I nervously examine the mixture of semen, diarrhea and blood. I panic, wondering whether Antoine has HIV and I am now infected. He’s not gay or a druggie, but he’s probably been sexually active since he was about eleven. I start feeling sick and scared.
I spritz on some dime store perfume, Charlie, and pretend that it’s Chanel. I dress in low cut jeans and a tee shirt, pony tail my hair back with a big, fluffy Scrunchi and I decide I can pass for a chick.
I emerge, and strike a pose for Cesar.
“You look hot. Are you going somewhere?”
“Yeah, you are taking me to get the back tattoo and a belly ring you promised me.”
“I am broke, and I thought you wanted to wait until after school’s out.”
“It’s over for me. That’s what I was talking to the teacher about. He is going to get me a hall pass for my final exams. So I am ready for my tatt. I have one picked out.”
“Awesome. But what about taking care of this?” He points at his dick.
Even if my ass could handle another fuck at this moment, I don’t want my bruise and the puckered ass to become an issue. So I lead him to the couch, push him gently to sit, and kneel between his legs, and muster my most radiant smile. “I can help you with that.”
I take out my pony tail and shake my hair free. Cesar knots his fingers through my hair and presses my lips against his cock. I take it into my mouth. It is soft and salty. I flick my tongue at it and it twitches. I run my tongue from its tip to where it joins his ball sack, and traverse him a dozen times, tracing the tip of my tongue up and down, wiggling and twitching it as I go. I cup his balls in my hand and tug gently
“Oh, I like it like that. I’ll take more of that.” I nod back, now I take hold his scrotum, squeeze his nuts and feed his cock down my throat, craning my neck to fully ingest him, like swallowing a banana in one gulp. His cock seems to expand in my throat, and I stifle my gag reflex and though I can barely breathe around him I let him push and pull all of the way in. His pubes tickle my nostrils when he rams, but I will myself not to sneeze or twist away. I relax my throat, and glide back and forth, taking short breaths when I can. He pulls out, and I exhale and quickly inhale.
“Don’t stop doing that thing.”
“I almost suffocated.”
“Just finish me. Get on the couch, I want you to just stay still while I skull fuck you.
I pull off my top and feed him one of my tiny tits. He flicks it with his tongue, I take his place on the couch, prop myself on the arm and slip a cushion behind my neck. He kneels astride me, thighs crushing my boobies, and grasps my head. He begins jamming it in my mouth, and I let myself yield. He is going really fast, and I can barely keep up with him. After a few minutes, he pulls himself out and brings himself to a finish with his hands. I watch as the first droplet of semen spits forth, covering my nose, cheeks and mouth. I squint as one droplet drips down the bridge of my nose toward my eye. Now more globs hit my, my chin, my neck, and my boobs, and I lunge forward to capture the spouting baby whale and swallow the last of his load. I squeeze his balls and the final droplet plunks on the tip of my tongue. I roll it into my mouth, hold it there, and gulp it with a flourish.
I am pleased with myself. He will be satisfied for the day, and I can keep my battered behind my secret. I look up at Cesar with a grateful smile. “You are delicious. I love to eat your cum.” The flavor of his semen is non-descript, like salty, unflavored gelatin. But I like its warmth and smooth texture as glides over my tongue and down my throat.
“I am going to become a blow job specialist.”
“No, because I really like this tight little ass.” He slaps the spot that Antoine bruised. I stifle a cry.
“It’s too small and narrow. I want a J’Lo butt.”
“Most guys like tight little butts.” He swirls an errant droplet of sperm around my nipple. “My cum makes your skin nice and soft. I should charge you for it.”
“I can’t afford it, but it is my favorite after school snack.” I should really be charging him. Or someone.
Cesar laughs. “That’s good. He looks at his watch. “We got to get going, and fast, too. No need to shower. I need to get over to Hollywood and Vine while it’s still rush hour, plenty of customers for this.” He holds up a plastic grocery bag of dime bags of crystal meth. “While I deal to these to the commuters, you get you that tatt and belly ring. If I sell all of these my profit should cover the cost.”
He gets up and starts dressing.
I pat the sperm from my face, neck and chest with a paper towel and repair my make up. “I want a Betty Boop tatt, right here.” I pat my lower back.
“Your whore tag got to say MS-13 somewhere, for Mara Salvatrucha. Otherwise, I’ll never get a trannie into the Mara.”
I am to be branded with a gang logo. The prospect appalls and entices me. It would be a strong statement, and protection against insult and intimidation. Affiliation with MS might scare off Crips like Antoine. No one wants to fuck with MS’s property. Even the cops steer clear. “OK, but not so it’s like a cattle brand.”
“Yeah, do something that’s just works into the design. You’re the artist.
I grab a piece of paper and pen and put it into my fake Vuitton bag.
“I’ll draw something on the way.”
We run together for the bus, holding hands as we sprint the last few yards toward the departing bus. I wave frantically, flash a smile, and the bus driver sees me and hits the brakes. The bus doors gasp open and as I board, the driver smiles, apparently happy that he waited a few seconds more for a close look at me. Cesar runs up behind and gives my ass a proprietary pat. The driver turns back to his controls and hits the accelerator, jolting us into a nearby seat. I land in Cesar’s lap. He clutches me, and whispers in my ear, “Good move, chica.”
I am lying in bed, trying to find a comfortable position on my side. My back is raw and itchy from the tattooist’s needles. My tummy is swollen and sore, and developing a lurid bruise. I peek beneath the threadbare sheet. In the moonlight, I can see the glint of surgical steel of the bar that links the skin above my navel to the cavity. It throbs with every heartbeat. I lift myself up and gingerly to turn to my right side, trying to avoid contact of my belly or back against the lumpy mattress.
From the next room, I hear a chatter of Spanish voices, Cesar and two real MS crazies, Hector and Jose. They are in the kitchen, cooking meth in a plastic tub from a toxic brew of pseudoephedrine pills, ammonium nitrate fertilizer, lighter fluid, the guts of a few AA lithium batteries, lye, salt, and drain opener. The nauseating smell of a chemical reaction permeates the apartment. My eyes are tearing, my nose and throat are parched and sore, and my senses are revolted. And I am afraid. They argue about the recipe, and as they cook, a football match plays in the background. Suddenly, silence, except for the excited tones of the television announcer.
I know how dangerous it is to cook meth, and worry about who minding the pot while they are preoccupied with the match. I lurch up from the bed and put on cotton panties and a long Lakers T-shirt with Kobe’s old number 8. I peek out of our room toward the kitchen. They are huddled around a television as the meth merrily boils, unwatched and out of control. The ladle vibrates in the pot, and I hasten to stir it, and avert the imminent explosion. The kitchen is hot and putrid with toxic fumes. But the cholos are rapt, now screaming at the television, then screaming, hurling their half empty Corona’s against the wall in a fit of rage.
“That faggot Ronaldo, he deserved a red card, and instead he gets a goal.”
“Salvador is finished. Guatemala a wins again. We’re fucked.”
“Yeah, I wish I was there. I’d heat the place up now, with this.” Hector takes out a Glock and twirls it around his finger. He notices me and waves the gun in my direction. I flinch. He smiles with a snaky grin, and cocks his head toward Cesar.
“Hey, who’s this? You didn’t tell me that you had a chica stashed here.”
“She’s not a chica. That’s the maricone I told you about. She wants to affiliate with MS.”
“No shit. We don’t have no maricones. C’mere, ladyboy.”
“I will, if someone comes and watches this methadrine menudo.”
Hector laughs, and waves Cesar over to the still fulminating pot of vaporous chemicals.
I approach Hector warily. He looks like he has been sampling his own inventory. His handsome Mestizo face is taut and drawn. He is sweaty and his hair is greasy and unkempt. His clothes look like they have been stored unwashed on the floor for weeks. He has the look of a predator that has itself become the hunted. Hector appears to be a dangerous man. But that attracts me. I want someone who can become a danger to my enemies. I decide to give him my best.
I am wobbly with pain and the Vicodin Cesar gave me. When I draw near, he pulls me toward him.
“Let’s see your package, vestido.” He pulls up the T-shirt and grabs between my legs.
“Bingo.” He grinds my soft and tiny cock between his fingers.
“Like a big clit.” He rubs it, rolls the satiny skin of my short, narrow shaft over the tiny, pointed glans. He folds my scrotum over the compacted cock. “Look, all gone.” I blush with self-consciousness. I have played with myself this way many times, dreaming that my enfolded scrotum was a mons.
“Show him your tatt, Baby.”
I am relieved to distract him from playing with my detested cock and balls. I turn around and lift the shirt above the tatt.
He studies it, and after a few moments slaps my cheek gleefully. “Check this out, Jose. This maricone already belongs to us.” Jose walks over, and examines my back. Betty Boop is lounging on a bed of roses, her vacant eyes enticing and inviting. At the left end, the rose bush entwines a looping M, and on the right, a sinuous S.
“That’s good work. Who’s the artist?”
“I drew it, and the needlework was done at Inkspot on Hollywood and Argyle. It took hours and hurt like the devil”
“It looks fresh.”
“I got it done earlier tonight. This too.” I turn and show off the bar bell piercing my tummy. It is plain surgical steel, and the pierced flesh throbs with pain despite the Vicodin.
“Why aren’t you wearing MS belly ring?”
“I have to wear this for the first two weeks. After the piercing heals I can wear jewels, if anyone wants to buy some for me.” I smile at Hector flirtatiously.
“You design an MS belly ring, and the Mara will pay. If you make it pretty, like the tatt, we’ll make a bunch of them so all of the chicas will wear them. Hey Cesar, this is a very talented maricone you found for us. Does she know how to suck cock?”
“She’s a cock sucking specialist. At least until that tatt sets, aren’t you, baby.”
“Nothing back here for two weeks.” I point to my ass. “I’m not sure I can wait that long.” I smile at Hector flirtatiously.
“I’d love to have some of that.” Hector placed a protective hand on my butt. “ But don’t you mess up that MS tag, Little Dog.” He shoots a menacing look at Cesar.
I am already thinking about the MS belly ring design, and taking my place as the Maricone Madonna of this devilish band. I have always dreaded the Mara, but Hector surprises me with his good taste and open mindedness toward me. I am roused from my reverie by the sound of his belt buckle clanking on the floor.
He presses down on my shoulders, forcing me to my knees. His cock strains against the fabric of his boxer shorts. He pulls my t-shirt over my head, and flings it across the room.
“How did you get those little bitch tits?”
Hector has reached down and squeezed my left breast, as he thrusts his cock between my lips. I look up and glance at him apologetically to excuse my failure to respond. But Cesar fills in for me.
“Those pills I grabbed up at the Pharmacia job were for our little chica here. She uses them to grow her boobs and stay nice and girly. Isn’t she sweet?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s a sweet little mouth on that chica. Suck me good, babe. I haven’t cum for days.”
Hector is a big man on the streets, but not in the pants. I can easily take his full length into my mouth by tilting me head back slightly. His uncut tip barely tickles my palate, and my gag reflex never really engages. Hector is a breeze to blow. I feel confident and at ease, even as Hector grows more histrionic and vigorous. In less than a minute, my mouth is suffused with an hors d’ouvre of precum.
“Faster, bitch, faster.” He slams my head against his belly, and grips my neck and head in his hands. I look up at him. His muscles are bulging, and sweat droplets are forming on his brow. One drops onto my cheek and runs down like a tear. He is working as hard as I am. The veins on his muscular, tattooed arms pop out. The smell of his sweaty body overcomes the acrid, meth lab atmosphere. I hear Jose and Cesar chanting encouragement and laughing, but it is mere background noise. I feel like Hector and I are alone, that I am alone with my new Buddha, bowed before him in this prayerful embrace. I worship him, and he, me. He responds to every change in the rhythm and angle with fresh bursts of energy and enthusiasm. His grunts and Spanish expletives are the soundtrack to my performance. I sense he is about to cum, and slow down, prolonging his pleasure. He coos “Muy Buena, chica.” Then I accelerate, and he responds with more grunts and spasmodic, uncontrolled thrusts that so unbalance him that my skinny arms strain to hold him upright. When Hector cums, a thick coating of salty, ropey jism fills my mouth. It is slimy and sour, like it has been stored too long and absorbed to many drugs and other toxins from the poisonous world Hector inhabits. I swallow quickly to make room for the next spurt, even larger, and then another, a little smaller and thinner, and finally, I squeeze his balls and let the last droplets fall onto my outstretched tongue.
Hector pats my cheek gently. “That’s a good maricone. You give the best blow job I have ever had.”
I smile sweetly. “Thank you. I mean, gracias.”
Hector pulls up his pants and bows. “De nada.”
From his place by the meth cauldron Cesar smiles and gives me a hand sign that I recognize as encouragement.
Hector pats my head and motions to Jose. “Your turn, brother. Be nice, though. I may want to come back for more later.”
I stay on my knees and wait for Jose to undress. He has a more Mayan, stubby look, than Hector, but his skin is smooth and almost hairless, like mine. His cock is bigger than Hectors, but nothing I can’t easily handle.
As Jose approaches me, I feel confident, wanted and attractive. Hector, Jose and Cesar are using me, but not abusing me as Antoine had. And I need them to protect me as I transition to become a woman, and for them to accept me now as I am and later as I will be. And thus, in kind, I am using them. I feel, for the first time since I began transitioning, that I belong. As I take the first gulp of Jose’s penis, I am happy.
TBC

Secondary Education
Tyla Flowers
[email protected]

Chapter 4

Initiation

I wait in line at Target behind a squat Latina and her raucous brood. She barks shrill commands and threats, which they cheerfully ignore as they slip cheap toys into her already stuffed shopping cart. Her boyfriend ignores the anarchy as he adds an armful of last minute items to their tottering pile of goods. The cashier rolls her eyes at me she mindlessly scans the items, oblivious to the ongoing bedlam. I wink back, and smile. She is the perfect clerk for me.

I point at mom’s bulbous butt, smirk, and throw my arm around Cesar. “No wonder you Latinos prefer T Girlfriends.”

“It’s not the booty, it’s the way you ladyboys suck cock. It comes naturally to you, because you got one to practice with.”

I punch him playfully, and he grabs my butt. The clerk notices and gives me a sisterly smile. I submit to his slobbery kiss, meet the clerk’s gaze again, and she’s still smiling. I am bright spot in her dreary landscape. My shopping day at Target will be a success.

For even Target, though a cheap chic fashion leader, doesn’t offer the droplet earrings, the crystal drop pendants, oval link bracelets, zirconium encrusted rings, and True Religion jeans for the bargain prices that I pay. I am high tech shoplifting. My cart is loaded with miss-marked goods labeled with counterfeit bar codes that Cesar and I have printed at home, and surreptitiously substituted for the Target’s. Isaac Mizrahi tops for $4.99? Ridiculous, I agree, but that is what the new label says. And that is what I will gladly pay with the drug money that I am laundering, and multiplying for MS-13.

Mara will sell the Mizrahi’s on E-Bay for $20. The proceeds will go into Pay Pal accounts Mara has set up for the friends and family, aunts and countless cousins of Mara’s members. The ragged slums of Colá³n will be flooded with precious cash, which I will have helped to multiply and launder. Mara will use this bounty to increase its wealth and power, for it uses charity, as well as terror to maintain its grip on the barrio. For my part in devising and implementing this scheme, I get to keep the prize gleanings of my shopping sprees. I love my job with the Mara. I am its number one shopper. We pay for our purloined load of luxury goods in cash, and with a friendly smile. I wish the clerk good day, and I mean it. I am having a great day.

Jose is waiting in parking lot. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel of the battered Astro, bristling with speed-induced anxiety.
“What took you so long? I thought you were busted.”
I sweep aside a greasy pile of food wrappings and sit in the passenger seat. I swing the rear view mirror toward me and freshen my lip gloss. “The longest lines are the safest.”
Jose abruptly swings the rearview back in place and checks it.
“Yeah, I know what you mean about long lines.” He produces a shard of mirror from beneath his seat, snorts up a pile of crystalline powder, and exhales pleasure. “Too bad, it’s all gone.” He waves a smudged fragment of mirror at me.”
“That’s OK, I don’t want any.” I have witnessed my mother’s spiral into addiction. I have enough problems without adding drugs.
Cesar comes to the driver’s side window. “All loaded up, boss. Let’s go.” Jose clunks the van into gear and it jolts into motion. “No room for you, cholo.” He dismisses Cesar with a wave of his bejeweled finger bling.
“We are late on the drop off. Hector’s called five times, driving me crazy.”
Cesar waves and lopes off toward a bus stop. “See you back at the Casa.”
I blow Cesar a kiss, and then gesture at the merchandize piled in the back of the grimy van. “I have to take my time when I shop. I got True Religion, Mossimo, all of the best brands, for about one tenth price. Mara will double its money from this haul.”
“It’s too complicated. I’d rather sell dope, or maybe your faggot ass, out on the street.”
“Why do you hate me so much? I work hard for the Mara.”
“Mara is not short for maricone. We are not a bunch of faggots like you are.”
“I am a T-Girl, and that’s different. You were happy to let me blow you.”
“Once was enough. We Mara should have real girls, not
dressed-up vestidos like you.”
“I think I look good, and Hector wants to initiate me.” I pout provocatively, but Jose looks away, concentrates on the bumpy ride down Virgil toward the Mara’s home base in Pico Union.
“Maybe Hector’s got too much crank up his nose to smell the difference between pussy and a shithole.”
“Don’t say that. Look at this, I look good.” I pull up my crop top, and show off my boobs. “Look, almost a B-cup, and shaped like a girl’s.” A passing car cholos honks and yells admiringly.
Jose reaches over and yanks my top down, then pulls a hard right down a littered alley. “Shit, I think those guys are 18 Street. You are going to get us killed, you loco skank. If you want to be Mara, you should be a man, fighting for Mara on the street.” He pull another couple of rights, speeds down chain link bordered rows of dowdy apartment buildings, and gets back on Virgil.
“But that’s not what I do best. I use my head for Mara, both ways. I invented the new logo, and the fake bar code scheme. And I suck cock good.”
“Your shoplifting scheme is risky, too complicated, not for us. Mara gets what it wants by force, not tricks. You are making weak with your schemes.” José snorts disgust and blasts his horn at a laggard Toyota that pauses too long at the stoplight.
“I’d like to fuck that fucker up. And you too, before you ruin this posse.”
“You won’t, though. Hector is the boss. And he likes me, my mouth, and my ideas.” I purse my lips and wriggle my shoulders.
“You just shut your mouth for now.” Jose stares straight ahead drives faster toward the apartment complex near Rampart and Third where Hector’s posse of the MS-13 has its headquarters.
Bella Casa Manor’s walls are filigreed with MS-13 emblems proclaiming its status as the center of Hector’s fiefdom. A nine year old clutching a cell phone eyes us warily until Jose flashes him a sign. We park, and the kid jumps nervously, and then quickly complies when Jose barks an order to watch the van.
The kid smiles obsequiously and posts himself atop a neighbor’s stoop to better watch over the haul from my illicit shopping spree. The trove belongs to Mara now, so it is inviolable.
The Bella Casa Manor’s security doors are propped open with a garbage can. Jose and I staggers in, burdened by the dead weight of stuffed shopping bags. We walk through the graffiti and trash encrusted foyer, past an abandoned, algae-scummed swimming pool. A partially deflated float toy bobs forlornly in the greenish water. Pico Union is even dirtier and more run down than Hollywood.
Still, I am glad to be out. I have been trapped in my own little hell for the last two weeks, as I recover from my belly piercing and tattoo. At first, the belly ring hurt so much I couldn’t wear anything except pajamas, and even sucking Cesar off made me feel like I was going to break open and bleed out. Getting laid was out of the question, but today, for the first time, I feel ready. And I want it. But Jose has made his distaste for me clear. I wonder how Hector react when he sees me.
Cesar has been very nice to me, but he seems weak and powerless compared to Hector, who has done hard time and has killed rivals and enemies. Hector exudes manly ruthlessness. Cesar is a wannabee.
Still, I am grateful to Cesar. He introduced me to Mara, and now, for the first time in my life I feel like I have someone watching
my back, and taking care of me. While I was getting better from the belly ring, Cesar brought me magazines and beauty products, and even picked up my independent study work from Mr. Knudsen. When I felt good enough to get out and around Cesar took me to a Vietnamese nail salon for a manicure and pedicure, and to a Filipino hair salon for a haircut and highlights.
I think I look hot in my French tipped nails and my fashionable haircut. I copied my from Paris Hilton’s picture in Us magazine. I want to be a celebrity. I would love to have paparazzi taking my picture in front of hot nightclubs. I want to drink martinis and sleep with hip hop stars. I think I almost look the part.
I awake from this daydream when five inch pumps slip on a discarded needle. I have practiced walking in high heels around my apartment, but I am unaccustomed to wearing them out in the real world. I nearly tumble down the cracked staircase. Jose drops his packages, catches me. He is holding me in his arms, and I smile and say thank you. But Jose frowns, and curses.
“Watch where you walk, maricone.” I tread carefully past the fetid garbage bags which line the balcony, holding the wobbly railing. We pause at the door of unit 13.
Jose puts down his burden of Target merchandise and knocks in a measured pattern. A syncopated knock returns, Jose responds, and the door opens on a dark, smoky and rank smelling apartment, crowded with MS 13 members and acolytes. Hector stands at the center of this knot of gang bangers stands Hector. At his feet a bloodied body sprawls on the stained linoleum of the kitchen. He kicks the inert form in the mid section, and grunts an order to two of the home boys, who pick pull the body to its feet and lug it away. The head lolls I see that it is Cesar. His face is swollen nearly past recognition and drips blood. I gasp, and turn away in horror and disgust. Jose seizes my head and forces me to look closely.
“Congratulate your lover boy. He’s our newest member.”
“Why did you kill him?”
“He’s not dead. He’s just resting after his initiation.” Jose’s joke draws laughter from the audience of a dozen or so MS soldiers.
Hector sees me. “Time for you now, T-chica.”
I want to leave. I can’t imagine surviving a beating in like the one Cesar has suffered. Hector sees my fright. “Don’t worry, we have a special procedure for the chica’s.” A couple of beefy young MS soldiers grab me under my arms and pick me up. I kick my legs helplessly as they lift me across the crowded living room. Random hands paw at me as I pass through. I hear fragments of their commentary. “Yeah, the T chica’s got tits,” and “the he-she’s got a hot little twat.”
They push me into a tiny room and fling me face down onto a narrow, unkempt twin bed. Groping hands pop the snap of my new “7 For All Mankind” jeans and yank them down to my ankles. “Strip and lie down on the bed.”
The door slams and I hear a lock snick behind me. I jump up to try to get out, or to appeal to Hector, but it’s locked. I look for an escape but the windows are barred. Outside, the streets glimmer in the fading afternoon light. Inside, the room is dark, filthy, and strewn with the residue of bygone orgies: condom wrappers, discarded underwear, and cigarette butts. On the other bed, I notice the prone body of a young girl. She moans quietly. “Get out, go away…”
I draw near and whisper “Are you OK?”
She replies with another groan, and replies “Yeah, cuz it’s your turn now. Just do what they say. It will be over soon enough.” She rolls over to face the wall, and exposes her backside to me. Her back tattoo bears a disconcerting similarity to my own. I hear a few stifled sobs.
“Can I help?”
“I don’t need any help. I’m Mara now. They just sexed me in.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those guys out there, they all just fucked me, I’m officially MS now. Now it’s your turn, so my troubles are over.”
I hear thudding and a crash from outside our bedroom. I am panicking. “What’s going on now”
My roommate replies “Now they’re going to jump in another guy. In a few minutes, they are going to sex you in.”
I am hyperventilating. I force control over myself. I need to be relaxed and receptive to survive a gang banging, and to this chica, one of my soon-to-be sisters, I must appear cool and confident. I relax on the bed, and pull off my spaghetti strap top, and unhook and slip off my lacy purple Wonderbra. “How many of them?” I feign careless indifference to my fate, though inside me, my heart pounds, and my mind races with anxiety. Will I die in this filthy, smelly room, and be carried away dead to a burial in a dumpster? This mattress is filthy, redolent of curdled vomit, stale beer and sex. The steel bed frame is chipped and squeaky. I want to get away, but the windows are barred, and the door is locked. I try to find solace in Hector’s lust for me, but after the cruel fate he dealt to Cesar, I am afraid for myself. But I can’t show it to this girl, or to them.
She too affects an eerie calm. “I don’t know. I just closed my eyes, pretended it was a dream, so I lost count. Tell you what, I’ll keep track for you.” She rolls back over and looks me over. “I don’t know you, where are you from?”
Before I can answer, the door resounds with a loud knock. “Shut the fuck up and get ready.” Hector’s voice is ominous, impatient. I turn around as I slither out of my panties. I am tucked, but my roommate notices the bulge. “Oh, you’re the trannie. You’re so cute, I never would have known if I didn’t see your little thing. This should be interesting to watch.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to put on a good show for you.”
I lie face down on the bed and wet my anus with some saliva. Outside, the jumping in is ending, and the fusillade of kicks has subsided. I hear laughter, and the swish of a limp body dragged across the floor. Then, the lock turns, and the door opens.
“Who want first fuck?” Hector is making a generous offer to his followers, but they reply in unison, as if rehearsed.
“Esta primo, jefe.”
I realize that this initiation is as much as proving Hector’s primacy over his gang, as my subservience to it. But I am willing to play my role, if that is the price of acceptance, and protection.
Hector grunts and grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks up my head. I take him into my mouth, and taste a fishy residue on his cock. I recognize the aroma from my mom’s panties. It is my first taste of pussy, and to my surprise, I like it. It makes me feel sexy, and I start to relax. I like blowing Hector in front of a crowd of horny cholos, and I want them to want me. This is my chance to be accepted. I decide that I should perform like Paris Hilton. I close my eyes and imagine that I am in a movie, performing oral for a camera. Hector is my co-star, and the gangstas who catcall and whoop are the camera crew. As my fantasy deepens, my fear subsides.
When I open my eyes, it is still Pico Union, not a porno set, but it is still performance. I give it my best. Hector is small, so he is easy to suck. I am glad he is first. I know he will want to finish in my ass, where his smallish cock will ease the way for the others..
I pump my lips on his cock, moaning enthusiastically. From the crowd I hear hoots of appreciation. “Ladyboy, ladyboy got to fuck the ladyboy.” I put on a show, swallowing Hector’s cock all the way, while gazing up toward him worshipfully.
Hector whoops with glee. “Look at that, isn’t the ladyboy the best little cocksucker ever.” He pulls out and gets behind me, pulls my butt up high in the air.
“Look at that. Isn’t that the cutest little trannie ass you ever saw?”
“I haven’t seen that much trannie ass before,” someone answers. Hector laughs, spits on my ass, and presses his cock against my ass.
“It gets a little dirty back here in the bootie, so I’m going to cover up. Somebody throw me a rubber.”
He rolls on a condom, and barks an order. “Crazy 8, you fuck ladyboy’s face now.”
Hector grabs my thighs for leverage and then rams and penetrates me to the hilt in a single swift lunge. The intrusion is so sudden that even his short and slender cock jolts me with pain. I let out an aggrieved gasp, and the crowd grunts back appreciation, high fiving their leaders’ brutal assault on me. Hector rides me with short, rough stabs that set the bed squeaking and my tiny ball sack and boobs swaying. Hector slaps my cheeks, and says “I always wanted a little fuck pony. Tyla’s my cock’s favorite ride, oh yeah.” Our audience laughs, and chants “Ladyboy, ladyboy, ladyboy” manically.
I force a smile and throw a wanton glance, but before I can say a word or make eye contact my mouth is plugged by Crazy 8’s cock. His is a large uncircumcised penis several shades darker than Hector’s,. It’s coated with the same fishy film of dried vaginal secretions. I swallow it as deep as it will go, and the grab his buttocks to force it past my tonsils. I look up at him with blurry eyes, watery with the effort of forcing the cock in and quelling my gag reflex. I roll my lips over my teeth, arch my palate, and pump him down my throat, taking short breaths on the upstrokes. I reach one arm back and stroke Hector’s thigh, which vibrates as he slams his cock into me.
I find a harmonic in their wild motions, and my body bounces between Hector and Crazy 8 like an oscillating spring, rippling rhythmically as Hector drums my ass and Crazy 8 drills my mouth. They synchronize and accelerate in an unspoken conspiracy of sexual motion.
I am hot with the friction of two cocks flailing at either end of me. My ass feels moist and supple and my lips are puckered and full. I answer their rhythms with my own undulations. I go down on Crazy 8’s cock as I retract my ass from Hector’s cock, then thrust back on Hector as I pull back, breathing hard on Crazy’s retreating penis. Hector tugs my hair one way, and Crazy pulls my head the other. Hector slaps at my butt cheeks, and Crazy gropes at my jiggling boobs. I let them control me, possess me, and descend into a helpless thrall of pain and pleasure as I await their finish. Hector finishes first, banging so hard against my ass I can visualize the new bruises on my thighs, and then Crazy geysers a load cum into my mouth that leaves me coughing, choking, and gasping for breath. My eyes cloud with fatigue from my exertions, relief for my success and anxiety for the future. I am winded, wounded and wired from my encounter with Hector and Crazy 8. How will I survive the onslaught of the baying mob that crowds around my soiled bed, demanding to be next?
Hector praises me as he departs. “Ladyboy ass is skanky but oh so much tighter than pussy. All of you should try it.”
And so they did, all but Jose, who lurks in by the drawn curtain, counting Hector’s soldiers as they one by one, attacked me. Some of them enter for a few strokes and leave quickly. A few fuck me until they come and then stagger off to rejoin, and regale their comrades in the living room. The nine year old lookout who called himself Sonic can’t get a hard-on, so I suck his childlike penis and hairless balls futilely, until he gets embarrassed, slaps my face and leaves. Only Jose and I know how many different penises penetrate me in the four hours I spend in the squalid bedroom of Unit 13, Bella Casa Manor.
I am alone with Jose at last.
“Get up, strip, and go to the bathroom and shower. And stay there.”
Night has fallen, and a cool damp marine layer has crept over Los Angeles. I shiver in the cold and dark as the plumbing rattles to life. My bowels are swollen and full, but paralyzed with the pounding I have endured. My stomach is bloated and achy, but when I stick my finger down my throat, it provokes only dry heaves.
I look apprehensively into the dark, chipped mirror. I am pleasantly surprised. My lips are puffy, my make up is smeared, and my hair is matted with sweat and dried cum. But none of the slaps and punches or the scratches, bruises and marks of grasping have really hurt me. I gingerly finger my ass, fearful that it will be frayed and bloody, but is puckered but still feels tight. The bruises on my buttocks are faint and shallow. My nipples are raw and sore, but not scratched or scarred. My lips and tongue are swollen, and my jaw is sore, but my face looks fine. I cast a sultry gaze into the dark, spotted mirror. I decide that I have become pretty, better than most girls. I want to be the most beautiful of all. From my make up bag I take my second Diane-35 of the day.
I feel strong, and more confident. I have endured initiation to the Mara, and can call myself one with them. The Mara were rough, but careful with their new ladyboytoy. For this, I am grateful to my new comrades.
I shower in the dark, dirty bathroom. Over the hiss of water, I hear celebratory voices. I look forward to greeting my new friends, sharing a beer, and maybe even a hit ice from a glass pipe. Through submission, I have become Mara. I am happy that they will have me.

TBC

Secondary Education
Tyla Flowers
[email protected]

Chapter 5
A Hard Road to Ho.

I awake alone, my limbs twisted in rumpled sheets. The tattered window shade flaps in a desultory breeze billowing in one moment, sucking against the screen in the next. The cheerful trill of a passing ice cream truck making its final rounds makes me hungry, and I drag myself from the bed. I look out the window into the gloaming. It’s night. I have slept a couple of hours. The giddy party that was my initiation has broken up, and the Casa is quiet except for the chatter of Univision on the neighbor’s Spanish TVs and the wailing of their babies. The floor beside me is littered with torn condom rappers. I gather them in my hands and count eleven.

I gather my clothes and dress. There is a Target bag by the side of my bed. I recognize the clothes as some of the mis-priced bargains that Hector and I had hauled earlier. I smile at my good taste and expertise, and pull on pair of red lace thong panties, which creep into my tingling crack and alight it with sensation. I think about the collection of condom wrappers and smile at my accomplishment. The touch of satin in my ass crack makes me want another cock there, but I decide I should recuperate before getting it. I pull on a tiny denim skirt embroidered a pattern of beads on the butt, and a wide leather belt. Then, I slip on a slightly padded push up bra. My breasts converge into a pert cleavage. I squeeze them together, and they quiver. I am surprised at how big I look. I pull on a glittery, low cut halter which displays the upper portion of my boobs, tuck it at the waist to accentuate my curves, cover up my slim shoulders with a little silver jacket.
I find at the bottom of the bag a pair of gold, 5 inch heeled Michael Starrs sandals and a make up bag from L’Oreal. I lace the straps of the sandals in a pattern that ends just below my knees and carves into the soft flesh of my slender ankles. I walk to the bathroom, tottering bit but gradually acclimating to the steep slope of my foot, and look in the mirror. My face is clear, no bruises or scratches. I am relieved. The Mara have been careful with their new possession. I comb out the my bed head hair into a glossy ponytail, and as I put on my make up in the spotted mirror, my beauty emerges from the brush strokes and colors. I like my new look, edgy and a little slutty.

In my purse I find another pack of condoms, a few bucks and a fresh supply of Diane-35. I pop one and swallow it dry. My throat is still raw and it barely goes down. I listen again at the door to the neighborhoods sound. A man and a woman argue incomprehensibly in the courtyard of the Casa. But the apartment is quiet. I emerge from the room, still tottering but with silent footfalls across the ancient, stained shag carpet. The only cholo still around is passed out on the couch, so I silently leave the Casa. I smile at Sonic, still guarding the corner, and he gives me a surly nod and flips open his cell phone. I walk up Rampart, flinching at every passing car. I am dressed like a hooker, and my hair is disheveled. I feel like meat at a market. I want to go home, to take the first bus that comes by, even if I have to transfer at Melrose. I want to get away. A black Escalade with tinted windows and spinners glides to a halt and the door opens. It’s Jose and Hector.
“Where are you going, baby.”
“Home. There was no one there. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You don’t go anywhere without our permission, understand? Now get in the back.”
I climb in and he drives away. “I understand now. What am I supposed to do?”
“Well, here is what you’re going do, baby. You’re going to stand on a street corner and smile and shake your booty. Jose will take care of you, and you take care of the Business. You’re Mara’s street meat now, baby.”
I have always fantasized about being a whore, selling my lips and booty to horny strangers, taking their money and giving them what they want. Now, I have no choice. Mara make the rules for me. I am scared, but thrilled.
“I’ve never done it. I don’t know how.”
“You were great this afternoon. Jose’s turned out a dozen girls before. He’s your teacher tonight.”
Jose grunts.
The reality of streetwalking, right here and now, overwhelms me with a mixture of guilt and excitement.
“Do I have any choice?”
“Sure. I can beat the shit out of you and leave you in the gutter. Or you can do as I say.”
“You’re the boss, Hector.”
“Jose is the boss too, so you listen to what he says.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to drive around look for the trannie stroll. Tyla’s our trannie experiment, isn’t she, Jose?
“Jefe Hector, if you ask me, we got too many experiments. We should stick to what we know.”
“Jose, what we know isn’t enough. Mara has got to get bigger and stronger. I want to be like one of those Moslem militias, what do they call it, the Mahdi Army. Get some bombs and rockets and shit, a kill the fucking mayate and drive them from our hoods. Like those Shiites killing the Sunni’s. Grab up the mayate, torture them, kill them and dump their bodies on their doorsteps. That’s what I want Mara to be.
“Where we going to get those bombs, Hector?”
“Maybe we hook up with some terrorists, get the shit from them.”
“Bring the FBI down on us. Let’s stick to Ice and Ass. Kill the mayate one at a time, drive by shooting, walkups, like we always have.
I am frightened and confused. “I don’t understand. What’s a mayate.”
“What we call the black. Means dung beetle, or shit eater, cuz that’s what we think about the blacks.” I gasp, astonished the violence Hector’s hatred toward another minority.
“You don’t feel that way about Asians, I hope.”
“Don’t worry, we won’t kill the Asians. We’ll keep them around to get vegetables from, and rob. And fuck.” Hector laughs at his own joke. “But the mayate, they’re just like dirt, and they compete for our street.” He drew is finger across his neck. Then he slows as he spots a figure pirouetting in the glow of his headlights. It’s tall, large breasted Latina with red hair piled high on her head. She is wearing a tight mini dress and heels even higher than mine.
“This looks like a good spot.” Hector pulls over. Jose gets out of the car, and smashes the streetwalker across the face. She tumbles to the ground and cowers, whimpering.
Jose stands over his crumpled victim. “We’re Mara. And this is our corner.” He kicks the hooker in the stomach and she doubles up into a fetal position. “Now get the fuck out of here, puto, whore.”
The injured hooker pulls herself to her feet and hurries away into the shadows, bleeding profusely from the nose. I get out of the Escalade and Jose guides me toward a little pool of darkness between the street lights. Hector waves and drives off into the night. His cruelty frightens me. In his eyes, I see the same brutal indifference to me as he felt toward her. Only his aim differs. In her, he saw unwanted competition. In me, he sees a chance for profit.
“How much do I charge?” I wonder how little they value me...
“Fifty for a covered blowjob, a hundred for bareback, hundred fifty with CIM. Anal top or bottom is 200, covered only.”
“I can’t top. I don’t get hard any more.”
He hands me a blue pill. “This will do it for you.”
“Where will I perform?”
“Do it in the customer’s car, and don’t let them take you far. Get in and tell the customer to turn right and cruise to the end to the alley.” Jose gestures in the direction of a narrow, trash strewn alley. “There is a parking lot at the end. We’ll take care of any trouble. You just take care of the customer, take his cash, and walk back to this corner. I’ll take care of the money. Easy enough, huh?”
“I’m tired from this afternoon.”
“I figured. Here’s something to rev you up.”
He hands me a still-warm pipe. I turn away from the oncoming headlights and take an acrid puff of smoke from the pipe. In a few minutes, my jaw sets into a forced smile, and my body tingles with a manic energy that demands to be sated by sex. The gusting Santa Ana winds caress my skin and carry my spirit away from this dingy corner to a jeweled paradise of light and sound. I am a princess on an adventure in the night. I am living a dream that has lurked beneath my consciousness for all of the months that I have been remolding my flesh into the contour of a lithe young woman. I am a whore. I will be paid for my beauty and my sexual prowess. And I am glad. I flash my eyes and waggle my mini-skirted butt into the glare of the traffic. Jose lurks in the shadows.
The cars drive by in a choppy river of light and noise. I stare into the headlights and their glare makes my eyes halo and water. I try not to squint or tear, but the constant ebb and flow of bright lights strains me, and I attract no attention at all. From the darkness I hear Jose chattering commands over the phone. He pauses, and says “C’mon, chica boy, shake your booty. Let’s get some action before I fall asleep.”
“I’m trying. The cars are going too fast here.”
“This is the best spot on the street. You make something happen, bitch.”
I reach into my purse and put on the Dolce and Gabbana shades from my day at Target. They must make me more enticing, for now a few of the passing cars slow to take a look at the new street meat in the mini skirt and silver jacket, but none stop for me. I feel naked and alone poised on the curb. The speed courses through my vain, and makes me hyper alert and jumpy. I need some action too.
I look up and down the street. Just beyond the pools of light from the nearest streetlights I see other figures tottering on high heels at the curbside, my competition. I watch my neighbor intently, to imitate her methods and improve my own. She waves and blows a kiss as a car slows, and throws back her hair. A big black sedan slows to a stop, she steps off the curb and leans into the passenger’s window. She shakes her head, and backs away. The car eases away from the curb, and slows again when it reaches me. I throw my little jacket open and lean forward, to afford the occupant a glimpse into my modest décolletage, and to make a decision on whether to negotiate with them.
It’s a late model Beemer, and he’s a white guy in a business suit. He flips on his dome light so I can see him. He’s gray at the temples, and good looking in a lawyerly way. I decide to go for it and give a thumbs up to Jose behind my back.
“Hi baby, you looking for a date?” I lift my shades and bat my eyes. His car smells like air freshener. Bocelli sings wistfully over the Bose.
“Yeah, but how old are you? You look young.”
“I’m 18, barely.”
“OK, get in.”
“Let’s talk about business first. I’m trans. Is that OK?”
“Why else would I be driving this block?”
“What’s your interest?”
“Just some of your pretty little head. I’m in a hurry.”
“Turn the corner and go to parking lot at the end.”
“I’d rather take you over to the park.”
“OK, it’s 50 covered, 100 bareback, 150 CIM, up front.”
He hands me seven twenties and a ten. I roll down the window. Jose approaches and I tell him the plan. He takes the money and nods approval.
“Make sure you bring her back by 11:00.” The car’s clock says 10:10.
“Fine with me. I’m in a hurry.”
We drive in silence for a couple of blocks as the opera drones on.
“Could we listen to something else? This is depressing.”
He switches to the radio. Fifty Cent is dissing hos. I reach across the console and begin rubbing my date’s thigh.
“My name’s Tyla. What’s yours?”
He pauses a bit before he answers, “Jack.”
“That’s perfect, I love Jacks. Sharp pricks and bouncing balls. My favorite girly game.”
He laughs. “You’re a funny one.”
The speed is making my mind and body race with wit and sexual energy. I shift my hands to his crotch. His cock is already hard, pointing down his pant leg.
“Oh, that can’t be comfortable, being trapped like that. Can I help free the trapped beast?”
“Wow, you’re hilarious. Do the jokes cost extra?”
“Everything’s included. Except this.” I point to my ass. “That’s extra. Get it while it’s hot.”
“I’d love to try it but I’m in a hurry.”
He pulls into the parking lot at Wilshire and Alvarado finds a spot away from the lights.
He opens the door, rolls his seat forward and gets in the back.
“Back here, Tyla.” I sit next to him. His pants are already pulled down. He puts his hand on the back of my scull and presses my face into his lap.
“OK, baby. I’m late and in a hurry, so you’ll have to finish your monologue when you’re done here.”
I take him in a gulp and push him past my tonsils. He’s clean and smells great, like he’s just showered. It’s the most delicious cock I’ve ever tasted. His pubes are soft and fragrant, and his skin is silky but his flesh is firm. I begin bobbing my head, craning over him, and arching my neck so his cock slides past the gag point and deep into my esophagus. I want to impress him, to make him think he’s with a real pro instead of a first time streetwalker.
He grunts appreciation. “Oh, yeah, that’s a good little cocksucker, that’s good, you little whore, oh yeah, oh yeah.”
His grip tightens around my neck, and he digs his fingers deeper in my hair. I glance at the clock, it’s 11:32. I pump harder at him, trying to ignore the pain as he tears at the hair at the nape of my neck, and the twisting of my back as I lean over him and piston my head onto his up thrusting thighs. His cock spews a telltale flume of precum, and I pump even faster, hurrying him to the finish.
He spasms and grunts. “I’m gonna cum, I’m cumming, and I slow and pause as his motion become too rapid and jerky to coordinate with. Then his back arches up as a geyser of ropy cum jets into my mouth. He tastes like spray of salt from a breaking wave, and I suck and squeeze until my cheeks ache, to fill my mouth with him and gulp it down as another wave crashes into my mouth, and then another.
I want to keep my top clean, so I suck down every drop until my throat aches with the effort. Then is squeeze his scrotum and milk out the last drops.
I sit up give another swallow, to make sure it stays down. As I do, I burp quietly, and then giggle. “Excuse me.”
“You’re excused, baby. Where did a sweet little young thing like you learn to give a blowjob like that? That was amazing.”
“I guess it just comes naturally to girls like me.”
“You mean, because you have a cock of your own?”
“No, I think I feel like I just have to try a little harder to please, because I’m different.”
“You get an A+ for that effort.” He buckles up his pants and returns to the front seat, gesturing me to follow.”
“We have a few more minutes. Would you like a bottled water or something?”
“Yeah sure.”
He hands me a twenty and starts the car. “Get one for me, too.”
He pulls up in front of a little bodega on Alvarado and I buy two Crystal Geysers and a pack of gum for three bucks. The owner, a squat Salvadoran woman, gives me a dirty look as I pay and mutters “Puta” under her breath. I don’t care. At least she thinks I’m a woman.
Jack pops open the locks for me and I hand him his water and his change. He waves his hand and says “Keep it, it’s a tip. Great service.”
“Thanks. You were great too.”
“Hey, I’d like to hook up again without looking all over the street for you. Got a phone number.”
I have a throw away prepaid phone that the Mara used for drug deals and discarded. There are a few bucks left on the card. “This is only temporary, I am getting a new phone soon.” He types the number into his phone while he waits at a light. He pulls up to the corner where we met and says goodbye, and screeches away. I take my place on the curb and resume flirting with the torrent of oncoming headlights. The girl up the block from me is still there, and she turns my direction and makes an obscene gesture, I am competition for her and I have taken a customer away from her. I feel a bit smug and my confidence is up. I roll my hips at the passing cars. Soon, a big black SUV with tinted windows and spinners rolls to the curb. I step of as the window rolls down.
Inside sit four black bangers. My heart leaps as I peer into the car. Freeze is driving, and Antoine sits behind him, on the passenger side of the towering Suburban. The acrid stench of crack smoke wafts from the open window.
If they recognize me behind my shades and where my streetwalker clothes, they don’t let on. I hear a question barked over the cacophony of hip hop throbbing from the open window. “Where are you from, ho?”
I back away from the car. I hear Jose stir behind me, and curse. “Get the fuck off my block, mayate.”
Antoine swings the door open and grabs at me, saying something that’s inaudible over the thump of subwoofer powered rap, but I spin away from his grasp. I collide with Jose, who thrusts me aside. I stagger to the ground and look back as Jose points a Glock into the car. A voice from within the car shouts, “Fuck you, Salvi.” I look up as Antoine hoists a shotgun and fires a blast, just as Jose dives to the ground. The Suburban screeches its tires and speeds away. Buckshot from the ricochet rattles across the pavement and the sulfurous stench of gunpowder assaults my senses. My eyes water, and my ears ring in the aftermath of the deafening shotgun blast.
I pull myself to my hands and knees and crawl over to Jose. His head is sticky with blood, and his eyes are rolled back. I grab his cell phone, stagger to my feet and run as best I can down the alley, away from the bloody scene on Rampart. I find Jose’s last received call and push send. Hector picks up.
“Hola Jose, que pasa?”
“It’s Tyla. Jose got shot and I think he’s hurt really bad. He’s down at the corner of Rampart and Third.”
“Grab his ID and gun and walk away from there as fast as you can and go to over to the Park, Sixth and Park View. I’ll pick you up.”
“What about Jose? He needs a doctor. I’ll call 911.”
“No, don’t do that. We take care of our own.” Hector barks orders in the background. “What the fuck happened?”
“I think it was some Crips. I recognized a couple of them from Fairfax.”
“Do these Crips have names?”
If I tell him their names, he may ask questions, and find out about me and Antoine. So I lie.
“I don’t know them really, just their faces.”
Hector barks more orders in the background.
“Then, you’re going to help us find these mayate bastards. You’re going back to Fairfax and point them out.”
I take Jose’s wallet, already sticky with his blood and begin walking back down to MacArthur Park. My thoughts are racing, and they keep hitting a terrifying dead end, for I have trapped myself with my own lies. I must keep secret my encounter with Antoine in the locker room. I can’t risk telling the Mara now, if I be revealed as the old sexual conquest of Jose’s murderers, the sloppy seconds of their worst enemy. I will be ostracized, or worse. But now, I need the Mara more than ever. Will Antoine or Freeze make the connection between the streetwalker witness and Tyler Flowers, the femme boy from their PE class? If I return to Fairfax and to finger Antoine, he may recognize me first as the witness to his crime, and kill me to silence me. For the first time of the night I feel a cold dread of fear. But I live now under the orders of the Mara. I will have to confront my tormentor, Antoine, and set him up to be slaughtered by the Mara. Unless he slaughters me first.

TBC

Secondary Education
Tyla Flowers
[email protected]

Chapter 6
Night on the Town

I sit in the back seat of a speeding, SUV, wedged between two Mara soldiers. Jose’s corpse lies under a bloody blanket behind us, his face obliterated by the pointblank blast from Antoine’s shotgun. Hector drives the Escalade up and down Jefferson Boulevard, the uneasy border between the Crip and Mara fiefdoms, speeding past its many shuttered used furniture stores, but slowing as he passes its bright lit liquor stores.
“How many fucking black Suburbans have I seen tonight? Chica, are you sure you didn’t see the plate?”
“No, I was down on the ground, facing the wrong way. It has tinted windows and silver spinners.”
“Just like every other ghetto buggy.”
The Mara soldier next on my right, a skinny, sharp faced kid named Crazy 8, slams Jose’s blood-smeared Glock against his thigh. “Let’s just go fuck up the first mayate that we see, Boss.” Crazy 8’s cast left eye twitches hideously. I wonder how can aim a pistol with his eyes staring off in separate directions.
My companion on the left, the one they call the Pineapple, punches the back seat. “C’mon, boss, we got to make a statement.” Pineapple’s acne pitted skin oozes oily sweat. He smells sour. I wonder if it’s the sweat or his breath, which hisses between his black, crooked teeth. I am claustrophobic, frightened, and angry. It was Hector’s decision to put me on the street, and Jose’s decision to pull a gun a car load of black guys. Yet I feel like Hector is blaming me. I don’t want to witness a random drive by revenge killing, and risk getting killed myself in the cross fire. I need to escape, and the combination of adrenaline, speed and Viagra is driving me crazy with tension.
“I want to help, but we can’t look all over LA for one car. Can’t I just go back to work?”
Hector pounds steering wheel, and the car hits a bump and veers into the other lane. He swings it back just in time to miss an oncoming Toyota.
“Shut up, you’re all pissing me off. I need to think.” We drive on in silence. Hector slows each time he passes a pedestrian, but none of them resemble the tall, athletic, light-skinned black man that I have described. We pass a couple of black kids wearing oversized, silver and black hang down sweat pants.”
“What about those two homies?” Crazy 8 raises his gun.
“No, not them.” The kids sprint away into an alley.
“I can pick him out at school next year.”
“We can’t wait until next year.”
“He plays on the football team. Won’t they start practicing soon?”
“Hey, Chica, that’s a pretty good idea.”
“Can I get out of the car? This driving around is making me feel sick. I’d rather go out and work some more.”
“I need all of my soldiers on the job, so I can’t spare anybody to pimp you. Chica.”
“I’ll be OK. Just take me to Hollywood. I can work there on my own.”
Hector turns north on La Brea. The neighborhood gradually improves, and north of Wilshire the street is lined with gaudily lit restaurants and bars filled with wealthy whites and Asians. How I wish I could be part of that life, to live and dress like the celebrities. But I am a poor kid. My mom is a junky, my dad is a criminal, and my friends are all gangsters. I think about Mr. Knudsen, about going back to school. Is it still possible?
“Hey Pineapple, what’s the name of that trannie bar on Santa Monica?”
Pineapple shrugs. I answer. “It’s called Peanuts, but I don’t have I.D.”
Hector curses under his breath. “Crazy 8, you take the Chica down to 6th and Alvarado tomorrow, get her a girly, eighteen year old I.D.”
“Sure boss. For tonight, ladyboy can work near a greasy spoon around Fuller, called Yukon. There are sometimes trannies out on that block of Santa Monica, especially on Friday nights.”
“OK, here is Santa Monica, which way?”
“Left turn, then about a mile.”
We drive through the gay revelry of West Hollywood on a warm weekend night. Guys walk arm in arm, groping one another’s tight-jeaned butts. The lights glitter and beckon, but the Mara jeer contempt for the faggots as we drive by.
Trans are completely different from gays. The boys on the street are cute and well dressed, but they don’t interest me, and I would not interest them. I prefer my companions in the Escalade, even though they are a bunch murderous low lifers who treat me like a sexual commodity, At least I feel sexy attraction for them. I want them to want me. I love their bad boy antics, as long as they fall short of physical violence. I liked being their sex toy. It makes me feel wanted and girly.
But now I wonder if they see the difference or just view me as a dressed up faggot rather than a special kind of girl. I don’t like being their street meat. Working nights on the stroll is dangerous and makes me feel like they only let me join so they could sell me on the street. I want to be their concubine, not some streetwalker. I want to be a beautiful and sexy woman, not a worn out street whore like the one on my block.
When they call me a ladyboy, I know that they are doing it to ridicule me. But I accept that, and being gang fucked my ass this afternoon, because I thought they saw me as a girl. As I hear them hurl insults at the “fudge-pounding faggots” we drive by I wonder if they will ever let me be a real part of the Mara. To fuck me, a maricone, makes them feel manly. But a guy who is fucked by other men is despised. They think I am like those guys. They are men even though they fuck me, but because I let them fuck me, I am a faggot, just as bad as the gay boys of Santa Monica Boulevard. So they treat me like product to be sold like dope on the streets.
“What did you to get Jose killed?”
“It just happened. It’s not my fault.”
I had backed away because I was afraid Antoine and the Freeze had identified me. But that was part of my secret. If I told Hector about Antoine he’d surely blame me. Even without knowing my secret, he blames me for his friend’s death.
“Fucking stupid T Cunt. You got to earn back from your ass pussy what we lost when Jose died.”
“It wasn’t my fault. Jose drew his gun. The black guy had a shotgun.”
“Why didn’t you just get in with them? If you had just let them fuck you, Jose wouldn’t be dead.”
“They didn’t look like good business.”
“Then tell them to fuck off.”
“I was backing away from them. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Jose’s dead, and you’re alive. You got to pay the price now, chica.”
I can’t say what I think or what I know. Jose didn’t need to point the gun. That’s why Antoine killed him. What was Antoine supposed to do? Jose got himself killed with his machismo and stupidity. And I get blamed, and might get killed myself, as a consequence.
Mara exacts a deadly tribute from its members, in blood from Jose, in sexual servitude and undeserved punishment from me. I need get away from the Mara.
We stop at the corner of Santa Monica and Fuller and Crazy 8 makes me climb over him to get out of the car and smacks my ass as a farewell.
“Get out and sell that nice tight butt, chica.”
“Ouch, that hurt. Could I have a little money to get a cup of coffee?”
“No, you go out and earn it, and make us some money tonight, chica. We need to pay to bury Jose, and buy a lot of bullets if we are going to kill all of the mayate.”
They waggle their fingers in gang symbols as they speed away into the flow of traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard. As they leave, I wonder how many people will die tonight. I wonder if through my bad luck and Jose’s blunder, Hector will realize his fantasy of brown on black ethnic war and cleansing.
I peer in the windows of Yukon. It’s a twenty four hour breakfast place, harshly lit, furnished with stained linoleum and Naugehide booths. It’s nearly empty, just a couple of old men nursing cold coffee and pushing the crusty remains of their meals around their plates. I can see the clock in the above the door to the kitchen. It’s a little before midnight. The Santa Ana winds have abated, and I’m getting cold and hungry. I scan the parking lot of the Trader Joe’s next door. There are a handful of cars. Through their darkened windows I see silhouettes. I begin a prowl.
The speed is still powering me, and the Viagra is taking hold. My long dormant cock and estrogen suppressed male libido are awakening. My nerves jangle with unaccustomed sensations and desires. I crave action, the slap of flesh on flesh, to obliterate from my consciousness the horrors of the night. My ass is recovering from the afternoon’s trauma and tingles with sensation. My cock is rock hard in my thong. It brushes the fabric with every click of my heals on the pavement, and sends shivers of pleasure through me.
My heart pounds, my nose is stuffed, and I am dizzy. I lean against the against the fender of a Ford pick up to catch my breath. My eyes are dazzled with auroras of blue light. I rub them away, through the windshield I make out a dim shape in the driver’s seat. Then I am bathed in its headlights. I cover, and then uncover my eyes. The driver’s window is rolling down. I step out of the glare to see who is watching me, but my eyes are blinded momentarily.
“You’re new here, aren’t you.”
“You could say that. Who’s asking?”
“Never mind. I’ve been here before and I’ve never seen you. So you’re new.”
My eyes adjust. He’s a pudgy, middle aged white guy, an ATM with a cock attached to it. I am a cat, looking for a meal and a warm place to hide. He’s a bowl of warm cream. I bend to his eye level.
“So if you’re a regular, you must be looking for a date.”
“I could be. What’s your price?”
I decide to raise my rates. “Seventy five for BJC, One fifty for BBBJ, including CIM, and Two Bucks Fifty for Greek, top or bottom, covered.
“I want to take you bare back if you can really top. Four hundred.”
I back away from the window. “I don’t go for bare back penetration.” A dozen stern faced sex education lecturers have convinced me of the merits of condoms for penetrative sex.
“Are you sure you can top?”
“If you suck me first, sure.”
“That’s included?”
“Of course.”
He hands me the money. “Get in.”
The cab has a lived in look, and the camper shell on the back is equipped with a mattress, pillows and blankets.
“You got a name?”
I decide to tell him a fake. “They call me Cat.”
“I’m Peter. Where are you from?”
I decide to keep on lying. “I live over in Pico Union, but I’m originally from, ah, San Francisco.”
“How old?”
“Eighteen.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not showing you my ID. I’m old enough.”
He pulls over on a side street.
“OK, let’s get in the back.”
I slither between the seats and crouch under the plastic shell. He follows and lies down on the mattress. He pulls down his pants to reveal a pudgy, shaved belly and pubes. His cock is almost buried under a roll of fat. It’s only a little bit bigger than mine, and it’s small and pink. He rolls over and points his ass up. It too is shaved, and it glistens with lubricant. The rectum is ragged with bulging hemorrhoids.
He looks up with a simpering smile. “OK, Mistress, you know what to do. Take me.”
But the truth of the matter is, I don’t know what to do. I am a virgin in this way, and would prefer to stay that way. But this was purpose for which Jose gave me the Viagra, and this is my duty to the Mara. I reconstruct the rough techniques that Hector, Cesar, Antoine and the other Mara have used when they topped me, and mentally rehearse my own performance.
I hike up my little denim skirt and slip my cock out of my thong. I kneel beside him and thrust my cock into his mouth, He takes every inch and groans with pleasure. He is playing with his own cock with one hand and fingering his ass with the other. I grip his head and slam it against me. He looks up at me with grateful eyes, and I glare down with contempt. This little slut has abrogated my role and forced me into his. I am angry and frustrated, and take it out on him, forcing his head back and forth, faster than his flaccid muscles can bob. Finally, his groans become articulate.
“Fuck me, mistress, fuck my ass.”
I crawl behind him. His ass is reddened by the clawing of his own fingers. I take one of my condoms from my purse, rip it open with my teeth and roll it on. I hike his ass up into the position that I feel cocks the deepest, and jam it in all of the way. He yelps and collapses flat, and I keep pounding away, taking it almost all of the way out and jamming it in. His ass slides over my rubbered cock, and my thighs bang into his blubbery, soft ass, over and again.
I pull out, roll him over, and pull his legs up. He looks up at me with googly eyes and I just keep fucking him, as hard as I can. His moans become more rhythmic and higher pitched, almost soprano, and then he squeals and a jet of sperm flies from his cock up to his chin.
Now that he has cum, I can finish. I try to go faster, and squeeze my own ass, but the sensation is dulled by the condom and by the softness of his flesh. If only his ass was tighter, or my cock was bigger, I could release my orgasm, but his ass is so slippery my cock can’t get traction. I want to cum, and get this nightmare over, but I can’t.
I am hot, sweaty and winded from the unaccustomed effort of topping this quivering, whimpering mass of flab. I start slapping his back fat in frustration, and he responds with “More, more, harder, harder, and I keep hitting him and he keeps crying for more but I can’t come. Finally, I stop and collapse on top of him. His body is like a pillow, and I rest for a moment. I am exhausted, but my cock is still hard. I pull out, and grab a tissue, and pull off the condom, and clean my cock with a wipe.
“I’m tired out, and out time is almost up. I can’t cum.”
“You’re not done until you cum on me, or in me.”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t do it.”
“I’ll suck you.”
“Forget it, that didn’t work either. I guess I’m not in the mood.”
“I paid for you. You should cum for me.”
“OK, I have an idea. Roll over.”
I grab my lube and squirt it into my hand, and then I sit astride his chest. Even my slight weight made him struggle for breath, but he seemed to like the asphyxiation, which brings a smile to his face. I close my eyes and begin to rub my cock in my lubed hand. I emotionally project myself to the mountain meadow where Matt Frawley always brought me. He lays me down on a bed of flowering clover that tickles my nose and my skin as he presses down on me. He enters me gently, millimeter at a time, and fondles my breasts. Then he rolls me over, spreads my legs into missionary, and enters me again. Only now, I have a real pussy, and he’s fucking me there. The pounding of his flesh in this new, virginal orifice awakens something within me. My juices roil with the intensity of a gathering hurricane. As his lips touch mine, my mouth contorts into a howl of anguish and ecstasy. Like a firey flow of magma from a crevice at the bottom of the deepest sea, my orgasm has erupted.
I open my eyes and watch Peter lick droplets of my cum from his lips.
I collapse to the filthy mattress next to him, and for a moment, wish I was dead.
Peter pays me an extra fifty for the good service and after I give him a fake phone number he leaves me off in front of Yukon. I take a seat at an empty table and order a cup of coffee. I rest my head on the table and close my eyes. The Ice hit is wearing off. I am starting to get depressed, tired and scared. I am hungry, but I am nauseous. And I am afraid to eat, afraid of how the food will feel inside.
A voice calls from the neighboring table
“Hey little girl, you just do Peter the Pervert in the Ford?”
I look over, and see a voluptuous, caramel skinned, and quite pretty black transsexual. She’s smiling so broadly it’s almost a laugh.
“What if I did?”
“You better have covered up, because every girl I know has done him once, and not all of them did. He’s just as sick as the sickest one of them.”
“I covered. But he wanted me bareback.”
“He’s a freak. You’ll be OK.”
I glance over at her, still resting my head. “I guess I’m part of the club, huh?”
She laughs heartily. “Yeah girlie, welcome to our club. My name’s Cherry, mind if I join you?”
“Sure, as long as we leave room for a couple of guys.”
She slaps the table and laughs again. “You’re a funny one, aren’t you? I’ll save your seat while you go fix your make up. Got to look pretty for the after hours crowd from Peanuts.”
I look at my watch, a shiny new Movado that we lifted from the Target. It’s 1:45.
I stagger to my feet, nearly toppling from my heels. The room seems to lurch at me. The fluorescent lights buzz, and cast foggy halos. I am crashing from the speed.
Cherry catches my arm. “Are you OK, girl?”
I whisper in Cherry’s ear “I did some tweak earlier and I’m coming down hard.”
“Why didn’t you say so, girl? I can help out there.”
She follows me to the rest room. I almost turn into the men’s room, but Cherry grabs my shoulders and detours me to the ladies. We go together into the last stall and she produces a vial of powder and a tiny spoon.
“No smoking in here, but we can at least powder our noses. Here’s how.” She exhales, pinches off one nostril, and then sucks the heap of powder from her nail into the other. She repeats with the other side and then offers me a pile of crystal meth from her pinky. I suck it up my nose and a chemical blast sears my sinuses.
“It stings.”
“Like a rattle snake. But it keeps the snake happy, and wide awake.” She patted the slight bulge at the front of her dress at the groin.
The fresh hit of speed sends a wave of pleasure and confidence through my tired mind and body.
“I feel better already, but dirty.”
“Let me help you clean up.” She bends down to her knees and slides down my thong. She pulls a baby wipe from her purse and sponges my cock, thighs and ass clean.
“My oh my, aren’t you a pretty baby down there. Not a hair to be seen.” She blows a cool breath on my cock and pulls my panties up. “Got to save that for the paying customers. All you need are some boobies like mine and you’re going to be a star.” She opens the stall and we go to the sinks and start making up.
“I’m not old enough to get the surgery.”
“How old are you, child?”
“Almost sixteen.”
“That’s too young to start the Life. But still, I wish I’d started on the hormones back then. I would have saved a fortune in electrolysis and would have this.” She pointed to her Adam’s Apple. “It gives me away.”
“I know. Mine keeps trying to grow too. I feel it sometimes. Like it’s trying to burst out, and I smother it with hormones.”
“Be careful not to take too much. That can cause problems. What are you taking?”
“Diane 35 when I get it. Three a day.”
“I take ethinyl estradiol and cyproterone acetate.”
“That’s what’s in the Diane.”
“Then I guess you’re doing it right. Just remember, no bare back there.” She points at her butt. “They all want it, but they can’t have it.”
“I know. They tell us that every year in school. What do you think sucking bare back.”
“Most of the girls do it. The clients don’t like covers, they all want CIM. And I like it, so I do it every day and I don’t really worry about it. Back in ’03 I was living in Frisco, and I was in a study about it. The doctors said it was a risk, but a pretty low one. To keep going crazy about it, you just have to test regularly.”
“I don’t have a doctor any more.”
“They sell a test that you can do it yourself, it costs about fifty bucks, and they mail the results. I take one every couple of months, and I’ve been clean on every one of them.”
I finished with my gloss. “How do I look?”
“Like you’re ready to suck some dicks. Let’s go while we can still get our table.”
Yukon was beginning to fill up with people and sound. When Peanuts closes at 2 a.m. the remnant of the alcohol-lubricated crowd that hasn’t hooked up there slithers over to Yukon. Cherry and I take our places and she orders a couple of glasses of ice tea while we wait to be some drunken guys’ last chances. I am hyper aware, sensing every vibe from the guys as they circle us. I sit on the aisle, to ward away the pair of Arabs with slimy hair, and Cherry rewards me with a knowing smile and a confidential whisper. “I know those guys. They’re stingy and demanding.”
She looks over my shoulder and says “Don’t look now, but when the next pair of dress shoes and pin stripe pants passes by, look up at him and smile.”
I wait impatiently for the trod of leather heels, and when they come, gaze upward. It’s a tall, slender white guy with graying temples and thick glasses. He has a long nose, an even longer chin, and his face is thin. He has dark circles under his eyes and his skin is very pale. But his body is perfect, narrow at the hips, broad at the shoulders, and his pants hang perfectly, without any paunch or bulges of fat.
He looks like an ad for the suit he’s wearing, his white shirt is still pressed and clean, and his beautiful red silk tie is tied perfectly at his neck. He looks rich, like he could afford any TGirl in Peanuts or here, but I want him to choose me. My breast stirs with new energy, and I pick up my little fake Chanel clutch from the seat and switch it to the inside, out of his way. I catch his pale grey eyes and smile. He stops and stoops to my eye level, never diverting his gaze from my eyes.
“Mind if we join you ladies?”
I slide over to the inside seat of our booth.
“It’s getting crowded here. Of course we can share our booth.”
Cherry laughs as his companion, the blond banker, as I think of him, takes his seat. “I think it’s so crowded that we should leave.”
Cherry’s new friend says “That works for me. My name is Hal.”
Cherry laughs again. “Well Hallelujah, Hal. Mine’s Cherry, like what you put on top of a two scoop chocolate sundae with whipped cream.” She shakes her chest, and her big brown boobs jiggle like bowls of Jello.
Hal is transfixed. “That looks delicious.”
I am locking eyes with my companion. “She’s funny, isn’t she?”
“Yes, but you are beautiful. What’s your name?”
“It’s Tyla.”
“Like Thailand?”
I decide that’s a good enough explanation for this promising new stranger. “Yes, my mom’s Thai, but I was born here. What’s yours?”
“Eric Saunders. Oops, I guess I wasn’t supposed to tell you my whole name on a first date. It just kind of slipped out.”
“Do you want me to forget it?” I looked into his eyes. They are bloodshot from too much drink, but they seem warm and sensitive.
“No. I don’t. Let’s get out of here.”
We get up, the first girls to exit Yukon. I feel jealous eyes boring into me as I leave. But Cherry is ebullient. She just laughs and points and crack jokes to the girls she knows as she leaves. She is a pro, and I am her new student. I smile at our envious audience and copy her when she waves goodbye.
Eric’s opens the passenger door for me and shuts it behind me. He is treating me like a lady, not a whore he just picked up, so I decide that for the night I will act the part of his girlfriend.
Eric starts the car, which roars to life with a rush of power. I am a little cold, and shiver, and he flicks on the seat warmer. My ass starts glow with warmth, and I am feeling sexy again. He turns to me as he slips the car into gear.
“I am so glad we met you. The crowd at Peanuts and Yukon is so sleazy.”
From the back seat, I hear giggles, whispers, a zip and a rustle of fabric, the clank of a belt, and then the smacky, breathy sound of lips around a cock.
“I am glad you chose me. I really wanted to get away from that scene.”
“It sounds like your friend and mine our having fun. We should trade places at the next stoplight.”
I reach over and start massaging his cock, which immediately springs to life. “Mmm, I can’t wait to suck on this.”
“Your fingers are perfect for now.” I resume kneading his hard-on through the fine fabric of his suit pants. “We’re not going far, and I should concentrate on driving.”
“I think I could make you have a terrible accident if this thing weren’t in the way.” I banged on the center console.
“It would be the perfect way to die, I suppose.” He sighs.
“But if I must die with your cock in my mouth, it should be from suffocation.”
“I promise to remember to let you breathe.”
“If I pass out, just give me cock to butt resuscitation.”
Everyone bursts out laughing.
Cherry smacks her lips around Hal’s cock and says “Bitch, you almost made me choke on this piece of meat.”
“Cherry, you got to eat more carefully.” I hear a new round of enthusiastic sucking.
We pull up at the Elan Hotel. The valet whisks off the BMW, and we walk in a group, laughing a little too loud for the late hour, into the hotel. The night clerk eyes us warily as we tiptoe through the lobby to their suite. From his glare I can tell he has figured that Eric and Hal are well-dressed businessmen and Cherry and I are trashily dressed hookers. But I don’t care.
Eric closes the door and kisses me.
I push his lips away. “I want to get down with you, but can we take care of business first?”
“Oh yeah, how about a thousand for the night.”
I am shocked. “For both of us?”
“No, Hal’s on his own with Cherry.”
“OK, that’s really generous.” I am hypnotized as he piles the stack of Franklins on the night stand. I leave them there.
He’s naked now, and already hard. His cock is cut and about 8 inches. He’s taking off my sandals, unwinding the straps. He pulls open my belt, and slides down my skirt. He piles it neatly at the bedside. I pull off the halter and unhook the push up bra. It has drawn little lines in my flesh, so sit with my arms crossed across my boobs. He uncrosses my arms and kisses each of my nipples.
“Oh, baby, you are delicious.”
He pulls back the covers and pushes me back down on the bed. The sheets are soft, clean and fragrant. The bed is springy but firm. I scoot my body into position and find his cock between my lips. I kiss the tip and take it in deep, and start pumping. He tastes so clean, so fresh, that I feel dirty and cheap. I stop, and look up.
“Do you mind if I freshen up a little before we get started.”
“Do you want to shower?”
“I want to be perfect for you.”
“Long day and night?”
“I can’t even begin to tell you.”
“Me too. You go first.”
I cover up daintily as I walk to the shower. His eyes never leave me. I close the door, open it again, and blow a kiss.
I have never been in such a fine bathroom. It’s all marble, with two sinks, and both a shower and bath. I am in a hurry so I shower. There is a little plastic hat to keep my hair dry, like a head condom. The shower is filled with its own set of fancy toiletries, but I use only the shower gel, and dig my finger as deep as I can into my hole. It feels tight, and I make sure I am clean. I towel off with the thickest, softest towel I have ever felt, and use half of the little bottle of mouth wash by the sink. I check my make up. I look good.
When I come out, Eric is leaning over his desk and his nose makes a loud sucking noise.
He looks up, a little embarrassed.
“I got a little tired, and need a little refreshment. Want some?”
I take a rolled hundred from him and sniff the line of crystalline powder. It stings, but in a cool, minty way.
“That tastes really fresh, like menthol or something.”
“It’s coke. Don’t tell me you’ve never tried it.”
“Is it a kind of meth?”
“No, it’s better.”
I feel a smooth rush of energy, and sniff the other line. He leaves the door open as he pees, and showers. I can see his silhouette through the shower door as he carefully scrubs.
“God, the day I had, what a tough deal, and then Peanuts was not much better. The girls there are so stuck up.”
“I know.” I don’t. I am not even old enough to get in to Peanuts. But Eric hasn’t noticed that. When I was a boy, everyone thought I was younger than I really was. I guess I look older as a girl.
There are two pieces of candy on the bed. I snatch one. I’m starving.
“Can we eat these?”
He looks at me kind of funny, as if I have asked him something really stupid, and says “You have them. I only like one kind of candy.”
I pop one in my mouth and relax into the mound of pillows. I feel his body nudge my thighs apart and then his warm lips circling my cock.
“Mmm, you mean cock candy.” I enjoy the chocolate melting in my mouth and oozing down my throat, and Eric lips flicking at my cock, and then taking it in his mouth. He gently probes a finger into my ass and strokes my nipples, and I cry out with pleasure.
“God, that feels so good.” He nods his head and keeps sucking and pressing his finger against the rim of my hole. I love being Eric’s whore. For the first time, someone is trying to make me feel good and getting pleasure from my pleasure. I moan appreciation and he nods his head and sucks me more.
He slides his body up mine and kisses me. I let him put his tongue in my mouth and we twirl tongues and I feel his cock pressing against my inner thigh and I feel hungry and empty inside and I want him in me, to fill the place inside me that had been blasted open and abandoned by the Mara. He breaks off the kiss and rolls off me, onto his side, but his body is still pumping against mine.
He whispers in my ear. “Your lips are like a delicious chocolate dessert.”
I slide down the bed toward his mid section. His stomach is reasonably flat, not fat, but not a washboard like Hector.
“I want some cock candy too.” I finish my thought by taking his cock between my lips and twirling my tongue over the glans. His body quivers and stiffens, and he cries out.
“Slow down, baby, or I’ll pop too soon.”
I plunge my head down so his cock slides in all of the way, and bob so it slides past my tonsils and into my throat. He’s thick, I can barely breathe, but the coke and speed are rushing through me and I feel like I can do anything, so I bob up and down, ramming him so deep that my nostrils touch his pubes, and then out until my tongue is trilling the tip, and then again.
“Slower, baby, I don’t want to cum in your mouth.”
“It’s OK if you do. I want to eat your cum.”
“But I want to save it for this.”
He pats my butt.
“Mmm, I want both. I guess I’m just a greedy girl.” I slide up next to him. “How do you want to fuck me.”
“I’d like you to start cowboy, so I can see your beautiful face when I enter you.”
I reach over to my purse and rip open a condom. I roll it onto his cock, and then slather it with Astroglide. I wipe the extra on my butt, and poke some inside on my finger. “You bad boy, you want to see me cry, don’t you.”
“No, I’ll be careful. I just want to see how you express yourself, how your beautiful Asian face changes when I enter you.”
I straddle him, poise his cock against my ass. I lower my eyelids and bite my lower lip in anticipation of the rush of pain that’s coming. I let my thighs soften, and glide downward. The cock presses against me, and I press down my sphincters and feel it pop through. My lips curl back into a grimace, I force them into a pucker and bite them, to counter the pain rippling up from my behind. My eyes are pinched closed, and I force them open, to look at Eric through a blur of tears. He wants to see me suffer, so I open my soul.
I want him to fill the void that a dozen Mara cocks have drilled within me, to forget about them, and to revel in this paradise of clean sheets and safety. I want to use the intensity of this moment to obliterate every second of humiliation and degradation I’ve endured in my transition, from Matt, from Antoine, and now, from the Mara. I slam my body down on him and bury him to the hilt. The fabric of my flesh is ripped asunder as though by a knife, and a cry out in inarticulate agony.
I have started a bonfire inside me, and now I surge up and down, pumping the bellows to stoke the cleansing flames that are devouring all memory of Cesar, Jose, Hector, and the brutal soldiers who participated in my initiation. I just want to forget about Mara and the street and whore myself in warm rooms on clean sheets to guys who appreciate me and pay me more than I would have asked. I am crying, my head is thrashing, and my body is flailing up and down. I press my sphincters down as a lunge down, and squeeze them as I rise, because I want my ass to suck the sperm from his cock.
At first Eric tries to be gentle, to moderate the blows that I am self-inflicting. But my passion is infectious, and soon his body surges up against my down strokes and down as I rise. The full eight inches of his cock tear at me each time our bodies collide and retreat.
I want his sperm to burst the condom and wash through me, rinsing me of the filth of the Mara and the Street. I am angry at the Mara, who first took me to be one of their own, and when I gave myself to them peddled me on the street like some second hand clothes. If I am to sell myself, it should be Rodeo Drive, not garage sale. Now I am fucking a guy for a thousand bucks a couple of blocks from Rodeo, and I don’t want to go back Vermont and Third. I want Eric’s cock and to free me from theirs, his generosity to free me from the life sex slavery that the Mara have made for me. So I bang down even harder and faster, until at last I am winded and collapse on top of his chest.
He strokes my hair, pulls it behind my ear. “Whoa, baby, that was incredible. You are insatiable.”
“So are you. I just wanted all of you, all at once.”
“You got what you wanted. And so did I. I have never seen anything more beautiful than your face when it changed as entered you.”
“Is my face still beautiful?”
“It always was. But especially then. And your ass is like a velvet tunnel. I love the way you sacrificed yourself for me.”
“It wasn’t sacrifice. I needed you. I still need you.”
“I didn’t hurt you?”
“A little bit, but from the greatest pain comes an even greater pleasure. You make me feel like a real girl when you are inside me. And that is how I love to feel. Because I am a girl, even though I have this.” I point to my cock which lies soft across his belly. “But now it is time for you. How do you want to fuck me now?”
“On all fours?”
“Doggy is my favorite. I want to be your bitch.”
I roll over, point my ass in the air, and grind my face into the sheets. “OK, fuck me hard, make me cum like a girl.”
He kneels behind me and pauses at my rectum. I grab hold of him and thrust my thighs backward to re ignite the firestorm inside me, to burn more bad memories. My ass is wet and flexible now, and I grip my muscles tight around his rampaging penis. He grabs a handful of hair from the nape of my neck and holds it like the reins of a horse, and I buck against him like a rodeo pony.
“Slap my ass.”
He spanks me.
“Harder, harder, spank me harder.”
He hits me three more times. My ass tingles with warmth and prickles with sensation.
“More, harder, fuck your little teenage whore. I’m bad, fuck me, spank your little teenaged cum slut.”
My dirty talk excites him, and now his fucking jolts me so hard I collapse to the bed, and I get to feel his big, firm body atop me. It crushes me, traps me, I am helpless, and in this position his cock rams even deeper within me. It makes me feel girly to be so helpless, so totally fucked, and I grab one of his hands and place it on my little tittie and the other on my cock, which speed and sex have reduced to a shrunken nub. But it ripples sensation when he touches it.
“Fuck me really hard now, and I think I can cum.”
He must work out, because we have been fucking for an hour and he’s still going strong. The speed is keeping me going but my muscles are failing, I can’t keep fucking back, so I let my body relax as his moment builds. I put one hand on my other tittie and pinch the nipple, harder and harder and bite my lips as his body pulsates against me with ever greater force.
I close my eyes. I am the Empress of Cambodia. The barbarians have invaded, they are destroying my temples, slaughtering my people, and they are at the palace gate. I am their last hope. I offer myself to the barbarian chief, and he throws me on the bed and rapes me. When he is finished, he tells me, he will slaughter me and take my throne.
Will you rule wisely, and be kind to my people? Yes, he tells me, because then they will be my people. I close my eyes, thank Buddha for this opportunity to serve, and tell him to finish. As I do, my shrunken cock hardens and a burst of steamy cum leaks from the tip. I let out a happy shriek of release and my body vibrates with pleasure. My second orgasm of the night is much stronger and pleasurable, as though ever cell in my body had been released of bondage. I smile, for I feel that I have cum as a woman.
Eric senses the signal from my body, grunts a wild barbaric roar and throbs against me, stabbing his cock deep grabbing my shoulders and shaking them heedless of any care. I can feel the condom ripple as his load fills the tip and drives it deep inside me.
“I came. You did too, didn’t you?”
I nod my head, but I bury it deep within the sheets. I don’t want him to see my tears, because he would misinterpret them. They are tears of happiness.
“That was fantastic. The best sex I have ever had.” Eric rolls off of me.”
“For me too. I almost never cum, the hormones make it difficult.”
He rolls off of me and lopes to the bathroom. I hear the piss rattle in the toilet. When he comes out he brings me a robe.
“Hey, you’re welcome to take a shower before you go.”
I am speechless with hurt. I stare at the ceiling, at the luxurious bedding, at the stack of hundreds, at the coke-smeared glass desk top. It is not mine. I am not part it. I belong to the ghetto, to the Mara.
“You want me to go?”
“Yeah, I got a flight back to New York tomorrow and I got to get a few hours of sleep.”
I reject the robe he offers me.
“I don’t need a shower. I’ll just go now.” I swiftly get dressed, not even looking up. He dawdles in his robe, not helping me gather my scattered clothes. When I am done, I give him a mechanical hug but reject his kiss. I need to break away from Eric too.
“Here’s fifty for your cab. Leave me your phone number if you want to. I’d see you again next time I’m in LA.
“Sure. I will.” Now I am fighting back real tears. I have escaped the Mara for only a few hours, and now must return to their clutches. I must plan a new escape.

TBC

Secondary Education
Tyla Flowers
[email protected]

Chapter 7
The Tipping Point

The rising sun paints the smoggy sky over Los Angeles fuchsia. The air is dense with the smoke of distant wildfires. The breeze is already hot. It stirs the trash from overflowing garbage cans and sends it tumbling down the streets. Greasy food wrappers twirl in trash cyclones: In and Out, Jack in the Box, Weinerschnitzel. The sight makes me nauseous, and I choke back a gag.
My eyes sting with fatigue, the acrid air and the ebbing effects of meth. I slip on my DG shades and avert my eyes from the sun’s glint. It’s morning, and I am the last whore on the street. I have almost two thousand dollars in my clutch. It’s the most money I have ever touched at one time. For the moment, it’s mine, although I know the Mara will claim most of it as theirs.
A battered pickup passes me, and the wrinkled, squat Mexican riding in the open backs snarls an incomprehensible taunt and whistles derisively as he side arms a L’Opinion in my direction. It whirls by my head and skitters across the barren front lawn of a battered apartment.
I turn and walk up the cracked steps, for this is my home, a slumlord’s investment gone wrong on the bedraggled periphery of LA’s bright and shiny downtown. A homeless guy camps out in clump of dusty ivy by the walk, covered in cardboard. Asleep, he looks like a harmless pile of rags, but he reeks of urine and curdled vomit.
I pick my way through the litter and enter. The front door is propped open with a soggy, yellowed phone book that no one bothered to pick up or throw away. The pool is nearly empty and its walls are cracked. The bottom is filling with debris floating on a shallow, scummy puddle.
I squint back into the sunrise, toward downtown. There, the skyscrapers glint in dawn’s light like the fairy towers of a far away Nirvana. Will I ever see them, except from afar? I fear that I never will, for I am a creature of the streets, not of the sky.
My calves are sore from a night prowling the streets, on high heals. My head aches from speed’s brutal aftermath. After a night of feigned gaiety and passion, I feel empty and alone.
I need to sleep but the dregs of the coke and speed that powered me through the night are still with me. I open the door, cross the tiny living room to the cluttered, dirty kitchen, and look into the fetid, empty refrigerator.
My mom has been home, come and gone. She’s left a pile of unread mail on the kitchen counter next to an empty liter bottle of Shasta Orange, a blackened scrap of aluminum foil, and a pile of burnt out matches. I tear open a letter from the Los Angeles Unified School District:

Dear Ms. Flowers
Tyler Flowers has not completed LAUSD’s requirements for promotion to 11th Grade. He received an incomplete in Physical Education last term at Fairfax High School. In order to be promoted or to 11th Grade he must complete 10th Grade Physical Education in the Summer Session. In addition, Tyler Flower’s request for transfer to Hollywood High is denied pending completion of his 10th Grade Physical Education course at Fairfax High.
Summer session begins on June 19. Tyler Flowers must register on or before June 16 in order to complete this requirement.
Sincerely,
Felix Rojas
Office of the Assistant Principal, Fairfax High.

My mother is such a flake. She can’t read English well and she doesn’t pay attention to anything except her drug habit and the boyfriends who supply it. If I didn’t fuck up my own life so well she’d ruin it for me.
I rummage through the pile of papers and find a calendar. It’s July 7. It’s too early to call the school, and too probably too late to do anything about the incomplete. I’ll just have to drop out. That’s what Hector wants anyhow, so I can be a full time whore for him. But I think of Mr. Knudsen, and I don’t want to disappoint him by giving up on myself. I stagger to bed and close my eyes.
The room vibrates, my head is buzzing with waves of receding chemicals and fatigue. The speed, which had made me invincible in the night, now leaves me edgy and desolate. I struggle out of my clothes but can’t find the strength to fold or hang them. I need to comfort myself against onrushing waves of loneliness and fear. I am half a woman, half a boy. But has my transition ruined my life? Will I be a ghetto bitch forever?
I stroke my hands over my body. My breasts are sore from all of the fondling and sucking, my ass is swollen and battered, my insides feel clogged and achy, but I’m too tired to try to poop. My cock is limp and shrunken and my balls have seemingly disappeared. I tuck my cock between my legs and smooth my hand over the silky flat triangle from my hips to my thighs and imagine, as I have a thousand times before, that I am a girl.
I pinch my eyes closed, and try to banish the dirty street, the filthy apartment, the terrifying night, Hector, Antoine, and the Mara, and concentrate on my vision. In my mind, my fingers are tracing the contours of the body of a beautiful girl.
All that I need are big boobs, not as big as Cherry’s but big enough for a man to cup in his hand, or to press into a tunnel around his cock. I want to be castrated, to get rid of my balls forever, to reshape my cock into a pussy, tight like my ass, but pure and clean. Then, I am sure every boy will want me. But I will reserve myself for the strongest and most handsome, like Matt, or the richest, and most generous, like Eric.
I will live in a home with a marble shower and sink, and a soft, clean bed like the one in the hotel. I will receive them in a real pussy, and in the mouth, and the ass, and all three at the same time, and they will worship me as a goddess, and I will worship them as gods.
I will find a way. I will never go back to being a boy. If for a time I have to live the Life, I will do it in style, with a smile and perky enthusiasm. But is my walk on the stroll my path to my dreams or to my death?
A street whore lives on the edge between life and death every night. True, it is better to be a whore for the Mara than to toil through life as a hairy, ugly man. I decide that I will not live the life and not die the death of a street whore. I must escape from the Mara.
I am torn by conflict. The Mara made my transition possible. They accepted me as a girl, and gave me hormones, clothes, and protection. But to them a trannie is a maricone, to be used and discarded. My role in the Mara is to be their sex slave, and when they tire of me, they will kill me or sell me off like a bag of crack or a truckload of stolen property.
It’s different when you pick your own tricks. True, Eric used me and kicked me out on the street when he was done. But I have tasted what my new sexual freedom can bring me. As a cute young Asian trannie, I can have rich older guys like Eric pay me for an hour of sex what the Mexican street traffic pays for a long, dangerous, and cold night of back seat blowjobs. I am going to find, and get fucked by every one of those rich older guys that I can.
I dry mouth a Diane and a couple of Tylenol PM and close my eyes. As I wait for sleep, I imagine myself at work in one of those glimmering towers I spied in the dawn, the object of desire of a hundred Eric’s and Hal’s. I can be that girl, if I can make myself free of the Mara. As I drift into a dream, my fantasy of freedom becomes plan of escape.
I awake with a blinding ray of sun in my eyes. It’s late afternoon. I have become nocturnal like a feline. My phone shows five missed calls, all from the same 323 number. I push redial.
“Hola, TChica, where have you been?”
“Getting my beauty sleep after long night. Did you find the black guy who killed Jose?”
“No, but we found another black ho who’s never doing nothing again.” Hector cackles laughter.
“I’m sorry I missed the show. But I was putting on a show of my own.”
“I want to hear all about it. I’ll send Cesar over to pick you up.”
I pop another Diane, and quickly shower and dress, skimpy Lucky cutoffs, lavender glitter tube top, bare at the belly, platform shoes, my little silver jacket. I am still putting on my eyeliner when Cesar calls.
“I’m not quite done. Do you want to come up?”
“No, there’s no place to park.”
“Don’t you want me any more?”
“Of course I do, baby, but so does Hector. He told me to hurry.”
I hear a lie in his voice, and decide that I don’t care about him, or any of the rest of them. I finish my eyeliner in a rush. Then I hide half of my earnings from last night in hole in my mattress, and run down to meet Cesar.
He still has bruises around his eyes from the beating in. I get in and stroke his face, “Poor baby,” but he barely looks at me.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like the way I look?”
“You look hot. You’re too hot for me.”
“You don’t want me because I’m a ho? That’s what you made me, when you gave me to the Mara.”
“We’re both just soldiers now. I have to be elevated before I get privileges.”
“I’m a privilege?”
“Hector doesn’t want us together, says it will interfere with his plans, and my progress.”
“What’s his plan?”
“To sell your ass to some pimp in Rosarito.”
“I won’t go.”
“You won’t have a choice.”
“Take me away.”
“Then we’re both dead. Just do what he says. He’s crazy now that Jose’s gone. Mara’s at war with the Crips now.”
Suddenly, I hate Cesar for his cowardice and weakness, Hector for his duplicity and viciousness, and all of the Mara for their macho posing and brutality. I am just a couple of holes for them to fuck and sell. They have as little regard for me as for a half-used vial of Ice. I am just something to use up or sell. I am glad of my plan to get free of them.
We pulled up in front of Bella Casa and Cesar lets me out. Pineapple nods silently as I flounce by, and I flash a sexy smile and wag my butt. I need to feign complete loyalty and enthusiasm.
Hector’s tawdry courtiers are gathered around him at the rickety linoleum table.
I approach and put my clutch on the table before him. He opens it, grabs the money, and counts it, muttering out loud.”
He looks up and gives me a golden smile.
“Excellent, T Chica. You were my top performer last night.”
“Rookie’s luck, boss. I found the right groove.”
“And the Mara took part of your competition off of the streets.” He whips out his cell phone and flicks it open. It displays a picture of a dead black girl, her face obliterated, lying in a pool of blood, legs akimbo, on the sidewalk. She’s so mutilated that she’s unrecognizable, but her blood spattered clothes look familiar. I wonder whether my so called comrades have just killed my new friend.
“Why did you kill her?”
“That’s our new rule. To get made a jefe in the Mara, everyone kills a mayate.”
I am disgusted by this macho hubris, but hide my revulsion behind a smile.
“Kill a few more ho’s, maybe I can raise my rates.”
Hector laughs and slaps my ass. “I like your attitude. I’m going to change my plan for you. I’m going to keep you on the home team instead of trading you down to the Mexican League.”
I feel a rush of relief. But I keep up my act. “Oh, too bad, I love Mexican food. Especially the burritos.”
“We got plenty of pupusas for you here, don’t we?” He slaps my butt.
“Aren’t burritos bigger?”
“Ha-ha. You’re funny, TChica. But burritos are soft and soggy, like an old Mexican.”
“Pupusa means ‘for pussy,’ right?”
“Ha-ha, I like you T Chica, even if you did get my ayudante Jose killed. You can stay here for now, as long as you keep bringing me a thousand buck in the morning.” Hector brandishes the stack of bills and grins.
“And if I’m in Mexico I can’t help you find the black who shot Jose.”
“You didn’t help us much last night. I don’t think you want to find the mayate fucker, the fucking dung beetle.”
“No, I thought about it, and I have a plan. I have a way of getting back into Fairfax High. I’ll look around for him. I know I’ll recognize the black bastard when I see him.”
“I thought you dropped out of Fairfax.”
“They want me back.”
“What for, you gonna blow the whole football team?”
He grabs me and forces my head down toward his crotch. I don’t resist, but look up and smile.
“That could be part of my plan.”
“OK, tell me the rest.”
“It’s easy. I have to make up a class there. So I go to school, figure who he is, where he hangs out, and how he gets around, lead you to him, and you whack him.”
“If he sees you, he’ll whack you first.”
“He won’t even recognize me. I’m going back to school as a boy.”
“That reminds me. Does anyone want to fuck the maricone before she goes back on the stroll?”
“I’ll fuck anything with a hole in it.” I turn to see Pineapple. He must have followed me in from his post outside. I cringe, but keep it inside and affect cheer.
“OK, anyone else? I’m in the mood for a threesome, OK?” I am afraid of Pineapple and think a third player might make the game more predictable. But he grunts “Everybody else waits.”
He grabs my arm and pulls me toward the bedroom and throws me on the bed.
“You don’t have to be so rough. I want to get fucked, Pineapple. I like it.” It’s a white lie, of course. No sane person would want to be fucked by this greasy pig, who smells of bad food and a week of dirty underwear and sweat. But I am in a role, playing the loyal Marita.
“You are my first of the day, so be gentle. Enter me slowly, and then fuck me hard.”
“OK, but I’m on guard duty, and I’m in a hurry.”
“So am I.” I sit on the bed and pull his pants to his knees. He is already hard.
“Mm, that’s a big cock.” He’s uncut, and the glans bulges beneath the sheen of his moist foreskin.
“Do you want me to just blow you? S’ok if you cum in my mouth.”
“No, I want to cum in your ass.”
“OK, then fuck me.”
I grab a condom from my clutch and roll it on, and then squeeze some lube into my palm. I stroke his cock, and he grimaces.
“Stop or you’ll make me pop.”
I wipe the rest on my ass.
“Baby, save it for me.” I can tell he is on the verge of coming.
I get on the bed, hoist my ass, rub the lube on my butt, and slip my panties down my thighs. His cock presses against my ass, and he thrusts, but I am too tight. It glances off its target and slides up my crack to the small of my back, smearing me with a slick of lubricant. His balls slap against my buttocks.
I grab some more lubricant, reach back and take hold of his cock.
“Let me help you.”
He grunts assent.
“Now, take me slowly. It will be better for both of us.” I guide him to the center of my ass and circle the tip of his penis on the taut ring. I press back against and press open my outer sphincter, and twirl his cock around until it hits the second ring. I try to ease him back out, to accustom myself, but he can’t control himself and suddenly jerks forward. My fingers slip, and his cock head barges through both rings of my ass and buries itself deep into the loops of my colon.
In a moment, the cascade of pain electrifies me and I collapse to the bed as he rams me with the full length of his cock. He pulls back almost all of the way out, so his bulging glans strains against my outer sphincter, and then smashes deep inside me again. His balls slap my buttocks. He has entered me to the hilt on his second stroke.
I bite the pillow as my eyes water. I try to force a groan of pleasure but pain renders me mute. I bury my face in the pillow and try to breathe, to relax, to endure the agony until it releases me, and transmutes first into calm relief, and then pleasure. But Pineapple is either a selfish or inexperienced lover. He never slows his pace enough for me to synchronize my movement to his, and before I can he is reaches that stuttering chaotic sprint to his finish. I know he is cumming as he buries himself deep, almost straight down, cock to my navel. I feel him release and plunge and release again, crying out like a coyote in a frenzy, before settling in flabby lump on top of me, and heaving his stinking breath into my face. I lie still, and keep my face buried in the pillow. I don’t want to look at him, or for him to attempt a kiss. I want this foul creature to leave me.
He gets up. I hear the clank of his belt buckle and the shuffle of his boots on the floor. “That was good. You like my cock in your booty?”
“I love to get fucked all day and all night. You have a big cock.”
“You have a tight little ass. I never fucked in there before.”
“Have you fucked pussy?”
“Yeah, but I like booty better. It’s tight, you sucked my cum out fast.”
“You were really fast.”
“That’s how I like it.”
His condom has fallen on the floor. He points to it. “Get rid of that thing for me.” Then he leaves. I pick it up with a tissue from my clutch and wipe the smear of lubricant from my ass with another. I open the door. Pineapple is gone, Hector is gone, but a four of the Mara are lounging around the kitchen table. My ass feels empty, and I need something to take away the memory of Pineapple’s lousy breath and greedy sex. I approach the rickety table where they are pawing over the fragments of some chips and residue of salsa.
“Does anyone else want some of my booty?”
Crazy 8 slides his chair out and leers at me. “I never thought I sink so low as to take sloppy seconds after Pineapple, but what the hell.”
He takes my hand and we walk back toward the bedroom.
“I’m not sloppy. Pineapple comes so fast, he barely warmed me up. I need you to finish me.” I wrap my arm around his chest. Young Salvadoran guys have awesome pectorals, knobby and hard. It’s strange that as old men they become so flabby.
He hugs me back. “So you’re hot for my big dick?”
I am tired. I loathe Crazy 8. His cast eye disgusts me and his mood swings are scary and dangerous. He is a rough and selfish lover, like all of the Mara. I’d rather shower off Pineapple’s residue and get fucked by someone new who can pay for my company than spend another minute with these dangerous losers.
But my plan requires that the Mara to have great trust in my loyalty to them. I pause at the threshold of the bedroom, turn and call back the group at the table. “Stick around; I’m hot for all of you.” I close the door, kneel on the floor and as I unzip Crazy 8’s fly, I silently thank Buddha that that only three of the Mara have stayed behind to hear my offer. I am happy to let all of them fuck me, for when I am finished with them, no one will doubt my loyalty. Then, it will be easy for me to lead them to slaughter.

Secondary Education
Tyla Flowers
[email protected]

Secondary Education
Tyla Flowers
[email protected]

Chapter 8
Making Up My Incomplete

I cinch a belt around the baggy waist of my Dockers. The pants’ seat and thighs are just as tight as the waist is loose. My old boy clothes don’t fit my new body. It is as Tyler, rather than Tyla, that I am re-enrolling, two weeks late, in Fairfax High’s summer program.
I wrap my boobs with an Ace bandage to squeeze them flat, and cover up my curves with tee shirt and a faded Kobe Bryant sweatshirt despite the stifling summer heat. It’s old, from when he was number 8, and when I could still picture myself as a boy.
I hide my hair under a Dodger’s baseball cap and my eyes behind a pair of Raybans. I sling my backpack over my shoulder. Along with an old notebook, a stubbly pencil, and the letter from the principal’s office, I have a cute sundress, lace panties, glittery tie up sandals, a half used bottle of lube and a zip-lock containing an assortment of condoms, from unlubricated Lifestyles for covered blow jobs to lubricated Trojan Maxums for anal penetration. I never leave home without them.
As I walk to the bus stop I try to stop my butt from swaying like a chica’s but even in Doc Marten’s it’s hard to keep my estrogen-softened hips from wobbling. I have forgotten how to be a boy.
The traffic drones by on Sunset. I glance at the passing cars and get depressed. I am almost old enough to drive, but there’s no one to teach me. My dad is a convict, my mom is in a Court ordered residential rehab, and my Mara bosses don’t want me to learn. They like their chicas to be illiterate and helpless and easily dominated and controlled.
It’s unusual that Hector Hernandez, the Mara boss of Pico Union/ Hollywood region, is allowing me off his turf to venture into his Crip enemy’s territory, but I have persuaded him that it’s a good tactic. I am to arrange a revenge killing of a Crip soldier who killed Jose Rodriguez, a vicious Mara chief whose belligerence and bad judgment, more than any enemy, killed him.
If I succeed in arranging the targeted killing of my old classmate and tormentor, Antoine Lewis, I may be forgiven for the death of Jose. As my reward the Mara will continue to sell my ass on the street to all comers. If I fail, I will be killed, or sold into sex slavery in Tijuana. I am as expendable as a bullet. The expansive boulevards of Los Angeles stretch for thirty miles from the foothills to the sea. Is there enough room for me to hide from my friends and enemies in this pink stucco and palm prison?
I wait outside the principal’s office. The staff is reduced during summer school, and the phones ring ceaselessly, unanswered. Papers are piled on every surface in precarious stacks. The receptionist who took my name with a scowl has disappeared for the last half hour.
When my name is finally called, I have drifted so far into my thoughts that I barely notice, until it is repeated. I look up and a pudgy Latino man, about thirty five, but already balding and graying, beckons me to follow him. I walk by piles of boxes, overhead projectors, copiers and aged computers and monitors. Fairfax doesn’t get the top equipment any more, now that it’s in the middle of the hierarchy of mediocrity in the LAUSD. My host motions me to a battered doorway, and to a metal chair that’s squeezed between a cluttered desk and a dented file cabinet. He puts out his hand.
“I am Mr. Rojas. You are Mr. Flowers, right?”
I proffer my hand and realize to my horror that the nails are still French tipped. Rojas stares at them, and then at my face.
“I am sorry. I had some trouble at the end of the year and couldn’t finish classes. I took and passed all of my finals, though.”
“Phys Ed doesn’t have a final. It’s based on hours of attendance, and your hours were way short.”
“That’s where I had some of my worst problems last term.”
“We’re not here to talk about your problems. We’re here to talk about solutions. Now, I see you have applied to transfer to Hollywood High and into the OASIS program.”
“I need to so I can go to school as a girl. I’m a transsexual.”
Rojas frowns. “No wonder you had problems in Phys Ed. How are we going to get you through your Phys Ed requirement? You need 36 hours.”
“During the year Coach let me help him with his paperwork.” But he hadn’t bothered giving me credit for it. Otherwise I would have owed about 4 hours.
“Coach Hanlon is running the summer sports camp. Maybe you could help him there.”
“Would I get credit?”
“If he records your time, we’ll give you the credits. Then off you go to Hollywood.”
He scribbles some notes on a form and hands it to me. “Remember, you’re enrolled here as a boy and you are going to be working in the boy’s sports program. So you may want to do something about those nails.”
“I know. It’s hard going back and forth.”
”I can’t imagine.” He gestures toward the door. “Please ask Coach Hanlon to call me.”
I walk down the. In the stillness of summer these halls are even more threatening than when they are overflowing with students. My footsteps make a lonely cadence as I pass nervously through these dim and echoing corridors.
I turn the corner past the locker room and scuttle by unnoticed. Whoops and growls of manly fellowship resound from behind the locker room door. I scuttle by unseen and let myself in to Coach’s tiny office. It is piled high with papers, as though no one had filed anything since I left after my laundry room encounter with Antoine and the Freeze, almost three months, and a seeming lifetime ago. Much had changed in my life since then, but not in Coach’s management style. No wonder that he incompleted me and demanded 36 hours of make up. It will take me that long to unsnarl this Augean mess.
But Coach’s scheme to indenture me as his personal assistant fits perfectly with my own plans to escape my slavery to the Mara. So I begin filing with great enthusiasm and energy. If I have excavated the first level by the time Coach gets back, he will take me back and give me the credit I need and deserve to get out of this hell hole.
I find a stack of empty file folders marked with student names and numbers, marked for the summer term. I flip through them, making mental notes of the names and sorting the scattered papers into the appropriate folder. I pause, overcome with emotion, when I come to the name of Matthew Frawley. I lift the folder to my nose, as if the paper could conjure the fragrance of the cynosure of my fantasies. My heart almost stops beating when I come to Antoine Lewis’s name, and then resumes with such intensity that for a few seconds I am blinded by the intensity of my apprehension of danger and opportunity.
I calm myself and get back to work. For the moment, Antoine and Matt are just names like a hundred others on tardy slips, injury reports and discipline notices. I sort their paperwork into their files just like everyone else’s.
Coach shows up after I had been at work for an hour and gives me credit for five hours even though I have worked six. I decide not to protest and say thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow, and he just shrugs and leaves. I take the precious make up credit slip straight to the principal’s office. My footsteps echo in the empty halls. Public places are spooky when they’re empty. I am nervous and quicken my pace to get out of this menacing place. Then, as I turn a corner, I collide with a huge onrushing body and crash to the floor in a heap. The large black guy who has felled me mutters an apology and helps me to my feet. I look up and see that my benefactor is Antoine Lewis. On seeing me, he double takes.
“You’re Flowers, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m still Tyler Flowers, Antoine.” I’m not really still Tyler, but I want to use our past guilty prod. But he just smiles off the guilt.
“I didn’t see you around much. Where you been?”
“I took a little break from classes. Now I’m back, because guess which PE teacher flunked me?”
“Yeah, you never were much in PE class. You were good after class though.” He laughs and I fight off a blush.
“That goes for you too.” I smile provocatively.
“So why did you run out of here just when we were getting to be friends? How’s that s’posed to make me feel?” Antoine puts on a hurt expression.
“I wasn’t sure you wanted me as a friend. You were a little bit too rough. And rude. And I was afraid that you would tell everyone.”
“It seemed like you were enjoying yourself to me. B’sides, why would I tell anyone ‘bout our little thing? They might get the wrong idea ‘bout me.” He runs his fingers down the nape of my neck, gently pulling my hair. “I like what you’ve done with your hair, baby.”
Our collision has dislodged my baseball cap, and my newly styled hair, colored auburn and highlighted with platinum streaks, is flowing down my back.
“Oops, I am supposed to dress as a boy while I’m still here.”
I stoop to pick up my cap and Antoine cops a gentle feel of my butt.
“I think I’d like to have another couple of scoops of that sweet Asian ice cream.”
He uses a sexy tone that makes me want him. My ass is buzzing with anticipation, my nipples itch with desire, and my lips swell with hunger. Objectively, Antoine had raped me and he had been a rough, contemptuous and cruel. But so had Cesar, Hector, and the Mara. Most guys figure that a trannie wants to get fucked, and they’re right most of the time. Plus, I probably had been his first trannie, and he was in a way as inexperienced as I had been.
But I had learned a lot since them. Now, his sexy voice and smiling eyes, coupled with the memory of his massive cock, was irresistible. I decide to give him another try, especially since I need him at least as much as he needs me.
I pile my hair under my hat and squeeze his hand.
“Walk with me to drop this off at Administration. We need to talk.”
“We need to fuck, baby. I knew you liked it. But why did you run away?”
“I just needed to get away from here while I transitioned, and you were part of my old scene here. I was afraid you were going to tell everybody about fucking me, and all of the losers and freaks would be after me, harassing me, or trying to fuck me. But now, I feel more comfortable with myself and being a trannie and all. I can deal with it.”
“I can help you deal with it, if you want protection. Crips take good care of their friends.” He stops and pulls me into an alcove, and enfolds me in his arms and lifts me off my feet in a firm hug. I tilt my head back and let him kiss me. I open my lips, and then quiver them as he crushes them. One hand slides to my ass, and I grind my bottom in his grip.
“Oh, baby, that’s good.”
I guide his other hand to my breast and under the protective bandage. He molds his palms against the soft flesh of my boobs.
“Wow, you got titties.”
I hear the sound of approaching footsteps so I shush him, we disentangle and hurry to the principal’s office. Antoine waits for me. Rojas takes my make up slip and gives me a sly smile.
“Keep up the good work, Flowers.”
“Thanks. I like it better here, now that I know I’m on the way out.”
“Probably the best for all concerned.”
I skip out of his office and find Antoine. We walk nonchalantly to the parking lot like a couple of casual buddies, but Antoine keeps looking over at me, like he’s sizing me up.
I stop and give him a quizzical look. “What?”
He smiles goofily, and says, “Nothin’.”
As we approach the black Escalade I decide it’s time. “Antoine, but I have something to tell you that’s going to make you go freaky, but you have to promise to let me tell you my whole story, until I finish.”
“I’ll let you finish your story as long I get to finish in your booty.”
“Of course, but this time you have to use a condom while you’re inside me.”
“Definitely. I got reminded about the insides of your booty every time I pissed for a week. So what’s the news flash?”
He opens the door and flicks open the locks. I get in the car. No, I know, I am vulnerable, in his power, and I am about to reveal a dangerous truth. But I have gotten in a lot of cars with a lot of dangerous strangers, and gotten out alive and both well fucked and paid. I feel like I can handle myself with him.
“Antoine, I saw you shoot that Salvo out on the street that night.”
He shoots me a panicked glare. “You bitch, don’t you dare be coming here to blackmail me. I should just cap you in the head when I’m done fucking you. Or maybe just cap you first.”
“Before you go postal don’t you want to know what I saw?”
“How ‘bout you saw that motherfucker pointing a Glock in my face.”
“That’s exactly what I saw. And I know he was going to use it. So if the police ever connect the dots back to you, don’t you want me alive and healthy to tell my side of the story?”
“OK, baby, so you’re my self defense. I like you better all of the time. But why are you coming around here and telling me that?”
“Because the police are the least of your concerns. The Mara got a hit out on you. What I’m supposed to be doing is setting you up.”
He looks panicked, and his sexy baritone rises a couple of registers. “You’re hooked up with those crazies? Why are you telling me this shit?”
“Because I hate those bastards. My boyfriend made me join. Now they’re pimping me out on the street and threatening to sell me to a pimp to work the street in Mexico. And they want to kill you and every other black living north of Jefferson Boulevard.”
Antoine pulls up in front of a battered Tudor-style house near the corner of Crenshaw and Adams. Its paint is peeling off, taking with it swathes of caked on graffiti. From the overlapping gang tags I can decipher that this is a neighborhood in conflict. It’s divided between white urban pioneers, black holdovers and surging brown tide of Mexicans and Central Americans. This is the realm to which Hector plans to extend the Mara’s reach. This is where the Crips must make their stand.
“The Mara want this block. They want to run everything from Pico Union to Crenshaw.
“Welcome to my hood, baby. I got no plans to leave.”
“But the Mara plan to drive you out of here.”
“That’s not going to happen. So are you here to help, or are you one of them now.”
I turn, lift my sweatshirt and show him the whore tag on my butt. He emits a low whistle.
“They got you tagged, bitch.” He traces the M and S that garland the sides of Betty Boop’s flowery throne.
“I’m one of them, but I want to be free of them, just like you. I want to erase those letters from my bottom. And that’s why I’m here. You help me, and I help you.”
“How’s a ladyboy like you gonna help me?”
“Because I got the plan. It goes like this. First, I tell the Mara I found you. Then I lead the Mara to you on your territory. I tell you where and when they’re coming and the Crips ambush the Mara and wipe them out.”
“You got to make me trust you. How do I know this isn’t a double cross?”
I rub my boobs against his chest. “I’ll show you how loyal I can be.”
Antoine emits a low whistle. “How am I going to know when this is going down?”
“I’ll send you a text message when we are on the way. I’ll get you descriptions of the players on the hit team, and their cars, and you tell your soldiers where to set up and whom to shoot. Just promise me that you’ll kill Hector Hernandez. He’s the leader.” I show Antoine a camera phone shot of Hector standing in the kitchen of the Bella Casa. “I’ll send you pictures of the others.”
“Why don’t you just lead me to them?”
“They have that neighborhood so wired you’d never surprise them. You’d be ambushed. I’ll deliver them to you here, where you have the advantage.”
“You’re good, my little ladyboy. In more ways than one.”
“Let me show you just how good I am.”
I lean over the console and gently squeeze his cock. It’s even bigger than I remember it.
“Mmm, I can’t wait to start sucking on this.”
“Upstairs.” Antoine guides me up the stairs to the second floor.
“I live here with my mom, but she’s not around now.”
“Neither is mine. Rehab.”
“Mine too. Maybe they’re together.”
“That would be funny. Is it OK if I change. I feel too boyish in these.”
“You need something to wear? My momma’s a lot bigger than you.”
“No, I’m prepared. Can I use your bathroom?”
“Sure. I’ll go get us some beer. You need anything else?”
“Maybe some wipes, for afterwards.”
“Sure baby. If we ever stop.” He kisses me and leaves alone me in his home. I am touched by his trust and generosity, for his home is just as threadbare and impoverished as my own. For all of his flash and grandstanding at Fairfax, Antoine is just a poor kid like me.
On the noisy, rusty old refrigerator there’s a picture of him riding a bike, and another, even younger, blowing out six candles on a birthday cake. There’s a picture of him in a Fairfax high football uniform, and another sprinting across the finish line at a track meet. There’s his mom, a fat lady with a sad expression. Antoine is like me, trying to make good through sports like I have been trying with art. It’s hard poor kids to survive in LA. You need a gang to support you, to keep the others off your back, but the gang ends up dragging everyone down to the same level thuggish brutality. I have to get out of it. And Antoine, and his gang, will provide my escape from the Mara.
The gangrenous shower curtain and chipped and filthy commode are just as tawdry as the ones at my house. There is a rat trap behind the toilet, and roach hotels on the counter top. I stand on my tip toes, fill my douche, insert it, and squeeze in some warm water, to flush my ass clear of any poop.
While I wait for the colonic rinse to work its magic, I put on my make up. My ass soon is urgent, and I squat above the grimy toilet seat to make tiny poo, which pops out in a flood of clear water. The towels are so filthy that I pat myself dry with toilet tissue. Then, I step into the rusty tub and wash my bottom. The towels are so filthy that I pat myself dry with toilet tissue and dress. When my panties touch the smooth and hairless skin of my tiny scrotum and cock, I feel my nipples erect and graze the pleated bust of my dress. I hurry to lace up my sandals when I hear Antoine’s feet on the stairs.
He unlocks the door, and I realize that I have been his captive behind the double bolted door, but this realization only enhances my expectant mood.
“Wow, you look like a real fine lady, baby.”
“Thanks, I did the best I could in a hurry.” I gloss my lips as he watches, and smack them together in a air kiss to finish. “What did you bring me?”
“Six of these tall boys, and one of these really tall boys.” He pats his crotch, which is bulging noticeably.
He pops open and hands me a beer and leads me to the bed. I sit, take a gulp and feel the dull glow of alcohol spread through me.
He puts on some John Legend and offers me his hand. We start to dance. Antoine is six foot three, about ten inches taller than I am and weighs about 210, compared to my 105. My head barely reaches his shoulders. I breathe in his powerful aromas as he nuzzles his head in my hair. Antoine’s body is earthy and tangy with sweat, even though he has just showered after his practice. “It’s really hot here.” He wrenches open a window, and the sheet that’s been nailed to the frame billows in and out in the Santa Ana winds. “That’s better.” He gathers me to him again, and we sway to the gentle music.
He has really long, strong arms, and he rubs my buttocks as we rock back and forth, making ever tighter concentric circles around my booty. He hugs me tight with his other arm, and presses my boobs against his taut, angular abdomen. The song ends, and we swig some more beer, and then he dances me toward the bed.
I unhitch his belt, and his baggy pants glide off his slim, toned waist slip easily to the floor. His cock is straining against his boxers, so I release it. It gently slaps my cheek, and I rub it against my face, breathing on it, inhaling it, and looking up worshipfully.
“I think it grew since I saw it last.”
“I’m still growing, got three inches taller since last year. Coach says I might get some college scouts looking at my ball this year.”
“Right now I’m the one looking at your balls, and they’re beautiful.” I take one of his testicles in my mouth and gently guck it as I tickle the other with my fingers. My other thumb and forefinger cannot quite reach to circle his cock but I stroke it gently and his moans mingle with the music.
“Oh, baby, that’s good.”
I take his cockhead between my lips and he jolts in response, and starts face fucking me intensely, mashing my lips against the surging black cock and digging his fingers deep into my hair to gain leverage against my head. I let my muscles go limp in his hands, and he wrenches my head to and fro, banging his cock on from my lips to my glottis.
He pauses, draws me next to him on the bed and kisses my cock flavored mouth deep and long.
“You taste good with a little cock on your lips.”
“Mmm, I like the dark meat best.”
“Don’t you know how to deep throat, baby? It feels like it’s only going in half way.”
“I’d have to be a hippo to deep throat that monster.” I point his cock straight up impale my throat with it. It slides past my gag point into my esophagus. I push it farther until I feel the tickle of pubes on my nose, and then come up for air.
“I’m going to need CPR if I deep throat that.”
He laughs. “What’s that stand for?”
“Cock or Penis Rear Entry.”
I pat my ass and reach for my purse to grab lube and the largest condom in my collection. I put some lube on my butt and hand Antoine the bottle.
“I like your new attitude, baby.”
“Now Antoine, I need to teach you how to fuck a T Girl. The first thing is to open me up slowly with your finger.”
I point my ass up, and bow my head back down over his cock. He starts playing with my ass on the outside. It sends trills of pleasure through me. I respond by bobbing my head ever more energetically over his cock, licking the underside from his balls to the tip and then back, and then popping the glans in and out my lips. He draws the alphabet with his fingers inside me. I am shivering with sensation, and push my butt back on him to signal to push farther. His knuckle pops through the second ring, and I decode from the rush of neural signals a way to control that inner sphincter. I discover that I am able to pull my ass open, to make it gape, inviting, rather than resisting penetration. I focus every nerve and every muscle fiber on opening up.
“Baby, how are you doing that? You’re wide open for me.”
I take a breathe and look up at him worshipfully, panting. He is peering into my insides, like a connoisseur looking at an art masterpiece. “I don’t know. I just figured out how to do it.”
“It’s beautiful inside there, like a deep red cave.”
I relax my muscles, and feel my ass snap shut on Antoine’s fingers.
“Oh, baby, you trapped me.” I open and shut again, hoping that repletion will make my muscles remember this trick.
“I think your butt’s ready to get reacquainted with Mr. Johnson.”
I pause from blowing him, roll a XXL on his cock, and slather it with lubricant.
“OK, now please go slowly at first.”
“I’ll be good.”
I roll on my back and throw my legs up in the air. When he approaches, I latch my ankles over his shoulders. He leans over me and I guide his cock to my ass.
“Ready for me this time, baby?”
“The second time’s the charm. And practice makes perfect.”
The first seconds of anal sex always hurt a little, and I have gotten used to that. I endure it willingly as the price of the pleasure that follows. But Antoine’s cock is so huge it that in a second it had utterly shattered my relaxation and defeated my determination. I yelp a cry for help. A contagion of pain burns through the lubricant, scours my mucosa and sends searing flames of agony through me. I struggle to escape the invasion, but he is so enraptured with his own sensations that he cannot let go of me, and slowly pushes in deeper. I try to surrender, to gape with him inside, but the brute force of his cock gives no quarter, and my own burning, screeching muscles refused the commands of my mind that they yield. So they fight back in useless, unequal struggle.
I bite my lip and shut my eyes. I conjure visions of submission and surrender from my storehouse of fantasies. I am a Chinese princess, carried in a silk shrouded litter across the trackless Gobi. My spice caravan is ambushed by Mongol horseman, who slaughter my servants, cut off my clothes with sword strokes. When I am naked and helpless they will tie me to the ground and gang rape me, one after the other. I cry futile tears that disappear in the dust. But even these heartless assailants of my imagination are routed from my consciousness, and I return to reality, still staggered by Antoine’s cock, which drills ever deeper inside me. I break into prickly sweat.
“Antoine, please stop. I need to take a break.”
“Keep trying baby, feels so good, I can’t stop.”
He bears down, slowly, steadily rending me open. I bite my forearm, trying to create a new locus of pain to distract me from the cataclysm in my rectum. I am afraid that I can’t handle him after all. I look up at him. Antoine’s face is all bliss and pleasure.
“Oh baby, open your eyes, so I can see the love in there.”
I blink my watery eyes open. Antoine’s face filled with joy and pleasure. He leans down and gives me a tender kiss to comfort me. “I love it when you ass pussy vibrates that way.”
My squirming, pulsating agony is enhancing his pleasure.
“Antoine, you’re torturing me. Please, take it out for a minute.”
“You’ll get used to it. You did last time, and you loved it at the end.”
He’s right. I just need to relax. But the flesh of my poor hole is stretching to the breaking point. As he pushes deeper inside, his thick cock unfurls the coils of my colon. I begin to lose consciousness, and close my eyes to let myself slip into that void. Now, my muscles drain of energy. One by one they capitulate and soften. My eyes roll back in my head, my body is limp, and I wonder for a moment whether I am dying. His surge finally stops as his ileac bumps my bottom. I jolt back into awareness.
“Oh god, I think your cock is about to come out of my mouth.”
“It’s that big, huh?”
“You’re enormous.”
“You OK now?”
I nod, and he heaves deeper inside me.
“Oooh, it feels like you are stuck inside me.”
“If it goes in then it can come out.” He levers his arms against my back and begins sliding back.
I grimace. “It feels like you’re pulling my insides out along with your big cock.”
My head throbs, and my newly showered body is dewy with perspiration. “Sorry I’m so sweaty. You filled me up so full it made me get too hot.”
“Ain’t no such thing as too hot for me, baby.” He is almost out now. My ass yearns to be filled up again, but I am tensing again.
“I think I need more lube.”
“OK, baby.” His cockhead makes my sphincters snap it exits. But I feel a rush of relief. I hoist my ass and gape it open.
“Oh, yeah, I can see way deep, baby. Inside your booty looks like a jar of strawberry jam.”
“I feel like I’m burning up inside. Squirt some lube inside me.” I feel a splatter of oil inside me. The tendrils of flames inside me are doused.
“That’s better. Now open me up with your fingers.”
Antoine pokes one finger into my hole. It glides in easily, and I nod and he adds another. My ass first contracts, but I force it open, and it yields, so he adds a third, then a fourth and finally his thumb. I bite the pillow to contain my cry. He is watching me intently, and I nod, again and he forces his whole hand up to his knuckles inside me and gently punches it in and out. I arch my back, and point my ass upward. His fist presses against my prostate and I feel a tingle of pleasure emanate though me. My cock twinges to a tiny erection.
“Oh, baby, I love that booty. Look at that boy clit. It’s so cute.” He rotates his fist and strokes my cock between his fingers. The sensations fullness inside me and playful tickling outside meld and make me feel like a perfect little girl. I writhe and moan in a soprano.
“Now you’re ready for my love.” He pulls out his fist and dribbles more lube on his cock. It’s even bigger than when we began, a throbbing black beast. But I feel more ready now. The pleasant pressure of his fist has restored my confidence.
“OK, let’s try that again.” I drape a towel on his sheets and lean over his bed.
“Gape your butt open.”
I comply, and he coats my ass with more lube. It tickles me as it coats my buttocks. He strokes it deep inside me with his fingers. Then I feel the slap of his cock against my ass, and reach back to point him inward. I inhale, and then exhale as his cock slides through my rings deep inside. My interior has been softened by his fingers and fist and is so coated with lube that his cock glides in with a rush. The tiny core of maleness that remains part of me is crushed, exposed and expelled by Antoine. I feel like I’ve been reborn, as an angel.
I trill ecstatic choruses, as his cock plumbs my depths, finds my soul, and frees it with a flourish as his cock withdraws. Antoine is big and strong, and I am slight and week, a flower bending in the fury of a hurricane. I am crushed beneath him as he surges in and out. He black cock pound like a hammer on an anvil. Each new blow rings loud, sends sparks showering through me and reshapes the nub of me, from boyness to girlness. The old me is being swept away as though by the torrents of a tsunami. Then, when I feel as though I cannot take another breath, he pulls his cock out, rolls my legs over his shoulders and pushes effortlessly back inside me. He clutches my thighs in his huge hands and bangs my ass against his onrushing thighs.
“Oh, baby, you look so beautiful when you got my big cock inside you. How do you feel?”
“Like a virgin who’s just had her cherry popped by the biggest cock and the strongest, sexiest man in the world.”
“You like it like this?”
“I love it every which way.”
He pull out again, rolls me onto the bed, and lies beside me. He nestles against me, cups my breast with one hand, and braces my shoulder with the other. I bend like a twig as he slides back inside me. His cock has found a new path into my core. My intestines realign on the vector of his cock. The flesh of my tummy bulges and falls with his motions. After a few strokes my abdomen relaxes. I begin pumping my bottom back against his sideways thrusts. All of my life, I have been felt empty, and looked for fulfillment of an unknown aspiration. I was born with part of me was missing: my missing vagina. In Antoine I have found something with which, for a moment, I can fill that void.
“Fuck me, Antoine, fuck me hard.”
He responds by rolling me back over on my stomach and riding me hard, but now that’s all I want, be fucked until I am remade, or until Antoine has expended all of his energy on the task. He is bathed with sweat now, his mouth black skin is slick as he rides me, and his speed increases. His muscles are bulging and rock hard and they slap my flesh. Every thrust knocks my breath out, but I am propelled by energy erupting from deep within me. I feel my self obliterated, and recreated.
I feel like his cock is boring a vagina, and building a uterus out of the broken bits of my useless male parts, the prostate and the vas deferens. With each retreat of his cock, my vision of immanent womanhood recedes, but with each of his thrusts, my femininity is restored. I need Antoine to complete the destruction of my boyhood and the completion of the woman inside me. I beg for it. “Harder, deeper, more, more. Fuck me, fuck me more.” My flesh trembles, my eyes roll back in my head, and I drift into a dream state.
I am a Thai princess. The gods are angry with the Kingdom. They rain plagues of death and destruction on my people. I offer myself in sacrifice to their wrath. My subjects gather at the temple. The temple priests sing in mournful chorus as they bear me aloft to the silk shrouded altar. They lay me down on the embroidered silken cover, and place a lace shroud over my body. The high priest ululates an ancient prayer, and the others bow their heads in obeisance to the gods. Then, in unison, they lift their daggers and plunge them deep into me.
Their blades enter my belly with sharp pricks, but as they slide deep inside, instead of pain, my sacrifice brings forth ecstasy. Through my wounds my soul is released from the constraints of my body. My consciousness floats upward, to the high ceiling of the temple, and looks down upon the crowd gathered around my bloodstained body. The temple is aglow with light, and a chorus of angels sings hallelujah. The gods have been appeased.
I awaken from this reverie. The heavenly chorus is my own voice, the dagger is Antoine’s cock, and the release is a flood inside my well-fucked ass. It pulses waves of energy up and down my spine from my butt to my shoulders in an involuntary shuddering cascade. I quiver and shake until my body goes limp, and I faint. I am shaken awake by Antoine, who still rides me from behind and slaps me to bring me out of my languor. I feel as though a part of me has died, and another part has been reborn. My body goes limp.
“What’s the matter baby? Your booty’s better when you fuck back at me.”
“I think that I orgasmed. I’m tired. Do you want you to finish in my mouth?”
“I guess I finally used your butt up.”
“I want to watch you cum. Cum all over my face and tits.”
“OK, whatever.”
He pulls out and I prop myself against the headboard. I pucker my ass to keep the flood inside. I unsheathe his cock, coat my fingers with lube and begin jerking him with my hands. I kiss the greasy tip and flick my tongue whenever I can reach it, but he is flailing so that I my mouth can’t keep up. The first jet of jism fires into my eyes and I am momentarily blinded, but I hang on to his cock with both hands, stroking him. More gobs fly into my hair, ears, chin, and onto my chest. I blink my eyes open to see the looming monster poised within my lips’ reach, so I take his cockhead in my mouth, cup his scrotum and squeeze. I extract the last rich, thick residue of his semen, swirl it around my mouth, and gulp it. Its mossy tang quenches my thirst.
“Mmm, that’s delicious.”
“Love the way you squeeze my lemons.”
“Love your lemonade.”
“Love your jellyroll.” He give my butt a playful poke, and then lifts his fingers first to his nose, then to mine. “Your poop shoot don’t smell like shit. How do you keep it so clean?”
“With a high fiber diet.” He laughs, rolls off and lies beside me.
After a few minutes of silence, Antoine clears his throat. “I don’t want to be quoted, but I think your ass pussy is better than any cunt pussy.”
“Thank you. I think your big black dick is better than the puny white and Salvo dicks I’ve been getting.”
“OK, from now on, no more Salvo dick for you, and white dick only if it pays or if I say.”
I contemplate this for a few minutes. “Are you saying you want me to be your ho?”
“Let’s try it for a little while.”
I smile and slide my head under the covers and slip his penis back into my mouth. It’s soft and malleable, and his balls are buried deep in the folds of his scrotum. But soon, I know, it will be hard and huge once again.

Secondary Education
Tyla Flowers
[email protected]

Chapter 9, Seeing No Evol

Matt Frawley’s arms are glistening in the slanting rays of August sunshine. He dribbles behind his back, wrong footing his defender. Matt deftly crosses the ball over, changing direction and bounce passes it to Antoine, who is streaking down the court on the fast break and scores an easy lay up. Matt whoops a victorious hurrah, and his blue eyes for a moment meet mine until he is distracted by Antoine. They bang their chests and hand slap, grunting a comradely cheer.
As they wait on defense for the inbound whistle, Antoine nudges Matt and whispers something, and Matt looks at me with a curious look. I feel as though his eyes are peering deep within me. What did Antoine tell him about me? Now probably knows what I let Antoine do with me. His face is bland and inscrutable. I wish I could read his mind, or even control it, to make him want me. I blush and avert my eyes.
I clasp the chain link fence and watch as Matt falls back, harrying the opposing player, then steals the ball, breaks away, and shoots a running jump shot, which clanks off the back of the rim into Antoine’s outstretched arms, who slams it through the hoop. This time, Matt smiles in my direction, sharing his triumph and joy with me. I jump up and down and clap.
I wish that I were dressed like a cheerleader, and could pirouette and high kick in response. But I am clad in my Fairfax High Sweats and baseball cap. Suddenly, being in his gaze in boy’s clothes makes me remember what I am and why I will always be unworthy.
I hate Coach and Fairfax for making me masquerade in my sweats. I hate Antoine for what I imagine he told Matt. I hate myself for being born a boy, and for becoming a whore and a slut, someone whom Matt will always disdain. I wish I could just disappear, or just die and be reborn as I should be, a beautiful girl. But Buddhist reincarnation is just as much a fairy tale as the omnipotent Christian God, or the Easter Bunny. I am what I am. If I am to become what I want to be, I must remake myself, with hormones, silicone, and surgery.
Suddenly I am hot, burning with angry self awareness and hatred. The basketball court wavers and blurs. I grip the chain link fence as the world cascades into a hallucination. I grope in my pocket for another Diane, to subdue this hot flash in a bath of soothing chemicals. When I look up, Matt is staring at me again, and the hot flash resumes. I cannot remain in Matt’s sight, in my present incarnation. I make a show of checking the time, feign surprise, and hurry back across the schoolyard to Coach’s office.
In Coach’s student files the papers are neatly aligned and chronological, and the files are alphabetized by last name. Today’s mail is arranged by subject in neat piles with squared corners. His desk drawers now easily open and close without the necessity of tamping down the overflowing contents. His pencils are sharpened, and all of his pens work and are arranged by color in separate cups. I have extracted the crumbs and dust from the spaces of his computer keyboard and polished the monitor.
I have done my servitude to the Coach and I am getting my Incomplete changed to a pass. As soon as I finish organizing Coach’s lower left hand drawer, an archeological dig of half eaten power bars and empty yoghurt cups, I will be free to leave Fairfax behind forever. I should be glad to leave behind the years of persecution and rejection that I endured here, but instead I am on the verge of tears, filled with regret, and desperate longing to be wrapped in Matt Frawley’s glistening, powerful arms. I know that after I leave this place, I will never get my chance with him.
My cell rings. I’m not supposed to have it on while I work, but no one is near, so I answer it. It’s Hector. He thinks he’s the most wanted gangsta in LA, so every time he calls, he uses a different phone.
“Hey, T Chica, why you didn’t call me?”
“I’m busy. I have to work or they kick me out of here.”
“Too busy for the Mara’s business? I don’t care about your other fucking business. You work for me. And I want the mayate tonight.”
“I can give him to you. I have it all set up. He’s here, playing basketball, and when they are done, I am going with him. He thinks I’m going to let him fuck me after school today, but instead, he gets fucked up. I’ll text you when it’s time.”
“He’s there? We’ll kill him right now.”
“Here at school?” I panic, not about my own safety, but for Matt’s. “Not now. Too many people, too many cops, and too many cameras. Get him alone, make him beg for his life, and then kill him in his bedroom, with his pants down.”
“You sure you don’t just want that black dick up your tail pipe?”
I have come to love being rammed by Antoine until my toes curl and my ear drums pop, as much as I hate being the Mara's sex toy, but I remain in character, the loyal Mara spy. “I hate it. After you kill him, I want to take on the whole hit squad, starting with you, just to get his taste out of me.”
Hector laughs. “You got a great attitude, T Chica.”
“It’s my love of the Mara.”
I have become a great liar. Being a whore is good practice for a life of constant lying. I lie to live, and live to lie.
In the background, I hear Hector bragging about me to his companions. But I hear approaching foot steps and hang up without saying goodbye. I busy myself shuffling papers for the next few seconds. When I look up, Coach is glaring at me.
“Look Coach, doesn’t this place look great?” I pat a stack of alphabetized student evaluation forms.
“Flowers, I don’t want you mooning over my ballplayers any more. I don’t want any homos on my team and you’re a bad influence.”
“I was only watching them play.”
“I am not making this as a suggestion. You stay away from those men or I’ll march you off campus and back onto the street.”
I can’t risk expulsion now. I need this credit, but even more so, I need to leave school with Antoine if we are going to spring the Mara trap. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
He hands me my hours credit slip. He’s shorted me again, and probably believes the understated records of my hours that I have left for him. But Rojas’s records, I have enough hours to satisfy my PE requirements.
“You can leave now.”
“Isn’t it perfect here?”
“It’s fine. You don’t need to come back until next week.”
“OK. Thanks for letting me make up my missed classes here.”
“It wasn’t my choice. Rojas forced you on me to make a reasonable accommodation of your unfortunate life style choices. I’d rather have flunked you. So get lost now, OK?”
I pick up my back pack and leave. My face is burning, and I know I can’t argue with him without screwing myself. So I say “Sorry, Coach,” and leave him in his immaculate office.
Antoine catches up to me on the way to Rojas office and waits for me as I turn in my paperwork. We walk to his Escalade, not too close, but like we were just friends.
“This is it. The Mara’s coming tonight.”
“Let me call my niggas. We be ready for them.”
Inside the Escalade I slip off my chinos to reveal tight, ripped cut-offs. Under my sweatshirt I am wearing a baby blue lace camisole, and beneath my sweatpants I have a short cotton skirt. I put my Keds in my backpack and replace them with silver wedge sandals. I fold down the mirror put on make up. Antoine is talking animated Ebonics to his crew.
Between calls he smiles and grabs my boob and says “Ladyboy, I got a little surprise for you this afternoon.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“Your gonna like this one.”
“Where are we going?”
“Used clothing store on Jefferson. There’s a garage in the back. You wait there till the Mara come. Then you do what you gotta do to get them in the back parking lot. My crew will block the exit with a truck, and then boom boom, they’re toast. What’s your plan to hook up with these Mara?”
“I text the leader, Hector the address. Then I flag them down on the street and take them to where you are supposed to be, in bed sleeping off a hard fuck.”
“You’re coming in with them?”
“Hector wants me to see you die. I think he’s planning to torture you first. He hears about what the insurgents do in Iraq, and then he copies them.”
“I thought I was bad, but I’m practically a saint next to this motherfucker.”
We pull in down a bumpy, narrow drive way. The parking lot is boxed in front and back by the abandoned in front, and six bay garage in the back, and on either side by its neighbors, two towering abandoned warehouses. It’s a perfect killing field. As we enter the Freeze flashes a sign with his stubby fingers. He flashes a golden smile at me.
“Little boy grows up into a little girl. Aren’t you cute?”
I smile demurely to Antoine and beckon him. He bends toward me and I whisper “I hope that’s not my surprise.”
“Nope. I got someone who wants to meet you, and who you might just want to meet.”
He opens the door. The middle bay of the garage has been converted to an apartment. Propped on the auto lift there’s a king size box spring and mattress. There’s an ancient refrigerator next to the tool bench, and on it there’s a hot plate, a few dented old pots and a stained coffee maker. The sink is cast concrete and has only cold water, and it’s equipped with a flexible shower hose which is hung over an open drain in the floor. The only furniture that’s not filthy and decrepit is a brand new plasma TV, which is blaring Sports Center to an enraptured audience of one sitting on the bed. It’s Matt Frawley.
Antoine claps Matt on the back. “Lookee here, bro. I told you she cleans up good.”
Matt pivots and looks at me nonchalantly. “Don’t even recognize the Flowers I used to know. What happened to that poor little guy I used to tease?”
“He’s become a she. Turn around, baby, and show my man Matt all the goodies.”
I do a stripper style turn and touch my toes, hiking up my skirt to show off my thong-clad butt. Then back around, and lean forward so my camisole droops, and gives a peek at my titties.
“Whoa, Flowers, so you turned into one of those shemales?”
“Some people call us that, but I prefer T Girl or Ladyboy”
“So my man Antoine says you can suck and fuck better than any girl in the world. Are you going to show me?”
I scowl at Antoine, who grins and leaves, saying “My job’s done here.”
I slip out of my camisole and slip down my skirt. My cock is pressed flat by the tight satin front of my thong. I peek down, and make sure it’s invisible and cuddle up to Matt on the lumpy mattress.
I whisper in his ear. “Why don’t you be the judge of that? I wouldn’t know, since I have never been with another girl.”
He backs away, and looks at me with puzzled eyes. “That’s so crazy. You really think you’re a girl, don’t you?”
I nod, and look earnestly into his eyes. “I’ve always been a girl, even in my dreams, and especially in the dreams I have about you.”
“You dream about me?”
“Almost every night, almost all of the time. I have been waiting for you forever.”
I let out a great sigh and relax my head into his lap to breathe in the aromas of his groin. He smells of saddle leather and fresh cut wood. I am overwhelmed with hunger for him. My body sizzles with sexual electricity. I lick from his belly to his neck and back, and nuzzle him through the front of his sweat pants.
“I need to suck this right now.” I pull at the drawstring of his sweats.
He puts a protective hand over his cock, and then relaxes it and pats my head. “Oh well, what the hell.” Matt helps me slide off his Fairfax high sweatpants and pulls his tee shirt over his head. When the sleeve tangles on his broad shoulders, I loosen it.
He peeks shyly from beneath the fabric. “Thanks.”
I study him, trying to memorize the sight of his nude body. His hair is a streaky blond and spiky with sweat. His face is grizzled with a two day growth of beard. From the triangular thicket of his dusty blond pubes a limp, uncut penis hangs lazily along the bulging muscles of his inner thigh. His stomach is girded with overlapping, rippling muscles. His chest is forms another triangle, almost twice as wide at his shoulders as at his abdomen. His skin is golden from hours at play in the sun, except at the groin, where it is milky white.
I pull off my camisole and lean over him, dragging my little titties along his chest, across his stomach, and down his thighs and legs. My lips find his cock and I inhale again, and sigh out his aroma.
“I forgot to shower, so I’m a little rank.”
In response, I slip my lips over his salty cock and rim the cockhead with my tongue. “Then I’ll just lick you clean.”
“Yeah, lick me clean, like a little pussy cat.”
I inhale his leathery aromas, take one last look at the corona of golden hair framing his penis, and then gobble and slurp hungrily at his cock, and lick his balls. I visualize myself as a queen cat, licking at the furry penis of a tomcat. I wriggle my butt, imagining it to be my tail, flicking provocatively. I stop, look up at him, and meow, as though in heat.
“That’s a good little pussy.” He strokes my hair over my ears.
His flaccid cock springs to attention and I pump on it. I gather my hair into a top not and guide his hands to grip it. I want him to control and possess me. He begins forcing my lips up and down his rod. I breathe through my nose, and crane my head back, and find that his cock slips easily past my epiglottis and down my esophagus.
“Yeah, suck it good, baby. Take it in all the way.” I accelerate my head bobs, bracing my hands under his thighs and yanking to force my head down hard, so he can feel the parting of my throat when his dickhead slides through my tonsils and into my esophagus.
“Yeah, baby, deep throat me. Oh, yeah, that’s good.”
I gaze up at Matt, hoping to exchange a glance, an acknowledgment of my performance, but his eyes are fixed into the distance.
I squeeze my tongue, and pout my lips over the up-thrusting cock. My entire body is at work. My back arches like the spine of an aroused feline. My lips are still hungry, but my ass is starving for him, vibrating with anticipation of the rush of exquisite pain that will come when his cock invades me. My I rustle in my purse and find my tube of lubricant and spread it over my ass. I dig further and find a condom. I pause sucking and tear it open with my teeth.
Matt pulls it from my lips and flips it over his shoulder.
“You’re clean, right?”
“I’m always safe, yes.”
“Good, because I only ride bareback.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Everyone does for me. And I heard you make exceptions.”
My face burns with embarrassment and anger toward Antoine.
“I made a few mistakes, but I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Well, I’m going to teach you one now. You do it my way, and I don’t wear raincoats inside.”
I know I shouldn’t, but I want him too much to say no.
“OK, but don’t tell Antoine. This is only for you, Matt.” I slather him with lube. His cock, which had softened during our condom negotiations, immediately hardens.
“And leave those panties on. I don’t want to see that thing of yours on the loose. Now get on your knees and let’s see that third eye I’ve heard so much about.”
I kneel on the bed and point my butt up, pull the back string of my thong to the side reveal my bootie.
“Oh, yeah, now do that winky thing.”
I bite my lips to concentrate my energy on making concentric rings around my rectum. I draw the flesh inward, and then open it from within.
“Oh, yeah, I can see half way to China. It’s like a whole new world in there.”
“I wouldn’t know. Does it look inviting?”
“Like the planet Mars through a telescope, all swirly and red. I got an idea. I’ll take a picture.” I hear him rustle in his jeans, and then click of a camera phone. I know he’ll probably post these pictures to a porno web site but I don’t care, I just want to please him.
“Open wider.” He clicks again. I feel his fingers slide into me. I flinch as the rough skin of his fingers intrudes, and my ass reflexively clamps around them. I stifle a cry.
“I’m stuck. Your butt snapped closed as hard as a clam shell.” The camera snicks a few more time, and then he thrusts the Razr in front of me and scrolls through a quick slide show of my gaping butt, at first open an inch, and then two, all glistening with lube and shimmery red mucosa, followed by a shot of three of his fingers buried to the second knuckle, and finally a shot of my grimacing face in profile. I squeeze my well trained glutes around his fingers.
“You could at least have taken a prettier picture of me.”
He raises the camera high above his head. I crane my neck toward him and smile as the camera snicks again. He looks and says “Awesome” and shares it with me. It’s Tyla, bum up and finger fucked, smiling like a girl in love.
“That’s a keeper, huh?” I nod, but I wonder where he will post it, and how many perverts will jerk-off to that shot. I clamp my ass around his fingers and squeeze.
“I’m never letting go.” I giggle.
“OK, let me out now, or I’ll slide my whole fist in you.” I open my ass and release his fingers, and gape as wide as I can. The camera snicks again.
“Wow, that’s some amazing muscle control. Let’s see what you can do with my cock up your hole.”
I hold myself open for him. “Sprinkle some more of that lube inside me.” I feel a spattering of Astroglide against the walls of my rectum.
“How do you want me?”
He is stroking more lube on his bare dick. The cock head pokes through the foreskin like the head of a lurking moray.
“Just like this.” He slips his big hand under my pelvis hoists my ass high. “Do I fuck this the same way as a pussy?”
“Just like a burger, In and Out.”
“Boop, that’s my favorite burger, and you’re my favorite sexburger with sesame seed buns.” He laughs and slaps my buns, and kneels behind me. I suck my thumb to calm and stifle myself, arch my back to expose my hole, open it as wide as I am able, and gird my frail muscles for the imminent lunge. He presses my face into the mattress, which is pungent with the residues of countless past trysts and rapes by its Crip owners.
His thighs press mine apart, and he rears back and then thrusts forward like a blitzing linebacker. His cock slithers through my gaping, well-lubed sphincters and tunnels deep inside my colon. His thighs bang against me, and I collapse to the mattress. He is deep in my belly before his first lunge finishes.
Pain obliterates all my other senses. His cock pierces me like a thrusting saber slashing from my belly to my heart. My breath explodes from my lungs in a cry of anguish. He pulls back, and I inhale with a shriek, and then he spears me again. I am blinded by tears and the rush of blood to my head. I hear him grunting as he pulls back and stabs still deeper in me. I feel his balls slap against my buttocks.
I open my eyes and through bleary eyes look at my thumb. It is indented with my tooth marks. I peer up at him kneeling astride me. He glistens with sweat, his muscles are bulging, and his face is chiseled with fierce determination. Looming above me, he looks like a mounted Greek god, and I am his chariot.
He rocks in and out as though in a trance. The pain has dissipated into a warm glow of pressure and pleasure. My ass muscles now respond to each thrust by opening my rectum wide, and suction back to restrain each withdrawal. He notices my technique, opens his eyes and meets my gaze. He fucks me slowly, regaining his breath.
“Ah, that’s a tight ass. I like it.”
“I’m sorry if I screamed to loud at first.”
“I liked that too, and the look on your face.”
“So I look pretty in pain?”
“Yeah, and even prettier now. You’re a good little fuck, Flowers.”
“You can call me Tyla.”
“It’s too much like Tyler. I’ll call you Boop, like your tatt.” He slaps my butt. I am a little offended by his choice, but I am happy that he gave me a pet name. I imagine him as a real boyfriend.
“Do you like it, my tatt?”
“So cute I don’t want to forget it.” He snaps another picture with his Razr. He displays a picture of an anonymous cock poking into my butt. My face is visible, the tatt is not. My face burns with embarrassment. I imagine that picture proliferating over the internet.
“I can’t see the tatt. Just me getting fucked. What are you going to do with those pix?”
He takes another pic. “I’ll just add them to my collection of fuck pix. I love butt tattoos. Gives me something to look at while I’m doing doggy. What’s with those letters, M and S?”
He’s way too far removed from the street life to know anything about the Mara, but I don’t want to scare him off. “Oh, nothing really. It’s just some initials.”
“Like some boyfriend?”
“Something like that. Something I’d like to forget.”
“Here’s something to help you forget old MS.” He spanks my butt and jams himself deep.
I gasp and moan a little, and then wriggle my ass against him. “I like that. I’m really ready now. You can ride me hard.”
He pulls me up to my hands and knees scoops my boobs in his big hands and holds them like handles. He rattles me with a series of swift, powerful thrusts. I gape and contract, pulling him deep inside and prolonging each release. He releases one breast from his crushing grip and entwines it in my hair, which he grasps into a crude top knot. Using my head and boob as handles, he levers my body against his thrusts, hammering deep into my colon. His body seems to get more powerful with every stroke. Thousands of hours in the weight room, on the track, and on the playing fields have made him mighty and relentless. The dozens of cheerleaders, soces and skanks he has bedded have emboldened and hardened his sexual athleticism. He is a monster in bed. His strength, endurance and energy overwhelm me. After a hundred cycles of contraction and gaping, I’m exhausted. I surrender, and become a limp, lifeless object in his encircling arms, my anus a receptacle for his battering penis. Gradually, his frenetic assault on me attenuates. He twists my limp head to face him.
“Oh, Boop, it’s better your ass grabs back at me. Now your just lying there like a rag doll.”
“You’re too much. I’m tired. Maybe I could fuck back better if I got on top.”
“I’m not a fag. Being on bottom is not for me.”
“I mean I’d like to ride cowgirl.”
He slides out. My ass contracts with a pop.
“Ouch. That stings. Can you hand me some of that paper towel?”
He wafts a piece and I take a careful exploratory swipe. There’s no blood or stray poop, just a pale mustard, translucent film of lube and colon mucous.
Matt looks at it disdainfully. “Don’t you clean up inside before you get fucked?”
“I did. I’m sorry. There’s always a little color. That’s why I want a new pussy.”
“Fuggit about it, I’m not waiting around for that. Besides, this dick’s been in dirtier holes than yours.”
I’ve had bigger cocks than his, and been fucked harder, but I decide not to brag. He’s already deflating, and I don’t want him to lose interest in me.
“Let me clean you up.” I rise to my knees and lick his cock and balls. My ass juice is sweet and salty. I take his cock deep in my throat and inhale his pubes, which are scented with my inner essence. I grapple for my lube, and smear more of it on my rectum.
He gives my cheek a playful slap. “OK, that’s clean enough for now. Show me how you ride.” He flops face up on the mattress. His cock rises like the mast of a great ship. I scramble atop him. His chest is so broad my little legs can barely straddle him. I aim his cock at my anus and settle down upon it. I can’t open my ass in this position so his cock pops through my constricted sphincters. I squeeze my eyes and bite my lip in pain.
“You’re gorgeous when you do that.” He’s drawing little circles around my areole. A tiny drop of milk has formed on the left nipple. He dabs at it and offers it to me. I lick it from his outstretched finger.
“Mmm, that’s something new for me.”
He tugs at my right breast, and another pearly droplet forms there. This one he licks himself.
“I was bottle fed, so that’s my first taste of tit milk.”
“Do you like my milk?”
“Not bad, but I’d rather have a Bud.”
“Aren’t you enjoying my bud right now?”
He laughs, and grabs my ass. “Yeah, this bud’s for me. But this bud’s too light. I need the full body.” He scoops his hands under my buttocks and takes control, lifting me up and pulling me down by my ass cheeks. The grip of his strong hands on my ass sends shivers of pleasure through me, and I feel my cock hardening in satin front of my thong. My hair is flying, my breasts are jiggling, and body is shuddering with his mighty up-thrusts and the powerful pistoning of my butt against his heaving body. I start to feel faint, I want to surrender, to close my and just let him fuck me.
But I want to please him, so I reciprocate each of his thrusts and withdrawals by bouncing down and up against them. He is grunting and breathing hard, and filmed with sweat. I lick my upper lip, and taste the salt of my own perspiration. Our bodies slap together in drum roll percussion. I slip into a dream.
I am riding behind Matt on his motorcycle. I massage my breasts against his trapeziums, and he squeezes my thigh. We dismount and walk hand in and through the scrub to the trail head. The climb is steep and treacherous, so he hoists me on his back like a fireman. I kiss his sweaty neck, and he squeezes my hand. We hike to our favorite spot, a smooth flat rock sheltered beneath the oaks. I flutter a quilt to make a rustic bed. We undress, I lube my new pussy, and behold him looming over me, backlit in the leaf dappled rays of the setting sun. He kisses me and says “I love you,” and I say “I love you too.” He enters me slowly and carefully, a millimeter at a time, and with each stroke, he kisses my new C-cups and lips. I am a beautiful, complete woman, and he has become my perfect lover.
From afar, I hear the chirp of my cell phone. But I realize that it’s ringing back in the real world. My dream dissipates, but I am still happy, for the real world has never been better for me. The mattress stinks, the air is hot and stale, but Matt is really on top of me, making love to me, and getting ready to finish. In a dirty, tawdry way, my dream has come true.
I feel his pace quicken, and hear his voice break into inanimate grunts. I am oozing inside, my inner flows have become a torrent that fuels him to new paroxysms of pleasure. Waves of anal orgasm gush through me, and my ass is sucking involuntarily at his cock, milking the sperm from it. He groans and smashes his thighs against me, shuddering violently. His cock bursts forth a hot spatter of semen into my quivering colon, and sparks another wave of orgasm from my depths. Two, three, four, five, six and seven, the pyroclastic eruptions of Matt’s cock sluice a fiery path from my belly to my soul. He cum mixes with my orgasmic juices and the lubricity inside me is exquisite, warm and wonderful. I wail with pleasure and release. My body and soul are fused in ecstatic release, and the female soul has imprinted itself forever on my mortal being. My body is utterly fulfilled and pleasured, but it is in my soul that I experience the greatest pleasure of all. For the first time in my life, I feel I have been loved. I collapse onto Matt’s chest. I bite my lips, to keep myself from telling him that I love him.
He whispers “That was incredible. It felt like you were sucking the cum out of me.”
I am disappointed. I experienced nirvana, and he is talking about me like a really great sex toy. But he’s a guy, and guys are all about the physical experience, and not the emotional aspect of sex. “You are incredible too. I had the biggest, longest orgasm ever.”
“You came on me?” He looks a little disgusted.
“Not there. I can’t do that anymore. I came inside, like a woman.”
“Good. That’s great.”
I wonder whether he was glad that I had an orgasm, or whether he was relieved that my cock hadn’t cum. He probably doesn’t care at all, except as it enhanced his own experience.
“Get off of me now, OK? I want to nap.” His softening cock is sliding out from its burrow, and so I rise and scamper to the shower. I turn away and slide off the thong. It’s a bit damp inside the satin, I must have cum in there but not noticed during the frenzy inside me.
A slurry of Matt’s semen, my ass cum and lube drizzles down my leg as I turn the tap. Rusty water spurts fitfully from the nozzle. It’s freezing, and my cock shrivels to a nub. I soap and rinse my ass, and squirt a frigid spray into my crack. I finger it my anus. It’s puffy and swollen. I put on my thong, rustle in my purse, spread some Neosporin on my rectum, and then return to bed. Matt’s asleep. He is hogging the blanket, and turned away from me. I lie next to him, and stare up at the mottled beams of this dank garage. The threadbare mattress is sticking to my skin. The smell of sex is fading, and now the air is suffused with the rank petroleum stench of the oil stained floor. The refrigerator clanks noisily to life. A fly buzzes by and lights on Matt’s shoulder. He stirs and snores, but does not awaken.
I cannot sleep. I try hard to recapture my motorcycle fantasy, but it keeps slipping away. I am still in the ghetto, and I am still a trannie whore, a sex toy to be played with and discarded. I will be made love to by many, but I will never be loved. On the table, my phone chirps a voice mail alert. But I am too lonely and tired to get it.

TBC

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Secondary Education
Tyla Flowers
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Chapter 10
Reincarnation

I am asleep in the arms of my Bodhisattva. He strokes my forehead.
“Look within to find consciousness of the skandhas that survived your rebirth.”
I concentrate, and focus on a fuzzy, black and white image. “I was Private Flores, an American warrior in the jungle battles of Laos. I killed many and died filled with guilt and hatred. These passions survived inside me, and even they roil and disturb my karma, to disturb my feminine equilibrium.”
“Now, look deeper, pull asunder the veil of your consciousness, and be reborn a woman.” I visualize a curtain, and pull at its draw cord. I hear a loud, metallic chatter, the clink of breaking glass and the skitter and pop of rounds ricocheting on the cinderblock walls and cement floor of the garage. It’s the sound every ghetto kid knows and dreads, so I roll off the bed and onto the floor and keep as low to the ground as I can.
But Matt’s from the other side of Olympic, and doesn’t recognize this strange sound. He jolts from his reverie, bolts to the window, and peers out.
“What the fuck….”
The AK-47 chatters again, this time much closer. Matt spasms, spins, and drops through a aerosol of his own blood, bone and brains. It falls like a mortal dew on me. I roll next to him and pull his body on top of me as the next fusillade of ricochets rattle through the room and thump down on his back. His body pulsates with a death rattle. His blood pours from the gaping exit wound at the back of his neck, and cascades over me. I struggle to catch my breath, and inhale a hot, stick gulp. I gag and cough. My tears mix with his blood. His body goes limp. I am trapped, but for the moment, I am protected from the rounds that snap and sizzle around the room.
The steel door creaks open and a dark shape crawls in. I squint at Freeze, dragging a sawed off shotgun. He kicks the door closed and huddles beneath the window where Matt died, hiding from the Mara barrage. He notices me, cowering beneath Matt’s corpse.
“Flowers, get up and help me, you double crossing little cunt.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know they were coming so soon. Something got fucked up. I never got their call.” I don’t mention the message alert that I ignored in my post-coital reverie.
“What’s fucked is you, but it doesn’t matter, we’re both fucked. Here, load this.”
He slides a Glock and a box of ammo toward me, and then fires round from the shot gun through the shattered window. It’s answered with another burst of automatic weapons fire, and Freeze hits the floor.
I slip the clip out of the gun’s handle and begin fumbling in the 9 mm rounds. The clip’s spring fights back, the rounds are slippery. It’s slow going, but I get a few rounds loaded.
Freeze fires another round, ducks, and screams “Hurry up, cunt, before I cap you.”
Freeze is bent of fighting to his own suicidal death. What does it matter if he kills Crazy 8, or Hector, before the Mara kill him. He is going to die no matter what.
The only variable is who dies with him. I decide that it need not be me.
He fires from the window again. As he reloads, I raise the Glock, and call his name. When he turns, I fire a round into his chest. He looks surprised as falls backward to the floor. He makes gurgling sounds like he’s drowning. The AK pokes through the shattered window and fires another half dozen rounds into the room. One thuds into the Freeze. He gasps, and then goes silent. I scream into the din. “Ocho Loco, stop shooting, the Crips are all down.”
The firing pauses. “T-Chica, is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Open the door slowly and walk out backwards.”
I polish the Glock free of my prints, and then push Freeze out of the way. His body lolls to the side, and he groans, barely audible. I push open the door, and walk out backwards, looking back into the carnage in the garage, uncertain whether I will encounter welcoming allies or a summary execution. I am naked, bloodstained and trembling with fear, for while the Mara have won a great victory, I have tried to betray them, and then failed in my mission.
“I’m coming out now, alone.” I put my hands on top of my head. My hair is caked with Matt’s blood, which is slowly coagulating to a sticky crust.”
“Is anyone else in there with you?”
“Two, both shot and down.”
Unseen hands grab my shoulders and hustle me aside. “Get in the car.”
Hector’s Escalade is pulled into the lot. The back door opens and I am pushed in. Pineapple is in the back seat. He grimaces, and hands me an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. As I slip them on, I hear a couple more shots and then Hector gets in on the other side. The Escalade screeches out of the lot and into stream of traffic heading east on Jefferson.
“I finished them. Who’s the Anglo?”
It hurts me to defame him in death, but I must lie about the identity of my fallen lover or I will certainly die immediately. “Kid from Fairfax. The Crips pimped me to him.”
“He’s toast. I hope you gave him a good last fuck. Where’s the money?”
“One of the Crips took it.”
“It looks like he died happy.” I wonder what the afterlife has in store for Matt. Bhuddha, let me be with him, and not with these pigs. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to text you. They kept me too busy.”
“That’s OK, it’s good you kept them busy. Besides, you were only my Plan B. Plan A was, we tailed you and the mayote from your school.”
I think back to the moment that Antoine and I left Fairfax High. Our last stop had been at the principal’s office. I had spoken to Rojas. He had seen us together. Hector is studying me. My eyes must have betrayed my insights.
“T-Chica, don’t make any crazy guesses. Just remember that the Mara has eyes everywhere. And don’t fuck up again, no matter what, or there won’t be another next time.”
Pineapple grunts disapprovingly and draws his finger across his throat.
Hector says “The T-Chica brought us good luck on this mission. We are giving her a free pass, even though she did fuck up by not texting.”
Pineapple presses the muzzle of the Glock against my temple. “I’d kill maricone now if it was up to me.”
I close my eyes. “No, please don’t. I am Mara. I shot the fat mayote.”
Pineapple lowers the gun. “Maricone can’t be Mara soldiers.”
Hector grabs my hand and sniffs. “I smell powder. T-Chica fired the Glock, and the mayote had powder burns on his chest. So now she’s one of us, a Maracone.” He kisses my bloody cheek and licks Matt’s blood from my neck. He grins and gold glitters from his front teeth. “I love the taste of a dead man’s blood.”
I am a killer, as evil as any Mara. Matt and Antoine are gone, the victims of my scheming and negligence. Freeze is dead, his blood drenches and stains my karma. I am a child soldier enslaved by a criminal army whom I fear and detest. The skandhas that followed me into this life have polluted my soul and ruined my afterlife. I am damned. I must live, to redeem my soul from an afterlife amongst the damned.
I submerge my torment and smile seductively at Hector.
“I love the taste of a hero’s penis.” I grapple open his belt and fumble his pants open. Cheerful Marachis decorate his sweaty boxers. I slide open the flap and his cock flops out, deflated by adrenaline and stress. I look over my shoulder. Pineapple is staring balefully out the window. I inhale Hector’s fetid odors and slip his soft, sour organ between my bloody lips. It hardens and rises as I lick and suck it. The flavors of Matt’s blood and Hector’s seed will soon mingle and make a toxic stew in my mouth. I will swallow it, and beg for more. With serial sex I will erase the horror, and sooth the incessant tingling of Matt’s semen, swimming through the abyss inside of me.

Hector takes a seat at the head of the rickety dinette at the Casa
Bella. Pineapple stands over one shoulder, Ocho Loco stands behind the other. His arm is in a sling, broken by a Crip bullet during the Jefferson street affray. The other Mara of the Pico Union set gather along the walls of the living room. I am in the last rank. The guns are hidden for now.
I hear Sonic whistle from his sentry post. A few minutes later, he leads into the kitchenette at the Casa Bella a grim faced contingent of Salvo soldiers from the Lynwood set of the Mara. They are having a summit. The rout of the Jefferson Crips opened a power vacuum south of the 10 Freeway, and in rushing to fill the void, the two sets have collided as the competed to control the street corner distribution of crack and whores.
On orders from the overlords of the Mara, reaching out from their prison thrones, Hector and his co-chieftain, Roberto, are having a sit down. Roberto is a light skinned mestizo, like Hector. He wears a collared shirt and pressed pants. He has a professional haircut. He could be a businessman, a bit paunchy and soft with success at running his larger, better established set, whereas Hector looks like an upstart guerrilla in his sweaty wife-beater tee shirt and baggy jeans. Roberto settles comfortably at the other end of the dinette and rests his gold ringed fingers on its stained. He looks around and flashes a bright smile.
“Nice place you have here>”
Hector drums his fingers nervously. “Mi casa est su casa.”
“Thank you.” Roberto yawns and stretches, and smiles proprietarily, as if he had taken Hector literally.
I eye the group of visitors. One is a dark haired, buxom beauty standing in the rear. We make eye contact and clock one another as trannies instantly. She whispers something to her neighbor, who relays it to Roberto.
Hector stands. “May the Mara live forever in peace with one another, and stand united against our enemies.” Hector is nervous, out of his depth, and speaks as though he’s reciting. Someone above him must be telling him what to do.
Roberto opens his palms expansively. “That we come to your hood shows we come without fear.”
“There is nothing to fear. We are brothers.”
Roberto settles his hands to the table with an audible thud. “Sometimes brothers disagree, or even fight. But they owe it to their family to work things out. When a Mara raise arms against other Mara, they betray their common cause.”
Hector voice is cracking with suppressed rage. “The Pico Union set beat the Crips on Jefferson. We own their territory. Why are your people collecting dues on our turf?”
“You don’t control any of it. It’s wide open. That’s why we took over Jefferson west of Hoover. We had to, or someone else would.”
“You never gave us a chance. You just grabbed our territory.”
“There were Crips from Compton running ho’s and selling crack and ice on Jefferson and Virgil. You left a no man’s land on our border. We did what we needed to do to keep the mayote off our turf.”
“So you’ll hand it over to us when we build our organization there.”
“No. Once it’s our, it stays ours. We already lost a soldier defending that turf.”
Hector gestures toward Crazy 8. “My man Ocho Loco here, he got shot there, and we had another soldier killed too. We killed three Crips on turf you’re claiming.” He includes Matt and the Freeze in the body count, but I don’t correct him or claim credit.
Roberto smiles. “OK, you keep that block. We take the rest of Jefferson.”
“And you pay us rent for a year. A thousand per block, per month.”
“Five hundred.”
“Seven fifty.”
“Seven hundred.”
“Deal, if you pay three months in advance now.” Roberto turns to his lieutenant, a hawk nosed scar face holding a satchel. He counts out a stack of hundreds and pushes them across the table. “And we take that trannie as a pledge of your good faith.” The Lynwood war lord points at me.
Hector turns and confers in whispers with Pineapple and Crazy 8. I look desperately for support, but they ignore my eyes.
“OK, but we take that trannie whore of yours, and get the T-Chica back in a month, in good condition.”
“Our trannie is going into the shop.” Everyone laughs at the automotive allusion. “She’s getting cut and pumped. You can have her when the job’s done.”
Hector shrugs his shoulders magnanimously. “OK, we’ll wait, if you get this one fixed the same.” Roberto nods assent, and the Mara standing behind me giggle and push me to the other side of the room.
I am a chattel to be bartered. I look back pleadingly to my erstwhile comrades. No one meets my eyes. Ocho Loco pushes me across the room like a pawn, and the Lynwood set closes ranks around me. I am hemmed in next to the other TGirl. She clasps my hand in hers, the only solidarity I sense from this evil parley. Her hand is pudgy, moist and childlike. She is heavily made up, but her Mayan features seem too young for her body, which has the bosom and buttocks of a grown woman. She give me a gap toothed smile cups her lips to my ear.
“My name is Patty.”
“I’m Tyla.” I pronounce it “Teela”, to emphasize my T-ness.
“That’s so pretty.”
I want this trans sister to bond with me. Although she looks like a simple soul, she knows this set, and her knowledge can help me.
The Mara soldiers of Roberto’s set seem much older and tougher than Hector’s ragtag band. None of them smile or talk to me as we file from the Casa Bella and climb into the pair of identical Jeep Cherokees which arrive to fetch us in a convoy with military precision.
Patty and I share a back seat. The Mara who sits with us ignores us and keeps his attention focused on the streetscape, occasionally texting messages along the way.
I tap the shoulder of the silent soldier.
“You guys seem more like cops than gangbangers.”
“Roberto’s set is mostly ex military, either Salvadoran or U.S. I just got discharged by the Marines after a tour in Iraq. I’m a stress case.”
“Is this how you relax?”
“We relax later, back at the HQ. Don’t we, Patty?”
“Oh yeah, but my booty is going to have a vacation now that Tyla’s here.” She laughs.
“You’re both going on medical leave after the party tonight.”
I let out a little squeal of anticipation, but I wonder what he means.

Patty and I are side by side, my left leg and arm touching her right leg and arm. We are naked, on hands and knees, bums up on a king size bed. Over the blaring of Salvadoran hip hop, she giggles nervously with anticipation. I breathe deep, and work the muscles of my ass, gaping it wide, clamping it shut.
In the mirror, I see Roberto taking pictures of my ass.
“That’s a good trick, you have to teach it to Patty. If I light my cigar, can you blow a smoke ring out of your booty?”
“I don’t smoke. It causes butt cancer, and assphysema.”
“Ha-ha, you’re a funny trannie. Why do you suppose Hector was so eager to get rid of you?”
I flinched with fear. Did Pineapple bad mouth me? I don’t know enough Spanish to find out. The unknown scares me, but I suppress it.
“He’d heard all of my jokes.”
“I think he didn’t like you so much. Should I like you?”
Had Roberto heard about my lapse at the garage? Was I marked for death for treason?
“You’ll have to decide that for yourself.”
“That’s why I am doing a side by side comparison.” He climbs on the bed and kneels in front of Patty. “OK, Patty, suck me.”
Patty smiled up adoringly and murmured “Si Signore, tu est gigante.” Her smile revealed large, smooth, wide set teeth and thick, flat lips. She jutted out a long, thick tongue and expertly licked the tip of Roberto’s uncut, long, slender cock. Her tongue traces swift circles around the cock head. As he hardens and erects, she elongats her tongue strokes into parabolas that reach his ball sack, until she reaches his hairy ball sack. She pops first one, and then the other of his testicles into her pouty lips, leaving a residue of her ochra lip gloss on each of the, returned to the tip. Her neck is short, thick and muscular, like the Mayan peasant women from whom she is descended. She swallows him to the hilt in a single gulp, and pistons her head energetically up and down, burying her flat nose deep into his wiry bush, breathing easily through flared nostrils.
“Oh, that’s good, baby. Can you suck cock like that, Tyla?”
“I’m a fast study. I learn something new every time.” I’d never studied another girl’s technique up close before.
“She’s good, I taught her well. Look at her cock.”
I look back and glimpsed between the swings of her pendulous breasts and see a fully hardened cock, at least eight inches long, thick and meaty.
“When I’m done, I’m going to have you suck her until she finishes.”
“That would be new, to get cum-faced by another T-Girl.”
“Do you fuck guys or just take it.”
“I’m a bottom.”
“That’s what I like. Patty here gets horny like a boy, don’t you, you little slut.”
Patty nods her head.
“OK, your turn, Tyla.”
He pulls out of Patty, who takes a deep, wheezy breath. She’s a sweet girl but not too bright. I wonder how well she takes care of herself, as Roberto offers his saliva-glazed penis to me.
I roll my tongue and jut it into his cockhead. I tweak his glans with tiny thrusts, and circle it beneath the flap of his foreskin. Patty’s mouth has left behind a salty film.
“Ayee, that’s good.” I relax my tongue, roll my lips and swallow him deep, so he slides past soft ridges of my tonsils and into the wet depths of my esophagus in a single rush. I force breathe back my gag reflex and peer upward with what I try to make a worshipful gaze.
“Oh, yeah, baby.” He grabs two clumps of my hair and with these pigtails as levers he fucks my face. I breathe through my nose, inhaling the ends of his wiry bush as he presses my nose to his pubis, but I have trained myself with yoga, and hours of practice, so my neck stays supple, and my mouth and throat are a compliant, soft hole for his penis to plumb.
“I love your Asian style, Tyla.”
He’s getting tired, so I take the initiative, pulsing my head up and down on him. I constrict my throat around him on each back stroke, and relax it when I piston my face down on him, so each time he enters me he pierces a cushioned and moist vessel.
“Yeah, I like it when you make it tight, like an ass pussy. Hector taught you well, Tyla. Let’s see what else you got.”
He slides out, slaps either of my cheeks, and presses his cockhead into my eye sockets.
“I love to fuck both of your pretty little heads. You’re locked in a tie so far.”
I want Patty to remain my friend despite Roberto’s incitement of competition, so I turn to her.
“I think he prefers you, and is just being polite.”
She smiles back and offers her lips to my kiss. Our lips touch, and then our tongues join in a carnal tango. We rise, lock in and embrace. I touch the soft flesh of her breasts, and stroke her broad, ochre areole and flat nipples.
“Down girls, and save that hot stuff for me.”
He brings Patty a condom and me a tube of KY.
“You can lube her while she covers me.”
Patty tears open the wrapper, and pops the condom into her mouth. She guides Roberto’s cock between her lips and rolls the condom on without touching it again. I study this technique and then get to work on her.
Patty’s anus is burnt sugar brown against her caramel skin. It’s much bigger than my own hole, and unlike mine, which I can constrict to a tiny, wrinkled ringlet, Patty’s ass marred by a few bulging hemorrhoids. I have plucked my ass fanatically, but she has a fringe of black hair fledging inner surfaces of her thighs and butt that frame her anus. The round mounds of her buttocks are adorned with scars shaped like the ends of cigarettes, and the remains of a deep, ragged welt shaped like a belt buckle. Patty has been damaged in transition.
I apply the film of lube gently, circling her hole, and then sliding in first one, then two fingers, and splaying them carefully apart to prepare her. Here ass first resists, and then succumbs. My fingers slide through her outer ring of sphincters. She moans in indecipherable Spanish as I retract, re-lubricate, and slide them in again, even deeper.
“Patty, open up your butt like Tyla does.”
She strains her bowel. Her rectum bulges, along with her hemorrhoids.
“No, not like that. Show her how.”
I pry open her butt, rolling her muscles inward, toward her core. She struggles to make them follow my guiding hands, but she is not strong enough.
“That’s good, just hold her like that.”
Roberto climbs astride Patty’s upturned, spread open ass, and points his cock into the hole that I have opened. I brace Patty’s body against the impending thrust. Patty squeals broken Spanish phrases and then emits an animal shriek as Roberto descends and impales her to his hilt.
“Oi, non, oi, oi, ma, por favor, non, oi.” Her face contorts into the visage of a tormented saint suffering her final anguish, a horrifying death mask which also evinces a tragic, but angelic beauty. She digs her face into the mattress, to stifle her cries and hide her shame, and pinches her breasts so hard that she leaves lurid marks in her caramel skin. Roberto lunges forward, and presses his sole into her face, and slams into her laterally. Patty eyes are glazed, doe-like and semi conscious. Like me, she’s a natural bottom, who likes being overwhelmed. She loves submission, and Roberto loves to dominate.
He grins at me conspiratorially. “She likes it deep and hard.”
He rams her until her back collapses to the mattress, then gathers her belly and pulled it into a ball and rams her doggie style until she collapses again. She gurgles incoherently. Then he rolls her over onto her back, tilts up her legs, and bangs down from her from above. She gazes up with a look of adulation and submission.
Roberto grimaces critically. “It feels like she’s made of plastic. She’s like a marshmallow inside.”
He rolls her back over. His cock corkscrews in her butt, and she cries out again. “See, I have to fuck her hard so I can feel it. And that’s how she likes it. Fucking Patty is like driving a Town Car. I think you will be tight as a Porsche.”
“I don’t know about cars. But I know a lot about cocks.”
“I am sure you do.” He hoists her to her hands and knees again. “Now slide under her, and suck hers.” He pulls out, revealing her anus, now gaping from repeated penetrations. It glistens with sweat and glows ruby red from friction and exertion.
I walk to her head. Her head lolls and bobs. I kiss her lips, and she rouses from her reverie and lifts up to her chest to let me slide beneath her. Her skin is filmed with a patina of perspiration. The chasm between her dangling breasts is redolent with perfume and body odor. I lick a rivulet of sweat from between them. It is sweet and salty. Her stomach is bloated from many hormones and too much snack food. Her belly ring dangles so low that it brushes my forehead as I slide under. I tilt my head back, and her cock brushes my nose.
Her flesh is smothering. I can barely breathe in the murky cavern beneath her. The air is a humid miasma scented by ass juice, precum and sweat. I slide her cock between my lips and tilt my head so that it slides down my throat. Her penis is thin, about six inches long, and curves slightly to the side, but I can easily take it into my throat. As I do, she twitches to life, and I feel her lips surrounding and pulling at my soft cock. We undulate in a single motion. I circle my arms around her waist and grab her buttocks, pulling them apart, and she slides her hands under mine and gently fingers my hole. Patty is a little too fat for me, but I like my first encounter with another T-Girl. I wonder if I am bi?
The her body jolts and her weight crushes atop me. The flesh of her abdomen bulges, retracts, and bulges again. Through the walls of the fleshy cavern around me I hear Patty’s voice crying out, and Roberto’s replying in harshly, but unintelligibly.
She resumes sucking at me with desperate intensity. I am suffocating under collapsing weight. I twist my head to find an air pocket so I can breathe again and begin sucking at her again. The palpable drum beat in her belly intensifies. The blows are far too powerful to be cock strokes. He must be fist fucking her. I imagine him pressing his knuckles deep inside her, massaging her atrophied prostate. I am stirred by the vision of the helpless Patty, caught in vice-like between Roberto’s Scylla and my Charibdis. My cock has hardened. I dig my fingers into her buttocks, opening her wide to Roberto, thrust my thighs up toward her lips, and take her cock deep inside my throat. Her body pulsates and resounds with the thump of Roberto fist strokes. I hear a thunderous cry and feel a geyser erupt deep in my throat. I force myself to swallow, one, two, three gulps, before I must breathe and release her to spurt once last droplet of her cum on my cheek. She quivers, and caves in on my. Roberto rolls her off me, twisting his forearm once more in her butt before pulling it out. It is coated with a film of pink colored mucus, and he grunts and walks to the bathroom, leaving Patty in an unconscious heap.
Her face lolls to the side. Her body is limp. Her stomach heaves with tired breaths. A slick of lube and anal mucous drizzles down her chubby buttocks. She is asleep.
“OK, baby, I’m done with her. It’s your turn.” His cock is rock hard and still covered with the same rubber he used with Patty. It’s stained pink and greasy.
I am afraid that a swarm of pathogens will transfer from Patty’s ass into mine on the bloody and poop swathed rubber. I know that saliva will probably neutralize the worst of the pathogens, like AIDs and Hepatitis C, so I say “I want to suck it.”
“OK, suck it clean, you crazy slut.” I take the filthy rubber between my lips and lick it, trying to dislodge every blood cell, every virus. The old condom is salty with mucous and blood, rank with pulverized fecal bits, and caustic from the latex of the rubber. I am nauseous but lick his cock with obsessive feline precision.
He laughs at the spectacle. “You love it, you little cock and shit eater. Now bend over, and open up.”
I glide my lips up to the roll and suck it back and release the flume that lodged there, push it back into place, and scour it with my tongue from the hilt to the reservoir at the tip.
“Can I get some more lubricant?”
“No, you put too much inside her. I want a tight fuck to finish.”
“How do you want me?”
“Down doggie. After that blow job, I don’t want to smell your breath.”
It’s the most difficult position to receive anal penetration. Ass muscles tighten, and the sphincter naturally constricts in the face-down, prone position. I lie down, and hide my face in my arms. He pulls them away, yanks them forward, and cuffs my wrists to the head board.
“I like to watch the girl’s expression when I fuck. Now make that big circle for me.”
I pull my ring inward and open it, and try to pretend that it’s Matt. But all I can conjure is the memory of his blood drenching me and his death rattle. I imagine it’s Antoine, but he too is gone, probably dead. I have tried the impossible, to be reborn in this life. But everything backfires, and instead of changing myself, I have killed my friends.
I would like to join them now, in whatever afterlife my karma serves me. Part of me hopes that my lips missed a viral colony lurking on the filthy rubber, and that I get HIV from Patty. When Roberto is finished with me, the Mara will return me to the street. Perhaps I will become a bareback streetwalker to hasten the onset of disease, and then refuse the treatment and die in an alleyway. For my sins, I deserve to die alone, and in misery. But I don’t want to die, only to leave this life behind me, and to be reborn a woman.
“Just fuck me,” I whisper. “Fuck me dead.”.
Roberto drizzles some spit on my ass and rubs his cock in it. I open my butt, and he glides in. I stare impassively into the mattress as the first jolts of pain rip through me. I concentrate my response in my toes. They curl back until they are pointing toward heaven in supplication. I bite my lip and squeeze my ass muscles around his member. I summon my muscles’ memories of milking the seed from Matt the hour before he died, and my ass opens to Roberto’s penis as he thrusts, and envelopes and sucks at him as he withdraws. He speeds up, and I reciprocate like a well tuned motor.
“Little putana, how do you make your mouth fuck like a cunt and make your booty give my cock an anal blow job?”
I look back, blow a kiss, and concentrate on perfecting the motion. I am a sex robot, the perfect fuck. I am the best bottom in the world, a perfect girly boy. My ass harmonizes in perfect synchronicity with his cock. Roberto accelerates. I hastening him to ever greater speeds. Our flesh slaps like the surf upon a rocky beach.
Finally, he shout out, “Slow down, I’m not ready to cum.” But my butt muscles suckle his cock relentlessly.
He pulls himself out, pulls off his rubber, and tries to control himself, but he cannot contain it, so he jerks himself to his finish, shouting out with each stroke, “You-god-damn-fucking-whore.” With each word, a gob of hot semen spurts forth, drizzles down and plops on my back and butt. I smile as the hot puddles form my back, imagining Betty Boop drowned in a sea of his spilled sperm, frantically swimming for their lives.
He nuzzles his cock against my rectum, and I feel the warm wet drip on my ring. I gape again, and he shakes the last droplets to fall on the rim of my hole, but squeeze my anus shut to keep the semen outside.
He collapses on the bed beside me, panting.
“You’re incredible. Patty is a sexburger. You’re a filet.”
I feel the dark cloud of depression lift. I am pleased with myself. I have become a perfect performance artist in the bedroom. “Thank you. You’re great lover too.”
“You’re prettier than she is too. You look different.”
“I’m part Asian.”
“I like that you don’t have hair down there.” He strokes my cock. “You didn’t cum.”
“I can’t any more. Too many girly hormones.”
“I like this.” He pats my cock. “It’s nice and smooth, and soft, like a big clit. But you should lose these.” He squeezes my testicles, which have descended from my perineum, where they hide during sex. They are small, and flabby.
I blush, for I am self conscious about them, that I have them and that they are so tiny. “My hormones shrink them to nothing.”
“I am going to have someone cut them.”
My heart starts pounding. I want a sex change, not to be mangled by some back room hack. “Is that what you were talking about with Hector?”
“Yes, that’s part of my agreement. I am going to return you cut and pumped. That means these come off.” He tweaks my scrotum. “And you got boobs, like Patty’s.”
“Why?”
“With big tits you are worth twice as much on the street.”
I am panicked. Patty’s dangling tits are far from the teardrop shaped “C-cups” that I covet.
I want to run away, but my legs feel leaden. I want to argue, but my thoughts are dull, my mind is slow.
“I don’t like her boobs. They are too big and saggy .” And I don’t want free floating silicone traveling through my body.
“I know. Your tits have a nice shape. He cups my breast and pinched my nipple between his bejeweled fingers “That’s why I’m going to do something special for you.”
I am confused and scared, but there is nothing I can do. Perhaps to be a fat street whore is my karma, what I deserve. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a surprise. Now, it’s time for you to sleep, like Patty.”
She has been inert for the last half hour while Roberto fucked me. Now, I too am l woozy and exhausted. The sex, the role play, and the anxiety have tired me. I wonder about the bottled water that I drank. Had it been drugged? My head feels heavy, and my mouth feels cottony and rough. I feel a black cloud settle over me. I want to tell Roberto something, but I can’t shape the words. I try to frame a dream to carry me into the next world, but my Bodhisattva has abandoned me. I slump to the mattress and fall into a black well of sleep, alone.

TBC

Whether you love it or hate it, please send me email or post reviews of my story. I will respond to all. xoxox, TF

Secondary Education
Tyla Flowers
[email protected]
Tyla awakens from her surgery radically altered physically, but her squalid world is unchanged.

Is This Nirvana?
Chapter 11

I awaken with a shudder. A fractured ray of sunlight pierces the crack between a pair threadbare quilts which have been hung as an makeshift curtain. From outside I hear the clamor of banda piped through the tinny speakers of a catering truck. A hot breeze wafts a rancid flume of stale cooking oil, jalapeno and stewed pork. I feel nauseous, and choke back a heave.
I have mind-splitting headache, cotton mouth and my lower back is sore and tight. My throat is parched and hoarse, as though I have I screamed too loud, for too long. I don’t recognize the water stained ceiling above me, or the dingy sarape that covers me. I have no idea where I am, or how I got here.
I lift up my head and push up on my elbows. Two molten balls of liquid metal explode against my chest and force me back to the mattress. I lie still, waiting for the sputtering caldrons to cool. I squint through crusted-closed eyes. The sarape is gathered into a ridge that blocks the room beyond. I push it back, and stare at two large, bruised globes of flesh, forced together in a sweat-stained sports bra.
I scrape a crust of yesterday’s eyeliner and sleepy dust from my lashes, blink my bleary vision clear and focus on the strange mounds ascending from my chest like a pair of newly formed volcanoes. Am I still dreaming? I lift my hands and touch them. Hot lava roils inside me, and I am blind again from a scalding wave of pain. I behold a pair big, round tits on my chest.
They feel hot and gravid, ready to erupt.
I think back at stealthy hours I have spent surfing the internet to research the types of implants, the methods of implantation, and the insurmountable barriers of cost and recovery time. I have calculated how many tricks I will have to turn to get $6700 that the best surgeons charge for the boobs I want: 400 cc High Profile Textured Round Silicone.
How many nights have I dreamed of a sugardaddy who sends to a posh clinic on Canon Drive? In my fantasy, my benefactor pays for the procedure, the pleasant spa where I will recover, and sends flower, candy and love notes. I imagine myself walking down Rodeo, swaying in my Jimmy Choos, anatomically perfect, elegant, and graceful boobs lurching a bit with every step, like Halle Berry’s.
I compare my dream with reality, and jagged fragments of memory return. Roberto told me he would do something special for me, that I would be cut and pumped. I realize that I have Mara boobs, and I am a captive in one of their safe houses. I am locked in a hot, smelly room, in a bad part of town, languishing on a lumpy cot.
My dreams are fulfilled as a ghetto nightmare. My new boobs are round and fat, like the eye catching blobs of a Mexican streetwalker. Have I been pumped, injected with a toxic brew of industrial oils? Or are they used implants that some Mara soldier carved from the corpse of a dead whore and stuffed under my skin?
I jostle them, and when they jiggle, they send a clarion warning of pain. They are so heavy, and so tender, that I cannot lift my torso up from the mattress. But I have to pee. If I don’t get up, I will wet the bed. The prospect of smelly, sodden sheets impels me to move. I steady my new boobs with my hands and try to roll onto my side and out of bed.
As my legs scissor against one another, another rapier slashes through my groin, recalling the horrible morning when some boys at Fairfax caught me peeing sitting down on the toilet, and took turns kicking and stomping my groin until I passed out. I almost faint again.
I roll painfully back onto the bed, and cautiously explore my anatomy. I grope over the smooth skin of my abdomen and graze around. My groin is clad in elastic underwear, which encases my privates. I poke my hand underneath into a tuft of bloody gauze, searching out the source of the radiating pain. I find the tip of my cock, and walk my fingertips back toward my ass. When I touch my scrotum, I yelp. It’s swollen and the gauze is soggy with blood and slick with ointment.
At the centerline, of my scrotum, I encounter a fringe of spiky filaments, the tied off ends of a line of short line of sutures. I finger them gingerly, and spread my fingers to probe the swollen flesh of my scrotum. Black holes of pain swallow my consciousness. From the abyss I deduce the meaning of the strange new landscape between my legs. My balls are gone. I am castrated.
The ceiling stains pulsate and swirl, like the changing boundaries and rules of my startling new reality. My new tits and the castration site throb with each anxious pulse beat. My most exotic and dangerous fantasies have been fulfilled. I am big-boobed and ball-less.
Since I was about 9 have been fantasizing about implants and castration and a sex change operations, but I have been scared to go full time. I like playing with hormones and getting used as a sex toy by bad boys, but until this morning, I could bind my little B-Cups, put on baggie sweats and sneakers, and pass as a slightly effeminate boy. I could go places as Tyler the morning after Tyla, dressed up like a whore, had given blowjobs or gotten fucked by ten guys she had picked up on the streets. I was comfortable with my ladyboy whoring because I knew I could stop if I decided to be a boy. Most of the effects of hormones are reversible. Six months after you stop taking estrogen and anti androgens, the boobies are gone, the balls grow back and start spewing testosterone, and you can be a bad boy yourself. And the trannie’s life is such a pain in the ass, pun intended, that I sometimes considered going back.
Now, my last exit from a total transition is foreclosed. No more can I slip back into being Tyler and masquerade as a boy. If my dad ever gets out of prison, or my mom survives her most recent junkie binge, they will have to accept me as Tyla, their busty and beautiful daughter. My cousins in Fresno will have to lust over me as a girl, and my step brothers somewhere in Cambodia will have accept or reject me as a sister. I can never go back to being Tyler.
I got shoved through the door to full time transsexuality by the Mara. Roberto drugged, cut and pumped me. I am his bitch now. I stifle back a sob of regret, and try to calm myself. I tried to escape them, but I am just as powerless to resist the Mara as I was to resist my own urges. To be a big breasted trannie bottom whore was my dream, my karma, and now I have gotten it.
I cradle my boobs in one hand and my wounded scrotum in the other and arise. As I do, I discover more incisions in my arm pits, radiating agony with every movement of my arms. Bloodstained bandages are taped there. When I try to lift my arms to inspect them, my boobs smolder intensely. I have to hold my arms like a robot when I walk.
There are a couple of bottles of water and a collection of pill bottles on a shabby linoleum table, and a scribbled note: “Take one of each for pain and to prevent infection. Apply ointment and new bandages to your surgical sites. No shower.” I gingerly let go of my groin, and breasts. As they droop they seem to explode, and I carefully swallow two of the Percocet, a Diane-35 and an Amoxicillin and stagger to the bathroom.
The door is off its hinges, the toilet seat is loose and filthy, and the toilet paper is soggy from sitting in a puddle beside the stool. I pee, and the cut behind my cock sizzles with pain. The sink is broken, and I wipe my hands with a nearly empty bottle of Purel. I peel off the gauze between my legs. Contact with the air intensifies the post-surgical pain. The bandage is a smeary collage of orange Betadine and blood. I swipe a fresh line of ointment on my incision, smear more on fresh gauze, and pull up the elastic panties to press the bandage firmly into my slaughtered groin. There’s nothing I can do with the armpits. I can’t reach them I gingerly stagger back to my bed.
I look around my little prison, and pull open the improvised curtains. Flies flit against the tattered screen. Outside, a trash strewn street lined with battered stucco bungalows. I am deep within the Mara’s realm.
I notice a hummock under the sheets on the other cot. I walk over and pull the sheets aside. It’s Patty. Her face is pallid, and her brow is damp and cool. She does not respond to my stroke. I shake her, and her head lolls to the side.
I recall the lessons of first aid. “Patty, wake up, can you hear me?”
I forget for a moment about my own infirmity, and shake her shoulders. Her bulging breasts, half again their previous size, sway. Her eyes roll back in her head, and she lets out a little gasp. But she doesn’t respond. I listen for her breath. It is inaudible, and makes only light tickle of my cheek. I see my purse, and grapple for my phone. My boobs and pits are screaming warnings to me, but I am panicking. My phone doesn’t work. The battery is dead. So is Patty’s.
I lean out the window and cry out in broken Spanish toward the catering truck, “Hola, Necesito un medico. Mi amiga está¡ enferma. Mi amiga está¡ muriendo.” I need a doctor, my friend is sick, my friend is dying. The day laborers gathered at the catering truck look up, hoot sexual innuendoes in my direction, and laugh. I beckon them to come up, but they shake their heads and look away. They probably know better than to trespass in Mara’s house.
I turn to Patty, and try to remember the lessons from the first aid videos we watched in Human Development class at Fairfax. Was it two breaths, followed by ten chest pumps, or the opposite? I tilt back her head, and mash my lips against hers. They are still warm, but dry and unresponsive. I breathe in deeply, my breasts heave agonizingly as I inhale and exhale into her chest. Once, twice, and then I plant my palm in the narrow valley between Patty’s double D boobs and compress her rib cage. My boobs shudder and ripple ten times, my arm pits piston, and my scrotum wobbles, sending lightening strikes of pain all over me. I catch my breath, inhale, seal my lips on hers, and exhale again.
After a dozen cycles, I am bathed in sweat and faint with exertion and pain. Patty’s eyes flutter, and she murmurs “pá¡relo,” stop it, but I continue for five more cycles until her eyes open.
“Gracias,” she whispers. I bring her a bottle of water and an antibiotic. She swallows it, sets the bottle down, and drifts away. Her hand releases the bottle and it tips. I take a mouthful and squirt it into her mouth, but it dribbles down her chin and into the crevice between her hugely inflated breasts.
I watch her breathing for a few minutes. It’s shallow but steady. I am aching and exhausted. I lie down. The Percocet takes the edge off of my pain and my anxiety over Patty’s perilous condition, and I rest my eyes. The banda music fades, the ceiling stains billow and swirl, and the room spins away beneath me.
I feel hands probing my boobs. I push them away, trying to protect them. But other hands force mine away, and pin them to the bed. I open my eyes and peer through groggy, unfocussed eyes on a small group that has gathered over me.
“I am the medico,” The man nearest me speaks through a surgical mask. He has silvery, curly hair and eyebrows. He pulls down my bra. I notice a tremor in his touch.
I try again to push his hands away. “That hurts. Help Patty, the girl on the other bed.” Other hands again arrest mine. I look over. It’s Roberto.
“Patty doesn’t need help from anyone but God.”
I turn my head toward her cot. It’s empty.
“You killed her? And now you propose to care of me?” I am angry at the doctor for his incompetence, angry at Roberto for forcing us to undergo dangerous surgery in primitive conditions, and at myself for abandoning my effort to resuscitate her.
The doctor forces my hands to my sides. “Someone else did her procedure, and injected her with liquid silicone. It’s dangerous, and she had an embolism. You have sealed implants. I implanted them through your arm pits, just like they do on Canon Drive. I was the best cosmetic surgeon in Tijuana. You will do well. These look good.” He replaces my bra, pulls at my panties and peels back the bandages from between my legs.
“You have to change this more often.” He brandishes the bandage, crusted with blood and puss.
“The pills made me sleepy. There was no one to help.”
“Your helper was the one who needed help.” Roberto pointed toward Patty’s vacant cot. “I’ll send someone tomorrow.”
“No showers until tomorrow, and then, cover the site and don’t get it wet. But, it’s healing well enough; I’ll take the stitch out.” He snipped at me and I felt a sting as the suture parted. It oozed blood for a few seconds and he covered it with fresh gauze.
“New bandages every four hours for the rest of today, eight hours tomorrow. And don’t lift your arms over your head, not even to wash your hair, for three more days. No physical activity for a week. He thumped Roberto on the chest.
“That includes sex.”
“Is cock sucking sex?”
The doctor laughs. “Ask the Bill Clinton. Or better yet, ask Hillary.”
The Mara all laugh. Even they get that joke.
“We have to get rid of the other one’s body. Take good care of the TChica. She’s the only one we have left.” Roberto and the Mara leave.
The doctor and I are alone. He locks the door. The doors of the Maras’ Escalade slam, and they roar away. The doctor hovers over me.
“Do you have any feelings in your balls and in your breasts?”
“Yeah, like a coyote is chewing my scrotum. My boobs feel like a couple of hot bowling balls sewed under my skin. But that’s actually an improvement over yesterday.”
“You must sit up in bed at least part of the time.”
I sit up, and gasp as the bowling balls strain against their taut sacks. I flinch, and howl.
“Your pain management will improve over time, but this won’t.” He gestures a slanted line across my chest, and then points to my left boob. “This one shifted. It’s too low.”
My face flushes with anxiety as he holds a mirror for me to observe. My left breast is an inch lower than the right, and canted more to the outside. My efforts to help Patty had not only failed, they had dislodged my breast. I looked like a freak, not a sexy woman.
“Oh, my god. What can I do?”
“For the moment, put your bra back on. We’ll deal with that later, but like yours, my services have a price.”
“I have nothing to offer.”
“Ah, but you are wrong. You can offer me your own services.” He pulls open his belt, unzips and exposes his cock. It’s small and withered, his ball sack has shriveled, and his pubes have gone gray. I look up at him. His eyes are closed, and his face is alight with a greedy smile. I lean forward and sniff his cock.
“I didn’t say smell it. I said suck me, you little T-slut.”
I get off the cot and bend on my knees in front of him. I flick him teasingly with my tongue, kiss his tip, swipe my tongue beneath his foreskin, and gather a cheesy mouthful of smegma. I wipe it from the tip of my tongue and smear it on his flabby butt, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care, for I have taken his still soft member into my mouth and I am massaging it to life, puckering my cheeks, and inviting it into the hollow of my glottis. He springs to life, and begins rocking from to heel, in rhythm with my motions. My rocking makes my tits swing painfully and my groin feels wet and raw from the movement of my torso as I blow him.
“Did you know I fucked you once before?”
I shake my head, and look up at him through watery eyes.
“It was before your surgery. We were alone, and you were asleep, so I fucked your cute little ass. Even unconscious, you were a good little cum bucket.”
I am angry at this admission. I could tell Roberto, but maybe he wouldn’t care. Maybe a surreptitious fuck was part of the surgical fee the Mara negotiated. I know they think of me as a pretty little fuck hole for them to cum in or sell. That’s what a trannie is. We are she male freaks, chicks with dicks. No one really cares about us after they pop inside us. They pay to cum, and pay so we will go when they have finished. If they want more, they pay again, and we gladly take the money as the only acknowledge we will ever receive, or expect to receive, of our beauty and value. That’s why trannies make ideal perfect whores. We only want to be fucked and paid. Being showered with money and semen reaffirms our aspirations to feminine beauty. I suck and get fucked, therefore I am.
I suppress my anger and stay in character. As he hardens, I open my throat to him, and when he pulls back, I pucker my lips around his cock’s corona and lure him back inside me.
He is grunting and moaning, “My slut goddess, my angel whore, you little slab of Asian street meat, ay, yay, aiii.”
He pulls back, jerks himself, and a stringy strand of semen gushes forth. I close my eyes as it hits my cheek, my eye lids, and my nose, and then he rubs the glans on my cheek.
“Squeeze my cajones.”
I grip one of his balls in each hand and compress them. My chest is showered with the ropey remnants of his load.
He grimaces. “That was very good. Now wipe yourself off, you little cum slut.” I rise, emotionally and physically exhausted and wracked with pain. As I stagger to the toilet he playfully smacks my butt.
“Next time I’ll take some more of that.”
I wash my face with cold water squeeze Purel onto the remnants of the soggy toilet paper. The cum is dripping into the seam where the tight sports bra meets my stretched breast skin. I wipe under the fabric, and wish desperately that I could use the grimy shower. But to do so would risk a devastating infection.
I smile ingratiatingly at the medico, who has pulled up his pants and is waiting by my bed. “That was yummy. You have a big load for a, um.., for a doctor.”
“That’s barely half of the load I shot up your ass, my little T-whore.”
“Don’t doctors worry about safe sex? It’s not like you are the only one whose been there, you know.”
“The taker takes most of the risk, in my opinion. In any case, I take PCR/DNA tests regularly. I will take a blood sample for you, as I now wish also to test you.”
He jabs my forearm expertly and draws a sample of my blood. He takes out another syringe, fills it with a fluid from a vial.
“You are going to need this. What I have to do next is going to hurt a little.”
He pricks the needle in my arm and injects me. The rush is instantaneous. The filthy room takes on a warm glow, the sleazy medico seem like an old friend, and the battling regions of pain, anxiety and anger that have afflicted me melt into warm, liquid Nirvana.
“I feel wonderful. What did you give me?”
“Ah, so you have never had heroin before. Like you, the drug is a dangerous but attractive mistress.”
“Now I know what my mom’s drug habit is all about. I’ve never felt better.” He places both hands beneath my left boob and presses down with all of his weight. I feel like my chest is collapsing, and my breath escapes in a anguished shriek. But instead of reverberating and returning, and inducing panic or shock, the pain and anxiety quickly recede.
“Is that it?”
“No, I want to bind you more tightly.” He wraps my boobs in a tight elastic bandage.
“Don’t take this off for two days. And afterwards, wear the bra for a week. After that, you should be perfect.
“Will you come back and give me more medicine?”
“I would love to make you my junkie sex slave, but I think Roberto would object. My job is done here.”
“That wasn’t so bad. Thank you.”
He leans over and kisses me, and I kiss him back.
“What’s your name, doctor”
“Call me Rodrigo.” He bows. Until we meet again.”
I had been in agony for an instant, but the drug annihilated my suffering. But as my junkie mother’s chaotic life has proved, you can’t remove pain from life with a drug. You can only defer the reckoning.
I am alone again. The door is locked. I am still a prisoner in harsh solitary confinement. I look in the refrigerator at the six pack of out dated yoghurt, the moldy bread, the grease spotted bag of leftovers from El Pollo Loco. I want to get the taste of cum from my mouth. I eat a few spoonfuls of strawberry yoghurt.
I am the Mara’s captive trans hooker now, but they have given me the means to become free.
The great thing about drugs is that for moment you can see beyond your immediate, shitty circumstances. The heroine is easing the pain and anxiety of the present and lets me look into my future, when the doors are open and the Mara are gone. I imagine myself as I will be when my bandages come off. I will be a young, pretty, slender Asian with 36 D breasts. Surely I can find all of the work I can take at $300 per session. There are about 10 million guys in driving distance. If one out of one hundred of them likes Asian bottom trannies, I’ve got clients to last a lifetime. The Mara will put me back on the street, but a street needn’t be just a stroll. It can be an escape.
I almost escaped the Mara with Antoine. I can find someone else who will help me, now that I have become more beautiful. I will bleach platinum streaks and dye a few strands strawberry. I will get new hoop earrings that will dangle to my neck. I will make all of the other trannies jealous, and will be able to get the best dates with the richest guys.
I will get a Macbook with broadband wireless, so I can have an ad on Eros, my own website with sexy pictures of me for sale, I will make dates with my I-phone, and receive them at an apartment so close to Peanuts that the guys will be able to walk there with me. And when we have finished I can walk back and find another, and another, until my purse is stuffed with money and my mouth and ass are so stuffed with cock that they are exhausted. I will have a bank account, mutual funds, health insurance, a Camry, a king size bed with mirror beside it on the wall.
Now the heroine subsides and pain begins to throb.
The tissue surrounding the implant that Dr. Rodrigo shifted is on fire. I want more drugs, but one of the Mara has stolen the rest of the Percocet. There is nothing I can do to make it go away. I suppress my sobs because it hurts too much to cry. I can never cry again.
Fear returns. Who will come through the door next? Will I hook up with a crazy who hates trannies, or hates himself for wanting trannies, who will kill me? Will I get infected with HIV? If I ever even get a sex change operation, will anyone decent want a fake girl like I will be? How will I survive when I can’t hook anymore because I’m not young and hot? Will I ever get a real job, a real home, a real boyfriend? Will I ever have a real family instead of a couple of junkie criminals who disappear most of the time?
My life is too precarious for me to allow myself these emotions. I am so weak and vulnerable, so alone and lonely, that I can show no fear or hesitation. Patty could have been my friend, but she has left me. I try to imagine what life could be like if I had a real friend. It’s impossible to be friends with GGs or guys. And the lives of other T-Girls are just as dangerous as my own.
Now, I am alone with Patty’s ghost. I cry over her passing, my failure to save her, and our lost future. She tells me it’s OK, that she got in life to become what she most wanted, and left life happy. She thanks me for resuscitating her and forgives me for not keeping watch over her instead of sleeping. She promises that she will keep watch over me forever, that she will be my angel and guide me to freedom in this lifetime and into the Kingdom of Heaven.
Now, I know she is on a path of rebirth into this world of the Mara, the world of cruel, violent men. She was too attached to that world, and to me, to leave it behind and follow the light. I cry, because I know that I am like her. I too am enamored of my feminine beauty and sensuality to escape rebirth. When it is my time, I will not be able to follow the light. I will endure another cycle of rebirth, perhaps one even more trouble filled than this one.

TBC

If you liked this story, please post a comment or email me at [email protected]

Secondary Education
Tyla Flowers
[email protected]

Chapter 12, My Missing Pieces

Oprah’s over, Rikki Lake’s not on yet, and Dr. Phil depresses me. So I flick off the television.
I pick up a month-old "Us" magazine: Lindsey’s back in rehab, Paris is busted for DUI again, same old, same old. I throw it back on the table and wish I had something to do.
I am a high school dropout. During my convalescence after being castrated, I missed the start of school at Hollywood High.
My energy level is so low that I don’t think I could have handled school anyway. I am lonely, but the empty hours have given me time to meditate and pray. I try to find my way to talk to my Buddha.
The bruises on my boobs have faded. When my breasts jostle, the memories of the horrible pain that they caused when they were new are supplanted a tingle of pleasure. I observed strict hygiene, abstained from sex, and took all of the antibiotics, so my implants healed without capsular contracture. They meld perfectly with my natural breasts.
The outward pressure of saline implants on my areoles has made them broaden, and look more naturally girly than the pointy cones I had before. Although they are larger and rounder than the breasts that I had imagined for myself, I have grown fond of them. All of the trauma and pressure has increased their sensitivity to touch. I find myself playing with them as I fantasize.
The incisions under my arms and in my groin have healed to faint pink slashes. There is a tiny, but very sensitive dimple in my scrotum where Dr. Rodrigo cut out my testicles. The nerves are all that’s left under this smooth, empty flap of superfluous skin.
I have healed enough for me to attempt masturbation, but I can’t cum.
After he castrated me, Rodrigo cut my estrogen by about 90%, and yet my appearance is more feminine every day. My flesh softens, my curves broaden. My cock has shrunken even more, to a two inch stub, but it’s half-hard a lot of the time. But I never get completely hard, even when I dildo my ass, and that used to work every time. I am not sure if it’s the castration, or because my mind has gone numb from too much solitude, too many game shows and soap operas.
Maybe I just need a good, hard fuck to stimulate my prostate.
I hear the rattle of a key in the deadbolt.
I cover up the frayed sportsbra that I have worn for the last month with a threadbare t-shirt the Mara left for me–they confiscated my street clothes to prevent me from escaping during my convalescence.
It was wise precaution in the first days after my operation, before the last vestiges of my testosterone flushed away. Over the weeks, my anger over my castration and Patty’s murder subsided.
I have given up on escape now. I have surrendered myself to my destiny, for I know that the Mara have won, and will always win. I will live as Roberto’s, or Hector’s, or whoever’s ladyboy whore. I will be the best whore in the world.
“Hi Tyla.” It’s the young femboy nicknamed Spider. Roberto is taking good care of me, better than I ever got from my absentee mother. He visits infrequently and briefly, but he sends Spider every day, to help me and nurse me through my convalescence and keep me sane.
Roberto probably wants Spider to observe me and pick up my feminine ways. Spider tidies my room, scrubs the toilet and washes my hair.
It’s good that she is so industrious, because I have no energy. My mood swings have gotten better now that Rodrigo put me on lower doses of estrogen. But I get hot flashes, and I feel weak and unsteady.
“You are so lucky, to be so beautiful, and to be treated a princess by the jefe.”
“I don’t know, it seems like he just forgot about me and now in am in some kind of limbo, just waiting for something to happen. I’m bored. I need something to get me going or I am going to turn into a fat lump.”
“I am sorry, but it’s the doctor’s orders.”
Spider is a fourteen year old illegal alien. Her parents caught her cross dressing and kicked her out. Her older brother found her living on the streets sold her to Roberto.
Roberto is grooming her to replace Patty, and me, when he returns me to Hector. Spider thinks of the Mara as her family, of Roberto as her father, and she idolizes me as her big sister.
She doesn’t understand that I am, and she is to become, another Mara asset, to be exploited and used for their gratification and gain. Just as I have taken Patty’s place, Spider will replace me when I am dead, diseased, or used up. Then, the Mara will exploit, consume and cast off Spider in turn. The Mara can feel confident that the troubled barrios of East LA, Mexico and Central America will supply and ever growing stream of trannie wannabees.
Spider lugs two bulky suitcases up the stairs.
“Roberto is so kind, he has sent you many pretty things.”
She straightens my sheets, sets a suitcase on the bed, and opens it with a flourish. I am ecstatic. It is stuffed with new clothes, the first I have been allowed since the Mara deposited me here. Spider opens a Stila cosmetic case stuffed with products. She smiles proudly. “I went shoplifting for you.”
I look through the suitcase. One section is clothing for the bedroom, lacy bras, panties, body stockings, negligee and teddys. Another contains a selection of sundresses, spaghetti-strap tops, skirts, shorts, and a sexy black evening dress. The pouch on the outside contains stiletto heels, pumps, mules and even some Sketchers.
Now, I can dress stylishly, and check out how my new body looks in something more shapely than a castoff t-shirt. The clothes promise me the freedom to go back out into the world.
“Dr. Rodrigo says you have recovered. This is the last day I need to help you with your shower.”
I get out of bed and dance with joy. Three and a half weeks in this hot dingy room, with only Oprah and Spider for company have made me crave new adventures. I pull off the hated tee shirt and open my sports bra. My boobs cascade out and splay apart.
Spider is transfixed. “They are so pretty. I want mine to be just like yours.”
“I think they spread too far apart.” My nipples look off in different directions, like two cast eyes. I push them together into a cleavage. “I want them to look like this.” My areoles are stretched to a one-inch diameter by wide by the underlying implants.
“That’s pretty, too.” She strips off her top and forces her tiny boobs together. She hangs her head in dismay. “It’s hopeless. I want implants too, or injections.”
“No injections, it’s poisonous. And if you wait until you develop some of your own breast tissue, then they can fit your implants underneath the flesh, instead of under the skin. Then they will be softer. Would you like to touch mine?” I push up my breasts, offering them to her.
Spider circles her slender fingers around my areola and draws them together to capture my nipples. Sensations sing forth to my brain, my ass and my cock.
“That felt good. Do it more.”
Spider repeats the gentle nipple tweak, and the sensation pulses even more strongly.
“You had better stop before I get horny. I probably can’t do anything about it if I do.” I touch myself below. My cock is flaccid, and jiggles as I masturbate futilely.
“I would gladly give up JO if I could have these, and this.”
She molds her hands around my breast and strokes the smooth skin of my cheek.
I give Spider a peck on her slightly blemished cheek. “Your hormones are too high.”
She squeezes her blossoming but tiny breasts together. “I need to take all that I can. I want big boobs before my Quincera.”
She is overdosing her to fast-track her transition, and that’s giving her pimples and God-knows-what other complications.
“Hormones don’t work like that. The excess just turns into poison.”
“Then I want to be cut, like you.”
I roll my eyes. “Beware of your dreams, they may come true.”
I get up and go to my bathroom. Spider has scrubbed the filth away and even installed a new toilet seat.
I sit to pee and make a little round poo. I moisten a tissue and force it deep into my ass. It comes out clean, as I want it to be when Spider fingers me there.
“Help me shower one last time. I will miss your company in the bathroom.”
Spider joins me in the cramped little shower and bathes me with the tender care.
In the early days, when I was a helpless invalid, I needed her to steady me, and reach to places where I couldn’t. Now, we shower together to enjoy each others’ bodies.
She strokes soapy fingers over my boobs and ass, and massages shampoo and conditioner through my hair. She rubs my buttocks, pulls them apart, and fingers my ass.
I moan, and she sinks to her knees and tongues my ass as the shower caresses my breasts. I play with my cock and empty sack.
She stands, kisses me, and I kiss her, imagining her first as a boy, and then as a girl. I turn her away from me, stand behind her, press my breasts into her slender back, and tweeze her nipples in my fingers. I stroke her cock until she gets hard.
I go to my knees, and as the water cascades over me, I begin blowing her short, slender cock. Her pubic hair has barely sprouted and her hormones have made is soft and silky.
Her cock is so small I can take all of her, cock and testicles, in my mouth. I munch on this package, pulling first one ball, and then the other, into my cheeks, as I take her cock in.
I stroke her slender buttocks, rim her ass with my finger, penetrate it first gently and then with a forceful lunge toward her prostate. When I touch it, she explodes in my mouth, a silky, sweet gob of semen.
Her youth, or perhaps the hormones that she is overdosing with, make it taste pure and fresh. I suck out every drop, and swallow all but the final drip, which I save for our next kiss.
Spider gives me a shy smile. “I never came like that before, you know, with another T-girl.”
“Did you like it?”
She nods enthusiastically. “Loved it. Maybe I am really meant to be a boy.”
“We could be trannies, but bisexual.”
“Yeah, that’s more like it.”
I feel a rush of confidence. I am so sexy that now, I can make another trannie question her gender transition.
I no longer have any doubts about my own sexuality. I want to be the bottom that everyone desires to dominate. Everyone will desire me.
We embrace beneath the trickling warm of the shower until the hot water is gone. Then, she towels me with gentle pats, and blow dries and combs out my hair with a fragrant mousse.
She moisturizes me with lavender lotion with languid sweeps of her palms. My back aches from the weight of my new breasts, so she massages me and steadies herself with hands full of my boobs.
“I like the way they bobble you rub me.”
“I love the way you make them move.”
“They look so real.” She stands behind me and steadies my breasts with cupped palms. I studied myself in the cloudy mirror. My cleavage forms a round, deep, cock tube. Breasts loaded with 450 cc’s of saline were not what I had wanted, but their extra heft paired with my hormonally made A-cups produced a nice, round shape.
“Let them go.” My décolletage droops and opens into a broad valley. My breasts walleye slightly; I say, “Look, Spider, the left one is still a little lower than the right.”
“Don’t worry, Tyla. No breasts are perfect, except for our mothers.”
“My mother has beautiful breasts, and big for an Asian. But I think mine are bigger than hers now. I have to admit, Dr. Rodrigo has done pretty well for a backroom surgeon.”
Spider swabs lotion between my buttocks, and scours the rim of my ass.
“This is so nice and smooth, and pink. Mine is colored brown. It looks nasty.”
“I bleached it with hydroquinone. I eat a high-fiber diet. And I get a lot of exercise there.”
Spider giggles. “I guess need to eat more veggies and get fucked more often.”
I want to disagree, but there’s no point. Spider wants to be a girl, and getting fucked makes her feel like one. It’s her karma, just like it’s mine.
“You have a little dimple where your balls were. It’s so cute. I wish they would take my cojones.”
“When Roberto thinks it’s time, you will be cut and pumped, just like me.”
She towels my calves and feet, unwinds the towel and frees my hair. It’s still wet but smells clean and fresh.
For a week I after my operation I lived along like a filthy commando in hiding. In the past three weeks, with Spider’s help, I am becoming a beautiful woman, clean and fresh.
I still can’t raise my arms for a long time, so Spider helps with my makeup. She smoothes my pallid skin with a peach tinted concealer and liquid powder.
“I love this color on you. You almost look Latina.”
“We could be sisters.”
“No, you are too beautiful to be my sister. Look how it contrasts with this eye shadow.”
I flutter my lids closed. Her brushwork is swift and sure. I open on eye and admire contrasting swathes of lavender and silver shadow adorning my eye lids. Then she rims my eyes with little bit too much eyeliner, and curls my lashes with too thick a coating of mascara.
She hand s me a hand mirror. “Do you like it?”
My eyes smolder from deep, mysterious pools of erotic darkness. They’re a little bit overdone.
“I don’t even look like myself. I look like a cross between Shakira and a Mexican telenova star.”
Spider pouts. “That’s how Roberto prefers his chicas. Anything for the boss, right?”
She has worked hard, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings, so I nod enthusiastic assent,
She smoothes my lips with a cherry-flavored gloss and blows out my hair and twists it into a tight top knot. Then, she helps me into the frilly lavender negligee that she shoplifted.
Spider’s cell phone chimes and she checks a text message. “Oh good, I finished with you just in time.”
“I didn’t know we were on a schedule.”
“In time for your appointment.” She giggles as she moves the suitcase from the bed to the floor, digs into it takes out a bottle of Astrolube.
“Now, lie down on the bed, face down.”
“What’s happening?”
“Please do as I say, to spare punishment for both of us.”
I don’t want Spider to suffer for my disobedience, so I do as she asks. She loops panty hose around my ankle and ties as knot, and then loops the other around the bed frame.
“Why are you doing that?”
“This is how he wants you. He wants to stage it as a bondage rape.”
She repeats the knot around my other ankle, and then hoists my pelvis and props me up on a pillow, so my ass is up. It’s the most difficult position to be penetrated from.
She snaps open the lube and drizzles it on my butt. Her finger, small and girlish, slips easily inside me over the slick of fresh lube. It stings pleasantly as she massages rectum
“I wish I could stay and join in the fun, but they ordered me to leave.”
My heart thumps and my stomach twists and flips with apprehension. The gifts, the make up, the extra primping, were not just for me. It was all staging for Roberto’s grand entrance.
I feel betrayed, but I am glad that my stay in purgatory is coming to an end.
“Too bad you can’t stay. I could show you a few tricks.”
“I wish I could, Tyla. I have learned so much from you. But this is good-bye.”
“Thanks so much for helping me. You have been a good friend.”
“We are all soldiers for the Mara.” She leaves without saying good-bye.
I wonder if I will ever see Spider again.
I wait alone in the room.
A fly lands on my foot, and crawls toward my toes. I can’t reach it, so I suffer.
It flies off, and I hear it buzzing above me, but I can’t see it, or shoo it when it alights on the middle of my back. The tickling tortures me.
I am tied to the mattress that Patty died on.
Now, her deathbed is freshly made and covered with a frilly new quilt stolen from Target.
Spider flipped the mattress, but even now, my nostrils are suffused with faint aroma of her dead body. As I await Roberto, the sad presence of Patty returns and hovers over me.
I comfort myself with her imaginary embrace.
I hear a car screech to a halt outside and car doors open and slam. I hear raucous laughter on the stairway to my little prison.
The deadbolt rattles, and I hear a familiar voice.
“Hola, TChica, como estas?”
I look up from the sheets into the grinning faces of Hector and Ocho Loco.
Hector must have noticed the panic on my face. “You don’t look happy to see your old friends, TChica. We missed you.”
I smile. “I missed you too.” I am startled and worried, but I'm actually glad to see my old comrades and tormentors. A month of chastity in this prison of Roberto’s has made me feel like a useless toy doll.
Hector and Ocho are savages, but at least they are human. Roberto and his crew often act like cold, inhuman robots. Hector is alive and animated.
I am flattered that they have risked Roberto’s retribution to come to me.
Hector fondles my breasts, and then his hands traverse my body, flowing gently over my curves to my butt crack. He probes into my groin.
“Something’s missing here.”
“Nothing that I wanted or needed. Do you like the new me?”
“Yes, you are a very much improved TChica. But you don’t look so happy to see us.”
“I’m just surprised. I thought you had traded me away like an unneeded baseball player.”
“I did, but I want you back, now that Roberto never delivered on his part of the trade. We never got the fat trannie he promised us, so we are taking you. But first, you are taking me up that pink little ass of yours.” He kicks off his boots and pulls down his baggy jeans.
“You look like a Thanksgiving turkey, all tied up with big breasts. I think I want to dig in and get some stuffing.” He laughs at his own joke, and then jumps up on the bed behind me.
I hear the slap of his flesh as he masturbates himself to an erection.
“Help yourself to some head, Ocho.. Yee, hah, TChica.”
He spits on my upturned ass, swirls the puddle of saliva around my anus, and presses. I try to gape and let him in, but my ass, tightened by neglect, repels him.
“There’s some lube in my purse.”
“I don’t need it.” He spits again, fingers my ass.
I squirm and moan, but my muscles’ memories are awakened and they yield, first to his fingers, one, two, three, as I grimace and bit my lip to stifle a cry.
I breathe deep to calm myself as I feel him his cock bounce on my buttocks. I gape my ass open, and finally emit a little moan as he presses his cockhead inside me.
I brace myself, and recall that every fuck starts with pain and ends in ecstasy, and press my ass back against his thrust.
He rams himself all the way inside me with a half dozen powerful jolts. I force myself back on him and pull him inward with my ass. It opens hesitantly.
I have not forgotten my secret methods of rectal control, but fingers and dildos are no substitute for a rampaging cock. My nerves jangle, I utter urgent cries and I am possessed by contradictory desires. Part of me wants to expel the intruder, but part of me soul wants to invite the intruder explore and conquer my inner depths.
I am torn by the eternal contradiction of receiving anal sex, at once afraid I can’t bear the pain, but desiring to consumed and dominated, and pounded into a the submissive state of feminine bliss.
Desire prevails over defensiveness. I thrust my ass back against his surge. Hector’s thrusting cock crashes into me to crush the last vestiges of my boyishness, to pummel me into womanhood. He grabs and squeezes my boobs.
“I like these big, ripe mangos.” He rubs them together as I look down.
I watch him play with me. My new boobs inspire me. They define me as a woman. I feel more confident now, more assured of my beauty and sensuality.
I cup a swaying breast in my hand, and fondle it. I am melting, my taut ass is sinks to the mattress, in blissful submission.
Hector’s flailing cock thuds deep into the recesses of my belly. I syncopate to the drumbeat in my belly by squeezing and releasing his cock as it slides to and fro. He grips my ass cheeks, and they tingle in his touch. I look back, smile, and blow a kiss. He smacks my buttocks.
“I like this. Your butt got bigger.”
”But not too fat?”
He squeezes them and yanks me back against his thrust. “Perfect fuck handles.”
Ocho undresses and mounts the bed in front of me. I have slumped to low to take his cock in my mouth, so he pulls me toward him by grasping my swaying breasts. He cups them in his hands as the undulate in rhythm to my well-fucked body.
“Ay yay yay yay, Viva los bombas.”
I look up at him as he shares a comradely laugh with Hector. I kiss his uncut tip, and slurp the length of his penis to the taint, then pop each of his balls into his mouth and suck them.
Hector’s banging behind me makes my head wobble, but Ocho gets in rhythm. At first, I suck him in my mouth, but he is too long. I tilt my head downward and force his cockhead over my tonsils and deep into my esophagus. My eyes water, and my stomach heaves like I need to throw up when I swallow him to the hilt.
Hector whoops and spanks me.
“That spasm felt pretty scary. Don’t let our cocks meet in your middle, TChica.”
I nod. I quell my gag reflex and synchronize my breathing to their reciprocating motions.
The drumbeat quickens with two players inside me. My ass and throat are filled up. Hector roots and ruts in my ass, Ocho’s penis probes my throat.
I feel like I am drawing them together from opposite directions to my center. They are like miners digging through a seam of gold, searching for the large nugget at the center.
Ocho grabs handfuls of my hair and slams my face down on his cock.
“Ocho, do you want the TChica’s booty?”
“No boss, I want to finish here.”
He pulls his cock out and as I catch my breath his cock spits a fiery load of jism over my forehead and into my eyes. I pull him toward me and take final drops onto my tongue and swirl them between my lips. I look up and smile worshipfully.
Hector pulls out suddenly, and my ass snaps shut painfully. He rolls me onto my back and kneels astride my chest. Ocho’s semen seeps into my eyes and stings.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I hear Hector spit. Through my squint I watch as he grabs my boobs and presses them together around his cock. He fucks my breast tunnel for a dozen quick strokes, and then erupts a ropey load over my breasts.
The hot droplets drizzle me like a gooey shower. I close my eyes and enjoy the warmth and tingle as the cum puddles between my breasts and streaks down my cheeks.
“Make a big, happy smile.”
I comply, and through closed eyes I sense a camera’s flash.
“That’ll be a pretty picture to send to that fuck Roberto.”
I wipe the cum from my eyes and look at the image of me, spattered with semen, with two anonymous cocks looming in the foreground.
“You can’t send that to Roberto, he’ll kill me.”
“He’s going to have to catch you first. You’re coming with us.”
They tie my wrists and feet together, roll me in the quilt, cinch it with tied sheets and hoist me onto their shoulders.
As he crosses the threshold, Hector stumbles, and I slip from his shoulder. He catches me and laughs.
“Hey TChica, it feels like you picked up a couple of pounds. The tits that Roberto gave you must weigh more than the nuts he chopped off, huh?”
Now I am scared. If Roberto interrupts this kidnap, a gun battle will break out. I can’t understand why Hector has taken the chance to grab me after he traded me off like a worn-out pit bull.
Am I hostage, or proxy revenge against his rival Mara leader?
Life in Roberto’s domain had been safer and easier, but less free. But now I am to return to Hector’s anarchic realm. I will be Helen of Troy, imperiled as a captive, when war erupts between my abductor and my rescuer.
I feign insouciance. “Hector, maybe it’s you that got weak, from missing our bedroom exercises.”
“Ha, ha, you’re still the funny one. But you have some new tricks and treats.”
“I was afraid I had forgotten everything I used to know. I’ve been kept like a nun for the last month. I’ll need a lot of practice to get back to my old form.”
“With those new tits waiting for him, that faggot Roberto never even fucked you?”
“Only the night that you gave him to me. That freak doctor told me he fucked me while I was unconscious. And he made me blow him when he treated me.”
“The next balls that Dr. Rodrigo is going to cut are going to be his own. Welcome back to the tribe, TChica.”
He screeches onto a freeway.
“OK, you can unwrap her now.”
Unseen hands remove my swaddling. I squint into late afternoon sunshine as we speed through Hollywood and up a mountain pass. Hector is driving, and Ocho rides shotgun with a weapon cradled in his lap. Seated next to me is Spider.
“How did you get here?” She looks away, embarrassed by her treachery.
Hector laughs. “We planted Spider, just like we planted you in the Crips.”
“You’re brilliant, Hector.”
“I know.”
I don’t remind him that it was my idea to use myself as bait for the Crips.
“Where are we going? Do we have a new casa?”
“We’re driving to Chatsworth, TChica. I have a friend who wants to make you a star.”
“I’d like that. Who’s my leading man?”
Hector laughs. “You mean leading men?”
I ponder this quip in silence. I shoot a quizzical look at Spider, but she shrugs her shoulders.
Hector gesticulates the in-out motion with both hands. The tires rumble across a warning strip onto the freeway shoulder.
“You are going to be in one of those ensemble shows. I think they’re going to call it “Full House Whore” or “Eight Isn’t Enough.”
I stare out the window and process that my kidnap was not arranged for lust or vengeance. I am happy about being a porn star, but my feelings are hurt. Hector snatched me to consummate a commercial transaction with the porno business. He takes the ramp from the 210 to the 118.
Ocho takes a call on his cell.
“Yeah, we just got on the Ronald Reagan Freeway. That’s a pretty fucking funny name for the road to Pornowood.” He snaps the phone closed.
“Get off at Haskell and go left. It’s right there.”
We pull up in front of a nondescript tilt-up and walk up to an unmarked door. Ocho Loco buzzes and a tall, skinny white guy with tattooed arms lets us in. He motions us to a sit on a battered cloth couch.
“Wait here.” He dials a number. “The talent’s here.”
He turns to Ocho. “She looks young. You’re sure she’s eighteen?”
“Nineteen. She’s part Asian. Even the old ladies look like little girls. Here’s her ID.”
He hands the white guy an ID card. It’s a fake that Ocho Loco got for me on Alvarado near MacArthur Park. The white guy grunts and asks “What’s your birthday?”
“Who, me?” I fake surprise that he’s interested. “Why do you care? You got a present for me?”
He holds the ID up and studies me.
I do a quick calculation. “August 19, 1988.”
“You’re either old enough or smart enough. That’s good enough for me. OK, take your teddy off, and step up on the chair.”
He pulls a rickety high back chair to the center of the room. I carefully climb it and steady myself on the back.
He pulls a camera from his pocket. He fires the flash about six times, circling me.
“Very nice skin. Your boobs look a little off, but I’ve seen worse. Now strip, panties first.”
I slip my panties over my hips, and wriggle them down my thighs. They fall to my ankles. I cup my cock coyly as the flash strobes. I look down at Hector, Ocho and Spider. Hector gives me thumbs up.
“I am so embarrassed to be doing this with you here.” I’ve been fucked by them many times, but somehow stripping for a photo shoot in front of them made me feel more naked and vulnerable than ever.
“Are you enjoying the show?”
“I’d pay to watch this.”
I reach behind and pull the bow on my teddy, and it flutters to the ground. Then I release my cock.
The photographer laughs. “You’re going to pay to watch it. Everybody pays for porn.”
He turns to me “Smile, now pout, now sexy, now scared, now happy, and now horny. Very good. Bend over and spread that butt open.”
I turn and put my palms on my cheeks and open my ass as wide as I can, then snap it closed.
“I like that muscle control. You pass. But you look like you just got out of bed, and we’re not ready for you. He hands me a stack of twenties.
“Get dressed and get yourself a haircut and a manicure on the company. There’s a salon down at Devonshire and Haskell. Be back at 4:00."
I passed my audition. I’m going to be in front of the cameras in a few hours, and streamed all over the web in a few days. I am a goddess, beautiful and immortal. For in the Internet age, a great porn star lives on, forever.

TBC

If you enjoyed, or have a reaction to my story, please post a comment, if you can, or email me at [email protected]
Thanks to my friend riottgrrl for her editing.

Secondary Education
Chapter 13
Screen Kisses
[email protected]

This is a continuation of a sexually explicit story. If depictions of sex disturb you, or if you are under the age of 18, do not read this story. All persons and events depicted herein are fictional. If you like, hate or otherwise react to this story, please email me at the address above or post a comment to the site where you read it. Xoxox, TF

I am squeezed between Ocho Loco and Hector on the sagging, beer-stained couch at the Bella Casa apartment. It’s about 100 degrees. No breeze blows through the bowed, holed screens to flutter the tattered pillow cases nailed up as curtains. We’re wearing only underwear, sitting on a towel still damp from my last shower. My wet hair cools my shoulders, but the fold where my implants droop over my chest is already getting sweaty.

Ocho and Hector are holding half-empty Tecates, and I am holding their sweating, half-hard cocks. The room is lit only by the warm glow of a 42” plasma.

We are watching two cholos face and butt-fucking a young Asian T-girl doggy style. They are rough and careless, yanking at her hair, smacking her butt cheeks, grabbing and squeezing her swaying boobs. She is gurgling strangled cries blending pain and passion. When the one she is blowing pulls his dick out, she gulps a breath and looks over her shoulder at the one pumping her from behind.

Her face flickers a montage of emotion: fear, hope, escape, subjugation, abandonment, helplessness, wantonness, desire. She looks over her shoulder at the guy humping her from behind, then into the camera, as though imploring the audience to rescue her, or else join in the orgy.

“Fuck me harder, deeper, more, more.” She starts sucking again, hungrily devouring one cock as she pulses her hips back to meet each thrust of the other. Thighs slap, flesh compresses and recoils. Her hair flies wild, a fiery corona swirling around a an exploding nebula.

The two cholos laugh, exchange a word, high five each other, and switch places. The bald, tattooed muscle builder kneels behind her, spits on her gaping, but gradually contracting anus, and rams his thick penis into her before it snaps shut. The camera pans from this abrupt penetration to close-up of the Tgirl’s face, capturing a moment of apprehension that melts into watery-eyed agony as she slips into a fugue-state, overcome with sensation.

Her pensive reverie distracted by the grip of two rough hands on her high cheekbones. Her lips are slapped, and then pried open by the cock of the rangy gang banger who had just relinquished his place at her rear. The camera zooms to her uplifted eyes, glancing upward at the skinny, hard looking cholo, as though searching for mercy.

I look away, overcome with empathy, for those beseeching eyes are mine. Ocho, Hector, and I are watching “Ladyboy’s Gang Initiation”, my debut in porn.

“Don’t you love it when she gives you that look when she’s blowing you?” Hector gives his lieutenant a punch to punctuate his question.

To them, it’s like the girl on screen and the Tyla sitting next to them, stroking their cocks, are the same entity, a pretty package whose sole purpose is to filled with cocks and cum, to bring them treasure, and pleasure. I am not a real human in their eyes, but a commodity to be consumed, traded or trafficked.

Ocho pushes me off the couch and to my knees. “Fucking A, do me now, T-Chica, just like you are doing that guy in the movie.”

I fumble at his boxers and reproduce my “helpless look,” and start sucking him. I am grateful for the vanilla scent in the lube, which disguises his sweaty body odor.

“Perfect. This is good. Movie T-Chica and real T-Chica at the same time.”

“Save it for later, Ocho. She’s got to watch the money shot. The director didn’t like it. TChica’s got to learn the right way to get a facial on screen.”

Despite my lapses in the cumshot scenes, Ladyboy’s Gang Initiation” has been Vicious Film’s top download for the last two weeks. The producer had singled out my ass gaping and emotional expressiveness for special praise, and invited Hector to bring me back to make a four-film series, at $1,500 each. My fame as an internet porno star has supercharged demand for me as an escort. My cell’s voicemail and my email chirped incessantly with messages.

Ocho grunts acquiescence to his chief’s command, puts his cock away and helps me back to my feet. I bend down stripper-style and spread my cheeks, slipping the stringy crotch of my thong to the side so they can see my ass.

“Is my butt still tight and rosy after taking all of those cocks?” I tease Ocho, knowing that he will acquiesce to our jefe.

Hector gives my ass cheek a friendly slap.

“It looks perfect. Getting fucked a lot must be good for you.”

I pout. “Only if it’s by big Mara cocks like yours. The fat old men you make me fuck with are going to ruin me.”

Hector beckoned me to sit. “TChica, here’s the law of the Mara. You fuck who we tell you to fuck. Porn producers and fat old men pay the most, so that’s who you fuck for money. For recreation, we fuck you.”

“It’s my job and my hobby.”

I sit back on the couch and resume stroking their cocks. On screen, I am about to get a facial from the muscle guy. He’s slapping his cock against my face and jerking himself with inhuman speed, grunting like a gorilla. I am riding reverse cowgirl with the skinny guy bucking beneath me.

The director had told me to smile keep my eyes open until the cum hit my face. I am smiling and squinting against the bright lights and apprehension,

Hector freezes the frame. My smile is turning into a grimace.

“You look ugly there. You’re supposed to smile, cuz you want that fucker’s cum in your face.”

He restarts the video. I hear my voice mouthing the words the director had commanded. “Mm, baby, cum all over me, come in my face, on my tits.”

Hector stops it again, grabs my chin and gets in my face. “You got to say it like you mean it.” He pokes my ribs, and jabs his fingers in just short of bruising me.

I wince, and push him away. “That guy is so ugly, look at him. I was getting tired. He was number 5. Look how long he’s taking.”

Hector laughs. “Five cock’s are only a half day for you, TChica.”

“I know, but this shoot was done in two hours. I needed break to powder my nose.”

I squeeze the actor’s balls, but he pushes my hand away. I cradle my swaying boobs, pulling them together to catch the shower of semen.

It takes the muscle guy about three more minutes to bust his nut, All the while I am riding on the skinny guy, and his dick is gnawing my insides. Skinny is slapping my ass and calling me a goddamn, fucking whore. My expectant smile fades to a dismayed frown, and I am starting to blink when the first jet of muscle guy’s jism arcs from his urethra into my hair. The next spurt hits me in the middle of my forehead. I try to catch the next one in my mouth, but he jerks, and my lunge misses, so he mashes his shaft against my cheek and most of the load geysers into my eyes and nose. I protest, “Aargh,” and my face contorts.

Hector freezes the frame and glares at me. “What fuck’s with that face. You look like you swallowed shit!”

“The stupid guy missed. Cum in the eyes stings.”

Hector rolls his eyes, mutters “We’re going to have to practice cumshots,” and resumes the video.

I am blinded, but I somehow find muscle guy’s cock, take it in my mouth, squeeze his balls to extract and swallow the last droplets. The spillage drips down my chin and onto my breasts. He grunts, slaps his softening cock my cum smeared cheek and walks away.

Hector stops the video again. “No Oscar for that cumshot.” He restarts the video.

The skinny guy below pulls me back onto his chest and pulls my legs above me to afford the camera and unobstructed view of his cock dipping in and out of my butt. My anus is in extreme close up as he pounds in and out with inhuman speed and power. His retracting cock pulls out of me and reveals a shimmering ring of epithelium. It disappears inside with each inward thrust. The camera zooms to, and lingers on this anatomical detail.

He rolls me over to down doggy, where he can penetrate most deeply. My lips curl into a silent scream as he pulls my hair into a cruel ponytail and arches my back. He releases me, I collapse with a gasp, but he yanks me to my hands and knees, and then pulls out abruptly. I obey an unheard off-screen command, and roll to my hands and knees. My well fucked ass gapes open an inch and a half, revealing a deep, shiny, ruby-walled cavern. The camera moves in close, zooms as I open myself fully. My rectum is slick with lube, dark red, and engorged from the friction of five recent and brutal bouts of receiving anal intercourse. There is an eerie beauty to my exposed interior, like the first views beamed back from a planetary exploration.

Skinny guy gets behind me in up doggy, rams his cock back in the hole. As he fucks me, a pearly drizzle of mucous spills from inside my and drips down my empty scrotum. Hector freezes the frame.

“What the fuck is that, ass cum?”

I blush and cover my eyes. “This is too embarrassing.”

“Looks like you were enjoying yourself, TChica.”

“That’s just something that my butt produces after a lot of fucking, like sweat. I came here later, with the next guy.” I point to the bulge my pussy stick makes in my panties.

Hector nods, and restarts the video.

The skinny guy pulls out again and kneels behind me, slapping manically at his cock. I look over my shoulder apprehensively, but I am distracted from him by the arrival of a burly, dark skinned Latino with a beer belly and a flat top. He kneels at my face, pulls down his pants and wipes dry my sperm soaked face and using his sweat stained T-shirt. I am already pulsing my face on his cock when the skinny guy orgasms, and his flood spatters my buttocks. The camera zooms to my anus, which is closing gradually like a child’s tired eye. Some of his semen drips a lazy circle around the rim my puckered hole.

Ocho is fondling my breast. “Was that the last guy? Let’s take a break and have a rehearsal fuck with our little porn star now.”

I shake my head. “There were a couple more actors, I think.”

Ocho grabs me, pulls me toward him and starts kissing my neck. It feels good. I am still a little bit afraid of Ocho and Hector. They are high on crack, like they are most of the time. When they are really buzzed they get drunk to crash, and then they get mean, call me a fuck hole or a cum bucket, and are demanding and rough. But that’s the way they treat the real girls too. I am property, but since I got my boobs and my balls cut, I am valuable property, not some junky thing they are going to use up and throw away like a half eaten taco. Ocho pulls me onto his lap and shakes me, so my boobs sway back and forth, He tries to nibble my nipples as they swing by his grizzled, sweaty face.

“I want to nut on her butt too like that porno faggot. Let’s watch the rest of the later.”

A computer on the kitchen counter belches like a bullfrog, the sound of an incoming email. Hector checks it.

“This one’s coming from the Craigslist ad. Our TChica has a meeting at the Royal Viking, near downtown. One of your fans wants a private performance.”

Hector flicks off the plasma and hands me a cell phone. “We need some scratch. Call this number.”

The phone picks up after about half a ring.

“Hi. You emailed me?”

“I saw your personal on Craiglist. Are you really the actress from “Ladyboy’s Gang Initiation?”

“That’s right.”

“I loved it. God, I wish I could take on a crew like that. Can I meet you? I want to reenact the whole movie, with the two of us taking turns on top. Is that OK?”

God, I hate the freaky types that want to have sex with me so they can pretend to be me. I prefer guys who fuck me because they like to dominate and subjugate me, to pound the last vestiges of maleness out of me in order to affirm their own masculinity.

Guys who want to be fucked by me are really twisted. It’s pathetic that a guy wants to identify with me because they are secret transsexuals, to trapped or scared in their fucked up lives to transition, and living their fantasies through me. Being with them makes me feel gay, and I can’t stand it, because I am straighter than most GGs. I want someone who is all male, all top.

Besides, fucking from the top is too strenuous. I am 100% bottom by choice. But trannie chasers are a mixed bag. Some of them want to get fucked by the T-girl. I am more in the mood for a threesome with Hector and Ocho than a fem session with a mixed up cross dresser.

“Um, its kind of late.”

Hector is shaking his head vigorously and pointing to the door. Clearly, he values monetary booty, over my fleshly kind.

“I guess it’s OK. Where are you?”

I write down the address, the Royal Viking Motel, Third Street, and hand it to Hector. He grimaces, but nods assent.

“OK, I can be there in about a half hour.” I hang up, pout, and collapse onto the couch, nestling my face in Ocho’s lap, and fumbling at his fly.

“That little queer wants us to go both ways. I’d rather stay here and get fucked by both of you.” I kiss Ocho and tug at his cock.

“I’m too tired to fuck anybody.” But now he rebuffs me.

“If you’re tired, take some of this tweak.” He hands me a rolled bill and a vial filled with crystal flakes of meth. “We need money to pay the suits.”

Hector’s gangland activities had been curtailed recently by the City Attorney’s anti gang injunction, which had driven his set of Mara from more lucrative endeavors like street corner meth sales and protection to more marginal businesses like peddling my under-aged flesh to porn producers and perverts. Now that I had become a critical part of his cash flow, Hector’s and Ocho’s desire for cash far exceeded their sexual desire for me.

He produces oval, mustard colored pill. “You’re going to need one of these in order to serve this little fag.”

I chew the Cialis to make it kick in faster. Its bittersweet flavor explodes in my mouth. I will have a functional erection in a half hour or so.

I am hardly taking any estrogen now, only couple of milligrams of Estrace per day, so my pussy stick hardens more easily than before I was castrated. I used to take two powerful Diane-35 every day which kept me soft almost all of the time. I switched to Estrace because the Diane has more estrogen than I need now that I don’t to counteract testosterone. With very little testosterone poisoning me, I don’t need Diane’s antiandrogen component. As a result, I get more erections than before I was castrated. As a eunuch, I am a more versatile whore.

But I never was a very enthusiastic top, and the ad Hector placed misrepresents me. My tool’s only about five inches, much smaller than advertised. Submissive tricks like my new client like to get fucked hard by big shemale dicks, and when I am fucking a fat, hairy ass, I get so repulsed that I have trouble staying hard for more than ten minutes, much less finishing.

As a result, I have gotten some terrible reviews on theeroticreview.com from dissatisfied bottoms, even some 2’s and 4’s, for “I should have stayed home” or “She just lay there”. It’s pretty depressing to read how much someone you were with hates you, although I usually get at least 9’s, “Model Material”, for appearance and for my bottoming dates. Now that Ocho and Hector give me some of the virility drugs they steal, my topping performance reviews are at least 6’s, “Nice time”.

I sniff a small line of the caustic crystalline powder. I feel a stabbing sensation in as the meth permeates my sinuses. I say thanks and go to the dirty little bathroom. The shower’s steam will sooth my nasal pain and cleanse me of the sweaty night heat. My confidence surges as the meth takes hold of me. The drug’s manic power, and the magic of Cialis, will fuel a high rating in the coming bedroom drama.

Watching one’s own onscreen debauching is unexpectedly erotic. The graphic images of filmed sex are different than the remembered images of experienced sex. Until I made the porno, I had never observed the way the flesh near my ass indents and extrudes with the ebb and flow of penetration. Without the camera’s distance, I could not imagine the way my breasts jiggle, my eyes glaze, my toes curl, and my ass expands, contracts, yields and resists penetration. When I watch my performance, the video’s sounds and images blend in my consciousness with the recollections of heat, friction, pressure, and pleasure, and the filmed and internal images of Tyla in flagrante delicto merge.

Porn is powerful. I know now the power Paris and Pamela must feel over the millions of guys who downloaded their sex tapes. With the proliferation of Ladyboy Gang Initiation over the internet, I inhabit the secret libidos of an unknown multitude. I own part of each of them, which they can redeem only in an encounter with me or by finding another more winsome and wanton TGirl to obsess over. To free their imprisoned libidos, they will seek me out and pay extra to fuck Tyla the porn star in real life.

I have a treasure trove of potential clients, but at the moment, I’d rather replay my rape with Ocho and Hector as understudies for my nameless gaggle of co-stars, than take their parts in a make believe scenario imagined by my trick at the Viking. I am still dependent on Hector’s good will and protection. So for him I will go into the dangers of the night to fuck this hairy fairy wearing a wig and bad makeup.

The gleaming, bright lit towers of downtown attract not only hordes of laptop bearing accountants and latte sipping, loft dwelling artists, but also an even greater population of the homeless and the criminals who prey upon them. Downtown is part of the realm of the Mara’s deadliest rival, the 18th Street Gang.

As we cross the contested, ever shifting border between Mara’s and the 18th’s turfs, Ocho has his Glock tucked between his thighs and Hector a shotgun at his feet. I too scan the side streets for an ambush as we turn from Vermont and make our final approach through the bodega and swap meet lined Third Street to the Royal Viking, a shabby low rise motel which advertises a pool and air conditioning.

A dubious-looking, but well-armed security guard patrols the entry and glances up suspiciously as we drive by. We circle the motel to reconnoiter, agree to meet at the dark intersection of Miramar and Bonnie Brae, in the shabby residential neighborhood behind the motel. Ocho pulls in at a gas station at the corner of Third and Alvarado.

I walk back a long uphill half block from Alvarado to the Viking. My stilettos are killing my feet as I plod up the hill. My skimpy silver hotpants and slinky black tube top make me conspicuous. A couple of car loads of passersby catch a glimpse of a scantily clad girl and slow down to check me out. Through down-rolled windows I am inspected, offered rides and easy money.

When I see a car full of black gang bangers in Crip colors, I am tempted to go with them. At least I can see who I am dealing with out on the street. But my Mara obligations make me reject them. The two dozen red roses quoted in my craigslist ad is four times what I would get from some arrogant blacks for blowjobs on the street.

But who knows who’s really in that room. After the door closes behind her, a girl on an outcall is beyond help if the trick turns on her. Thousands of dead TGirls learned too late that outcalls can be even more dangerous than streetwalking.

The security guard knows all too well the purpose of my visit and demands to be shown a room key. When I hand him ten bucks he waves me in. I avoid the lobby and follow a winding driveway to the room where my date awaits me.

I tap on the door. I hear rustling through the open screens. I step back. The door opens to a darkened room. I hesitantly enter, gripping my pepper spray.

“It’s OK, I’m nervous too.” The voice tries to maintain a feminine octave, but it’s a guy’s hoarse croak. The door closes and locks.
The room illuminates. My eyes quickly survey the room for danger, and then turn to my host. He’s short, pudgy, bespectacled, and made up like a twenty dollar streetwalker. He’s African American, so his red lacquered nails, jet black wig and bright silk kimono look incongruous even by the most extravagant drag queen standards.

He blinks nervously. “Teela, you are even more gorgeous in person than on screen. The donation is on the table over there.”
I ignore his gesture. Until we get naked and start something, I can’t be sure he’s not LE.

“Can I get you something to drink?” He walks to a battered half refrigerator and retrieves a couple of Sparkletts, and settles beside me on the bed. The meth is raging. My ears ring, my tongue writhes between my dry lips. The scruffy motel room is an ugly tableau of stark, harsh contrasts: landscape print of a Spanish mission, stained carpet, lumpy bed, battered microwave, stained coffee maker, garishly lit by an overhead, circular florescent. My hosts red lips, rouged cheeks and mascara-ed eyes appear cartoonishly gaudy.

I swig enough water to moisten my mouth, get to my knees, pull open the kimono, pull down his panties and find his cock. He shaves, and there is a little stubble that scratches my chin as I suck his cock. The Cialis has completely congested my nose, but his cock is small enough so I can mouth-breathe even as I suck him. It seems fitting, but sad, that this small-cocked Black is a queen. By his community’s standards, he’s pathetic.

His small size makes him really easy to deep throat. I close my eyes, pretending that the penis belongs to a real man, and try to get into it. But his smooth shaven flesh and aroma of eau de toilet return me to this lesbian repulsive reality. I wonder if the Mara viewed the early Tyla with the same contempt that I have for my client.

But he’s really into it. His body is quaking with pre orgasmic spasms.

“Stop, please stop, I am not ready to cum. I want to suck you, and then for you to fuck me.”

The Cialis has my boy clit aroused to its five inch maximum. I strip as my client settles back on the pillows, head propped on the wicker headboard. I mount his chest and thrust myself into his mouth. Holding the headboard, and imitating the way guys use my head, I ram myself into his mouth as fast as I can. The rickety old bed shakes and squeaks.

Face fucking from the top is tiring. My boobs are swaying, and starting to ache from the commotion, so I cup them. He wants to hold them too, so I press my hands over his. After a hundred or so thrusts, I am out of breath. My head is throbbing from the combined effects of exertion and chemicals.

I give him a little kiss, and he wants to DFK, but I avert my lips, and offer my cheek. He slobbers on me, and then whispers “I want to lick your poor little hole.”

I turn around, straddle his chest the other way. He fondles and pulls apart my buttocks and licks my anus. His tongue is tentative and week, and tickles more than titillates. I play with my boobs and my pussy pole to keep it hard.

His tongue takes a rest and he fingers me. “You taste so nice and clean, and it’s such a pretty pink color. Were you afraid when all those Mexicans raped you?”

“Not really. They’re just talent, like me. It was a long day, but worth it. I got paid a lot more than they did.”

“You are so brave. Let’s suck each other now.”

I lie beside him and we 69. I finger his ass, loosening it up. I am worried that my erection will fade, so I want to get the topping over with. I put on a lubricated cover, splash lube on my fingers, and work it into his crack. It’s dark and hairy. I guess he can’t see to shave there. I kneel between his legs, prop his ankles on my shoulders, and slap my cock against his taint, and make an exploratory poke into his hole.

“Ouch. Please don’t hurt me.” He looks up with imploring eyes. I look back with the cold, merciless glare that I have so often received when my ass is up-tilted and exposed.

“You deserve to be hurt, you little slut.” He braces himself, and I ram myself all of the way in. He bites the pillow to silence his scream, and I rip myself out. The I nail him again.

“Please don’t, please stop.” His eyes are bulging with fright.

I slap his buttocks and flip one leg over my head and take him from the side. I press my tits into his back and massage my nipples on his back fat. I pinch his nipples, and he yelps some more. Now, I just want to cum before my erection goes away, so I flip him onto his belly and take him in down doggy. I search out his cock as I flail in his ass. I cradle his cock in my lube-slicked hand and masturbate him as I fuck him. He is crying and moaning and making little girly noises. His moans are too low and hoarse, but sound very authentically submissive. I grind myself into him as hard and deep as I can.

I close my eyes and imagine that it’s me getting fucked. I conjure images from my past, flicking through my back pages to find my dream fuck. Once again, it’s Antoine. His cocky smile, athletic body and massive member are embedded in my libido. I know he’s gone, probably dead. But somehow he symbolizes a life that seemed freer and more promising than the corner of hell that I am trapped in with Hector and Ocho.

Antoine crushes me beneath his huge, athletic frame and is nailing my G-spot with his big black truncheon. I am crying, “No, stop, please, don’t” in the voice that I know will only incite him onward. Then I feel a gushing, like a burst fire hydrant, inside me, and I melt into and explosive climax of my own.

And that is the image I need to bring myself to completion. With a voice strangled with sensation, I cry out that I am cumming. I pull out, uncover, and let dribble of clear liquid exude from the pin hole of my pussystick onto the rim of his greasy hole. He reaches back, scoops it on his finger, and licks his finger clean. I collapse forward, my boobs crushing against his back.

“God, that was good. Now I need to cum.” He shrugs my limp body off to the side and I try to ignore him, to cling to the fading remnants of my Antoine vision, but he is insistent. He hands me another condom and a tube of lube.

I cover his cock, which has finally become hard, and lube myself. I lie flat on the bed, face down, unable to look again at his horrid, smeared make up. He pushes in easily and starts fucking me. My own orgasm has left me feeling indifferent and numb. I barely feel him, so pale and weak is he compared to the powerful memories that fueled my climax. When he pops inside the rubber, I barely notice the up tempo throb inside me. He vocalizes his climax extravagantly in falsetto and collapses off of me.

I catch my breath and collect my thoughts as he slips into post coital coma. I go to the dingy little bathroom, wipe myself clean, refresh my make up, dress, and collect my donation.

He hears me, and protests my leaving.

“I paid for two hours. It’s only been one.”

“I think you’re done. You were great. Now go back to sleep.” I give him a consolation kiss on the lips.

He smiles and says “OK, I got my money’s worth.”

I text Hector and let myself out of the hotel room. The security guard grunts as I pass by. I walk further up Third. The traffic has abated. It’s lonely, and the passing cars are hurrying home now, taking no notice of the tricked out tramp in silver hotpants and stilettos. I turn on Bonnie Brae, a dark, overgrown street chock a block with run-down apartment buildings. My cheap plastic Casio says it’s 2:00 a.m. Outside, the air is still sultry, barely stirring.

Bonnie Brae is deserted and quiet, but for tinny banda wafting from an open window high above me. Two police helicopters buzz in the distance, their spotlights scanning like the searching eyes of predators. The balconies of the looming apartment blocks are dark and empty. Apart from the buzz of traffic on Third, my footsteps and their echoes are the loudest sounds. I turn on Miramar. Here, it’s even darker. The stillness, and the emptiness are spooky, I am relieved to see Hector’s Escalade. As I draw near, I peer through the gloom for their silhouettes, but the car seems empty. I silently curse them for their negligence in leaving me alone in this scary place. I pull open the passenger door.

When I do, Hector tumbles to my feet, knocking me to the ground. I pull myself from beneath the dead weight of his body, clamber to my feet, and back away from the carnage. In the passenger compartment, I see Ocho, slumped over the steering wheel. I hear a rustle from the bushes behind me. I try to run, but it’s too late to escape. The night’s gloom turns to complete darkness as a hood descends over my head. My unseen assailant drags me away.

I hear a screech of tires and the thud of a subwoofer, a car door opens, and I am flung into the back seat. The air inside the car is pungent with marijuana and deafening thud of hip. The car zooms off, heaving me from side to side as it goes through a quick series of evasive turns.

My guts twist with fear. My protectors are dead. I am being abducted. My mind searches for the right tricks with which to seduce my captors. But I fear that when my secret between my legs is revealed, I will be just another trannie corpse by the side of a lonely road.

We are on the freeway now. I am pulled upright, and my hood is removed. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust and focus. When they do, I feel a thrill of relief and joy.

“Antoine, I am so happy so happy that it’s you, that you’re alive. How did you find me?”

“Tyla, you left me with a lifetime love of trannie booty and porn. When I saw your Ladyboy Gang Initiation, and what a fine little ho you had become, I had to look you up on the internet. When I found that you could lead me to that Salvo cocksucker Hector too, it was just too good to be true. So we worked out this plan, got that pansy in the hotel room to act as bait, and here we are.”

I lean over the car seat and kiss him.

“Thank you for rescuing me.”

“You’re not upset about me capping your boyfriends.”

I felt a twinge of regret. Hector and Ocho had changed my life, and helped make me what I am. And I had in some small way changed them, as they had found a way to accept into their tribe the maricone they had once despised. Now they were gone, beyond the possibility of any further growth or redemption.

But I never would be anything more than a small stream in the Mara’s cash flow, a minor component of Hector’s brutalizing, destructive business model. The moment I didn’t fit into his strategic plan, he would traffic me again just like he did to Roberto. If I resisted, he would kill me as an example to the others. In the wake of his and Ocho’s passing, I feel a rush of conflicting emotions, but the strongest of them is relief. I am glad to be free of the Mara.

“I think I can find a way to forgive you, Antoine.” I kiss him again.

TBC

Secondary Education
Chapter 14
Betrayal
[email protected]

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