F4: A Matter of Circumstance

(Author's note: This story is an entry into FAWC (Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge), a collaborative competition among Lit authors. FAWC is not an official contest sponsored by Literotica, and there are no prizes given to the winner. This FAWC was based around the theme of music, with four songs given to choose from. The song that inspired this story was "Tomorrow We'll See" by Sting.)

* * * *

Neon reflections glistened on the street. The dive bars with their glowing beer signs were minimally populated. That wasn't uncommon for a midweek night. I typically stayed away from them, often crossing the street so as not to arouse the attention of those within. I was more than passable for a woman, but if any of those burly caballeros discovered the truth, leers would turn to jeers, quickly followed by punches or worse.

I sighed. Eternally judged, that was me. Judged for who I was, what I was, what I did with my life. My brother Jeff's words from years before still stung in my ears, mainly because he echoed what everyone else in my family had long been thinking:

"You're nothing but a cheap faggot, Joey. Just you being alive is an insult to this family."

I shrugged off the memory. I had other things to think about. The pair of heels I had purchased the day before took me past the door of El Jalisco. Tejano music spilled out from within, carrying along with it a cloud of hazy cigarette smoke and lost opportunities. I chanced a look within, seeing the backs of three middle-aged men at the bar. I kept going.

Second pack, I thought ruefully, tearing off the plastic wrapper on a pack of Camels. The lighter flicked in my hand. I inhaled, still walking, blew out. The street was dead, a frustrating truth for someone in my line of work. Like any business, I needed customers.

The tearing sound of tires across wet asphalt bade me look back. A minivan slowed, driver within craning his neck to get a look at me. It only lasted a second before he was gone, continuing down the road. I sucked on the cigarette, staring at his rear window. I knew he would be back. They always came back.

Sure enough, after turning down a side street, the same van came rolling back. Headlights flashed as the sedan hit a rough patch on the road. I cast looks left and right, checking for the cops, but the coast was clear. Though the heels were killing me, I managed to cross the street quickly enough, stepping onto the sidewalk at a corner.

The minivan approached, slowing again. This time I winked, smiled, waved my hand. The man inside nodded with a nervous smile. Middle aged, white, a little pudgy. I met a lot of those, looking for something risky -- or just risque -- on their way to their wives.

He turned at the corner and stopped. The passenger-side window rolled down as I approached. The van was clean; a good sign. "How you doing, honey?" I asked playfully. Over the years, I had perfect my feminine voice, completing the illusion that I was what these men wanted me to be.

The man shrugged. "Good," he responded. "You busy?"

I flashed my best catty smile. "You generous?"

That was the code, the trick, that established our relationship right up front. You want time with me, you gotta be ready to pay.

His face flushed slightly. I figured a good quarter of the johns I met had never picked up a girl off the street before. What they knew about the process came from seedy movies and cheap erotica. This man was one of those.

"Yeah, sure," he said.

I popped open the door and stepped into the van. A quick check of the back told me we were alone. Caution was important in my game; just a few days before, another T-girl like me had been stabbed to death after picking up a john.

"You're pretty," he said awkwardly as I settled my tight butt on the seat. I smiled and reached across between us, groping his crotch. That was the standard move to make sure we weren't cops. He sucked in a breath.

"You're sweet," I said, then pulled on my cigarette.

Silence floated between us. He was nervous, unsure of how to ask for what he wanted. So I made it easy on him.

"What's your name?"

"Uh, Don."

I blew smoke and stared at him. "Would you like me to suck your cock, Don?"

He swallowed thickly, but smiled and expelled a broken laugh. "Yeah, uh . . . yeah. I'd like that."

Of course you would, I thought. What man doesn't want a blowjob? "Fifty bucks," I told him.

His pudgy face grimaced. "Fifty?" he asked.

I leaned close and squeezed his crotch once more. He was hard already. My lips brushed his ear. He smelled like coffee and Tic-Tacs. "I'll be the sweetest five minutes you'll ever have," I whispered.

Don trembled. His erection was pushing against my hand through the khaki slacks he wore. "O-okay," he responded.

I told him where to go. Other than that, there wasn't much talking. We parked beneath a tree at a park five minutes away. Soft radiance from a streetlamp filtering through the leaves gave me just enough light to see what I was doing. Don handed over the money. I unzipped his pants.

He wasn't big --far from it -- and he smelled more than a little musky. He'd probably spent all day and evening sitting at a desk somewhere, his crotch leeching sweat into his boxers. I had smelled worse in the past, and still did what I was paid to do.

Don gasped as if he had never had his entire penis sucked before. Hands fell to the back of my head, my back. He didn't push. He just needed some place to put them. Maybe he liked feeling my head bouncing up and down against the palm of his hand. Maybe he thought he was directing me.

With my talent, it didn't take the poor man long at all to serve up his frustration. He groaned, gasped, hissed and bucked as I sucked out every last drop of fluid from his cock. The taste was bitter and sour. Not the most savory load I had ever sampled, but not the worst.

With his shuddering over, I sat up and turned to the window, finding the toggle for the window. Semen splattered on the ground as I spat. The flavor lingered in my mouth, but I had gum for that.

"You can take me back now, honey," I told him.

* * * *

My first trick of the night was gracious enough to let me out at a gas station. The employees inside knew who I was, what I was, even if they didn't know the full truth. But they didn't care, and neither did I.

In the bathroom, I checked my makeup, applied some lipstick where it had worn off on Don's cock. I wondered if the man would think to clean himself before returning to his wife. That gave me a chuckle.

A woman stared back at me in the mirror. I was pretty damn convincing with my long straight hair and artful application of makeup. I could stand right in front of the judgmental members of my family and they wouldn't know who I was. That thought gave me another chuckle.

Back on the street, with a pair of twenties and a ten tucked inside the top of my stockings, I ventured back along the pavement. Another cigarette dangled from my fingers. Another car slowed as it passed. I gave a wink. The car continued on.

A check of the woman's watch on my wrist told me it was nearing midnight. It wasn't my norm to stay out past then. I wanted to avoid the late-night thugs and pendejos who got high on weed before looking for a "bitch." But the evening hadn't been kind. Half a Benjamin wasn't worth my night.

A rude voice called from a passing low-rider. "Yo, mama, how 'bout a blow?" Congratulatory laughter erupted from the heckler's friends. I responded with a middle finger. They, too, continued on.

A rumbling engine -- one of those big block hemis my asshole brother was fond of -- caught my attention. A jacked-up truck with a crew cab appeared at a corner just ahead, passenger window rolled down. All I saw was a hat and sunglasses peering back at me. He was giving me that look.

Hmm. I might be able to salvage a hundred bucks from tonight.

Keeping my cool, I approached the idling monstrosity. A girl can't seem eager, you know. Some of these guys were just enough of a shark to talk a price down. So I continued to wear my indifferent, take-it-or-leave-it face.

"What you up to, honey?" I asked.

The face, from what I could see, was handsome. He seemed slender, like me. I wasn't too put off by the glasses and hat. A lot of johns did that, as if afraid someone they knew was going to see them picking up a streetwalker. Or maybe it just helped them pretend they were turning into someone else for the sake of the deed. Distancing themselves. They'd go home, take off the hat, take a shower, and I never happened.

I couldn't care less. As far as I was concerned, they never happened. I just magically acquired a wad of twenties during a casual walk down the street.

He studied me for a moment, then shrugged. "Get in." His voice was scratchy and rough. It sounded fake, like that of an amateur actor portraying a chain smoker.

Man of few words, I thought. I liked that. I hated the talkers, who went on and on about their wives, rationalizing why they wanted to pay some stranger to suck them off. On the other hand were the silent ones, who never said anything. They were just creepy. But the ones in the middle, they suited me just fine. A little chit-chat, whip it out, blow your load and I'm done. On to the next.

Once I was in the cab of the truck, Mr. Quiet started driving. He seemed to know where to go. This was nothing new to him.

"What's your name?" I asked him.

He didn't answer. He put his hand on my leg, fingers creeping up my inner thigh. I covered it with my own. "You don't wanna go there, baby," I said. "Wrong time of the month."

For most guys, that was enough to keep them from grabbing a pussy that wasn't there. But Mr. Quiet just chuckled. "Don't give me that. You're a tranny. I want the whole package."

I was impressed. I had only been outed once before, and nearly got stabbed as a result. But this guy was actually looking for a T-girl. Fine with me.

So I let his hand wander. "Gonna cost more than fifty," I told him.

"I'll give you twin Benjamins," he said. Fingers traveled under my skirt, touching my tucked-under cock.

Two hundred bucks? Sold to Mr. Quiet! My night was looking up. "Up front," I told him.

He nodded and kept driving, taking his hand back. "I got condoms and lube," he said. "Like I said, I want the whole package."

The prospect gave me a tingle. It had been a while since I bottomed. To be honest, I was getting a little antsy. Okay, so I normally like my men beefier than Mr. Quiet. But I had a feeling we were going to have some fun. When it came down to it, with my line of work, looks didn't matter as much as intention.

He pulled the truck into an industrial park and drove around to the back. There was ample light provided by harsh light poles, but no vehicles parked nearby. The result was an enticing contrast between high profile and low risk. If someone came driving around the corner of the building, we would have time to get dressed.

I wonder how many other girls he's brought here, I wondered, then pushed the thought from my mind. Despite growing excitement, I had to remain the professional.

Mr. Quiet put the truck in park and eased back. "Wanna see what you got," he said.

I raised my hand and rubbed the tips of my fingers together.

I think he scowled under his flat black glasses. But then he reached into his pocket and came up with a nicely thick wad. One, two, three, four . . . he counted off the fifties and handed them over. Into my stocking they went.

With the niceties over, I hitched up the skirt, splayed my legs as wide as the seat would allow. A tug on the black nylon covering my crotch and out popped my cock, already swelling. Mr. Quiet seemed to approve. He reached over for a grope, then a stroke. I sat back and let him have his fun.

"Nice dick," he remarked, then took his hand away. He shifted, working his belt, the button on his jeans, the zipper. "Check out mine," he said, lifting up and shoving the denim down. His cock was thick, stiff and long. Impressive, I had to admit.

I reached, feeling the warm tube of erect flesh filling my hand. He was shaved silky-smooth. Not a hair anywhere. My other hand went under his balls, fondling them. Mr. Quiet parted his legs.

"Suck it."

I didn't hesitate. Leaning over, I held his cock at the base and swirled my tongue around the tip. Slowly, teasingly, I took the length of him into my mouth. Inch after inch slid over my tongue, to the back of my throat. I inhaled through my nose, held it, pushed down. His cock stretched my esophagus.

Mr. Quiet grunted, pushed up. His balls pressed against my nose. I closed my mouth around the base and suckled like a lamb at mama's teat. But it wasn't long before my lungs began to protest.

Sliding up, I swallowed a mouthful of thick spit and regained my breath. Mr. Quiet's hand pressed at the back of my head. I went down once more, allowing him to use me, if only just this bit. His cock popped back into my throat. He groaned again. Obviously, my trick was an admirer of deepthroat.

I bobbed up and down, holding my breath until I felt my eyes leaking. Sliding up, I slipped my mouth from his dick and stroked it. I didn't look to his face. Guys like him, I knew, wanted to stay as anonymous as possible. That was fine. The only things about him that interested me were his money and his cock.

Mr. Quiet let me jack him for a bit. He squirmed with the way my fingers squeezed and massaged the head. I'd been told before -- many times -- that my hands were just as good as my mouth. Sometimes, I'd get a guy off that way, and they never complained.

He slapped a hand onto my wrist. "Don't make me cum yet," he grumbled. He sat up, turned in the seat. "Show me that ass."

I got on my knees. My skirt was already bunched up around my waist. All I had to do was pull my panties to the side. Like Mr. Quiet, I was smooth as silk all over. Judging from the murmurs he made, he approved. His hands slapped to my ass, pulling the cheeks apart. I felt my anus gape slightly.

"Yeah. Nice. Stay like that."

I turned my head, watching him as he produced a foil package and a small bottle. "Like my ass, baby?" I cooed. "Wanna fuck it?"

He gave a grunt. Despite his stoicism, he was turned on, I knew. Hell, so was I. I watched him take out the condom and roll it down his cock. Then he popped open the lube.

"Might wanna loosen me up, first," I suggested.

Mr. Quiet stroked his latex-wrapped dick, then positioned himself on his knees. The truck rocked a bit. He squeezed some slippery stuff on his fingers. I bit my lip with anticipation.

Thumb and forefinger of one hand spread my sphincter open. I felt the nudging of two fingers against my tight man hole. I pushed back, and he pushed in. My tunnel opened up to let him in. Oh, deliciousness!

But he only fingered me for a few seconds before climbing over the console to get behind me. I was pressed against the back of the seat. His stiff cock probed around my anus, slipping back and forth. Then he found the mark and barged in. Oh, the heat! I whimpered as the girth of his penis stretched my hole and filled my bowels. He pushed in, then pulled back, then pushed in some more. Finally, his hips were against my ass. I felt his taut balls against my own.

"Fuck me."

I wasn't sure who said it. I didn't care. I hadn't had a proper fucking in months. Just days on end with anonymous cocks spewing anonymous fluid across my tongue. No thought to my desires, my needs. But that dry spell of personal relief was coming to an end. I was getting fucked, and fucked well.

Mr. Quiet gripped and squeezed my hips as he pounded into me. He was a hard and deep man, which suited me just fine. He liked to pull back until just the tip of his cock remained inside me, then shove the whole thick throbbing mass back in. It just so happened that I liked that, too.

My own cock was throbbing with the need for attention. I reached down and grabbed it, stroking madly. My body trembled with each deep plunge of the john inside me. My prostate tingled. Each thrust made me think I was about to cum at any moment.

But then he pulled out, leaving me gaping and wondering.

"Turn over," he growled.

Eagerly, I brought up my legs, flipped around, then lifted and fanned them wide. My cock jutted up from beneath my flat belly. His cock pushed back against my hole. Mr. Quiet curled my legs back until my knees touched my chest. I gibbered in bliss as he resumed fucking me. Automatically, I stroked my cock with both hands, jacking furiously up and down. I was going to cum. I wanted to cum.

"Do it," he grunted, still plowing into me. "Shoot it off."

I managed to lift my head, just seconds before I erupted. The hat, the glasses, they hid everything from me. But his movements told me all I wanted to know, and all that mattered.

Whimpering gasps were all I let out. Held firmly in both hands, my cock sprayed thick droplets of cum that fell onto my stomach, my hands, my upper thighs. I thrashed and moaned, giving in to the sensations. I didn't want them to end.

And then he was jerking his cock free from my ass with all the forceful acumen of a sexual professional. As if a camera somewhere had been all along recording our coupling, he rose up, leaning over me. His tense cock jutted toward my face. One hand held it while the other ripped off the sticky condom with a loud snap! Still in my orgasmic daze, I stared at the shiny head of his dick, at the widening slit.

Thick white fluid poured out, splattering my face, my neck, my chest. A few warm, bittersweet globs fell onto my tongue. He jerked and stroked, sending all of his seed onto me. I think I laughed, or at least giggled. He pushed his cock into my mouth. I didn't much like the taste of the spermicide, but his cum was strangely welcome. I sucked the last of it from him. He shivered in bliss over me. His thick shaft twitched between my lips.

Finally, Mr. Quiet pulled his cock from my mouth and fell onto his back in the driver's seat. Neither of us spoke as we regained our composure. My fall from orgasmic grace to brutal reality came quicker than I would have hoped. Sitting up, I looked about the truck's cab.

"Got a towel?" I asked.

He jerked a thumb behind him, indicating the back seat. I looked, and found a neatly-folded terrycloth. Thankful for such small considerations, I wiped up the spunk from my body and face.

"That was," he began, then forcibly cleared his throat. His voice changed as he spoke again. "That was fucking great."

I smiled. "Glad you liked it, baby," I said, then stopped. No, it was more like I froze. Like it was one of those old science fiction movies in which some kind of alien paralysis ray put everyone in stasis. I froze because of his voice. It sounded eerily, frighteningly familiar.

My eyes wandered over his face. The chin, the lips were suddenly familiar. He was panting as he recovered, and half out of it. My hand came up and touched the sunglasses, then pulled them down.

I was sure I gasped then. I had to have.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, jerking back. "Hands off! What the fuck!"

I recoiled, falling into the passenger seat. I looked down at my feet as I straightened my clothes. I was dumbfounded by the revelation. Why hadn't I seen it sooner? How could I not have known?

The drive back was done in silence. It gave me time to put things in perspective. By the time I stepped from the truck an onto my familiar street, the delicious irony of the entire situation had come full circle.

"You got a number?" he asked the back of my head.

I didn't turn to look at him. "You already have it, Jeff," I said pointedly. I used my "real" voice, the one he would recognize. Then I shut the door and started walking. I didn't look back. I didn't need to. The reality of the startled look on his face would never match the image in my mind.