Filling Station Surprise

I was surprised when the blonde honey drove up to the gas pumps in her top-down 2019 red A5 Premium Cabriolet convertible and beckoned to me to service her as I was standing at the office drawer jawing with Jason, Tyler, and the station manager, our pimp, Andre Barkley. I knew my cars. I wasn't working at the Allman's gas station in Stevenson Ranch near Canyon Park in the hills northeast of downtown Los Angeles just as a rent-boy. I loved cars and knew how to maintain them and loved being near them. I was surprised because I was a beefy black guy and both Jason and Tyler where studly white movie star-looking guys. The babes that usually came in here for servicing—this mainly being a male-on-male operation—usually found me too intimidating for the first time. If it was adventure they wanted, they usually worked up to me.

As far as I could tell this was this honey's first visit here, although somewhere in the back of my mind I told myself she was familiar—that I'd seen her someplace before. She was gorgeous and willowy and with wavy blonde hair and those funny giant-lens sunglasses. She was more vintage Marilyn Monroe than Marilyn Monroe had been. When she came out of the car to stand, pout at the gas pump, and indicate that motioning to me should have sent me into motion immediately, she was all shapely legs and skimpy minidress with straps barely holding up a miniscule halter top.

She wasn't busty by any means, but her nipples puckered out the material of the halter top enough to give even a mostly gay male guy like me the beginnings of a hard on. I was mainly the operation's rough power top for johns, but I was bi enough to be able to get it up for babes like this one if they were paying for it. Most of them, though, were cougar types. Few were as young and fresh-looking as this one.

Allman's gas station was a modern riff on the Hollywood Boulevard gas station owned and operated by the man called "Pimp to the Stars," Scotty Bowers in Hollywood in the 1930s and 40s. Bowers established a stable of gay and lesbian prostitutes operating out of a trailer behind his gas station and pimped them to the gay and bisexual elite in the movie industry. Eighty years later some silent-investor owner was doing the same in the hills above Los Angeles, again for the movie industry elite and by networking among them, and, thus far, successfully pulling it off.

By day, all you could get at Allman's was gas and an oil change, but in the evening and night you could get your sexual urge scratched too in one of two airstreams behind the back of the gas station. There were also two or three rent-boys, like me, hanging around to service mostly johns, but the occasional cougar when she showed up with plenty of money. This was L.A. We had to be prepared to do it all with a smile. There was a young lesbian prostitute for females looking for that. We could do threesome work as well, either two guys and a woman or all guys. The station didn't cater to straights, though. There were plenty of brothels around for that. We went to the kinkier interests.

I had been recruited by Andre Barkley. He was pushing forty, but he was a former Marine who kept himself in condition. He'd found me on Muscle Beach in Venice, where I was showing off one of the best, black physiques at the open-air gym where people came to ogle beautiful bodies in motion. My body was for sale there, though, which was how I was making my living, making the most out of the almost-perfect combination of muscle and looks and hung equipment that my Jamaican father and Minnesotan mother had managed to put together when good old Dad had banged Mother. I loved working on cars too and did that as much as I could in a Venice autobody shop too.

Andre Barkley went under younger guys. He engaged my services, found I could stretch out his channel better than had ever been managed before, and discovered that I could do it while putting on a sexy show. He offered me a chance to combine those skills—as a rent-boy at this Stevenson Ranch male brothel gas station, where I could service guys for profit but service flashy cars as well. They all drove flashy cars; this was a very exclusive and expensive gas station.

The leggy blonde's red Audi Cabriolet was a flashy car too. It was with little reluctance, even though I didn't usually do young dames for their first time here, showing out as overwhelmingly black and a threat to split them, that I approached her car at the gas pump.

"Can you fill a girl up, big boy?" she asked in a husky, sexy voice as I walked over next to her between the tail of her car and the gas pump.

"I can do anything you want," I answered, taking the nozzle out of the pump. She'd already opened the gas tank. "Regular, extra, or high test?" I asked.

"Definitely high test," she said. She put her one of her hands on top of mine on the gas nozzle and we inserted it into the car together.

"Such a big nozzle," she purred. "I do love thick equipment like this."

We both knew what she was really talking about because she had wasted no time using the other hand to feel me up. Our uniforms were nearly spray painted on, so she had no trouble getting the measure of me—and I'd started hardening up as soon as she drove into the station.

"I've heard nozzle work was something a girl can get here," she said. "True? How do I buy?"

"Just the gas, or—?"

"No, the cock too," she said.

I was glad we weren't going to follow that line of gas nozzles any further. "This isn't really a place for straights," I said. "There's a good place over on—"

"I don't want it straight and I want it here—and I want it from you. This is my big black bull day. How do I buy?"

"See the man standing in the doorway over there, looking at us. That's the manager, Andre. See him, make arrangements, and then, after I've filled the car up, drive it around to the back of the station. The airstream on the right back there is where we'll meet."

"What's your name, Honey? I'm Chris."

"I'm Cole."

"Coal, as in black? More milk chocolate, I'd say."

"No, Cole. Spelled different. But you seem to have a fetish for black."

"For black bull stud, yes. Well, hunky Cole, after you fill my car up, you'll fill me up," she said, laughed, and, all slender legs, started strutting on spike heels over to the office.

Holy-moly, I thought, still struck with the sensation that I'd seen her before, as I watched her pert little glutes move inside the thin material of her minidress. This is going to be a "something else" adventure. Not my usual john.

And a "something else" adventure it surely was.

* * * *

"Oh, shit, honey, You're huge . . . and it's black as all get out. A huge black mambo snake. Put it in me now. All of it. I'm built to take it, honey. Put it in me now. Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. Yessss. Fuck me!"

It had been such a surprise that it had taken me a bit to get into it, but Chris relentlessly writhed under me, guiding me, wanting it on the bed taking up most of the airstream behind the gas station. And Chris had paid for it. Mounted at last on top of her—or him, or whatever—at last in a missionary, so that we could both look down and see me entering and stretching her folds and making it disappear into that new passage she had. Finding that she indeed had been reconstructed to take all of my big black mamba was a big surprise.

I had never done an MTF—male-to-female—trans before, and we'd gotten well into the sex before the big reveal was made. When we got into the airstream, Chris began stripping herself down even as she was kneeling down in front of me, unzipping me, and pulling my engorging dick out.

"Oh, hot momma, the gold mine of black bulls," she exclaimed as she closed her mouth over my shaft. I was in shock to see that the blonde wig had come up as well as her minidress, and, suddenly, what I had thought was a female Christine was really some form of Christopher still—but not wholly, not where it counted the most.

The feminine features had turned to male with just the release of the wig. He was still beautiful, but he no longer clearly was female. I could see down to his chest to see that, although his nipples were puffed out, he had the pecs of a slim, young male, not female breasts—at least not yet. I couldn't see further down, at least not yet. That surprise was yet to come.

He was the aggressive one, and I left him to it, clutching my bare buttocks after he'd stripped down my pants and briefs with his squeezing palms, and giving me deep, slurping head. He pulled off occasionally to declare in awe how big and black my cock was, something I hardly needed to be informed about. It was my signature feature—after the john had marveled at my muscularity. The nearly twelve incher was an added delight—fright and challenge. Many were the men who lay there moaning and marveling at the discovery that they, indeed, could sheath it all.

It was only when I lifted Chris, light as a feather, small, willowy, up and lay him down on the bed on his back that I had the shock to find that he was she down there, an MTF, with a gaping cunt, folds and all, and a miniature cock at the head where a woman's clit would be.

Chris laughed. "Surprised, sugar?"

"Very," I honestly answered. I couldn't help myself, though. My hands immediately went to the cunt, exploring and playing with the folds, running my fingers down the vestigial shaft, and rubbing the small glans.

Chris moaned and, with an edge of trepidation in her/his voice murmured, "Disappointed?"

"No, just surprised, and not sure what . . . how—"

"It's a cunt, honey. I paid big bucks for it. Play with it; suck it; eat it out. Fuck it, like you would any woman's. Do all of the above if you like—I would like. It can take it. Even a monster like you. Do me, or is it too much?"

"It's fine. Just a surprise," I said, adding, "It's your money." I leaned down over the young blond and took one nipple after the other in my mouth, licking and nipping and sucking them one after the other, puffing them up, as Chris moaned and writhed under me, grasped my erection and rubbed it in the folds of her cunt. She would have pulled me inside her then, but I kept pulling back, not ready to fuck her yet, knowing that, for the money Chris was paying, she—or he—should be getting more foreplay.

I went down on my knees on the floor of the airstream; hooked Chris's legs, her toes in her spike heels pointed daintily toward the curved, silver ceiling of the airstream, on my shoulders; and dove for the cunt with my mouth, thinking what I'd give a woman before mounting her and giving the same to Chris. Moaning deeply, she rocked her pelvis against my tonguing. Other than the folds maybe being puffier than most, the vestigial dick being a bit different from a clit, and the opening itself gaping a bit more than usual, the experience of eating her out was the same as for any woman, and her "Yes, yes, YESS, baby" responses were as lustful as it was with any woman. She held my wooly head close into her crotch and writhed under my attentions, rocking with increasing vigor against my face, until giving a little cry and lathering my cheek with her cum.

"Now, now, fuck me, you big black stud!" she demanded as I pulled away from her and stood, hovering over her. She reached down and grasped my erection in both fists, and pulled it toward her. "Put it in! Fill me up!"

I moved to turn her on the bed, to mount her in the doggy position, but she called out, as I was rolling on the Trojan Magnum. "No, face to face. I want to see it go in, fill me, work me. I want you to see it too."

So, I left her on her back, hooking her knees on my hips, positioning the cock head inside her folds. I made sure to recline far enough from her so that, looking down her torso, she could watch it go in and move inside her. She was still grasping my cock with both hands, and she impaled herself on it. Both of us panting, concentrating, and watching in awe, she stretched as it slowly went it. I was fascinated and mounting in arousal in watching her stretch to my demand. She took more of it than most women could before the dance of the fuck began. She took it all, all of it, to the root. Still erect over here, both of us watching the root of the shaft move forward and aft, in and out, nearly a thick foot in and nearly a thick foot withdrawing, we panted hard, moaned in unison, and moved together in the primeval dance of the fuck. It didn't matter what gender anyone would consider Chris: male or female. Our parts fit perfectly, worked together divinely. We fucked.

I was tensing, reaching climax. Chris had come again already. She cried out. "In the ass. Raw. Breed me in the ass."

Well, alrighty, I thought, pulling out and stripping the rubber off as I turned her on the bed. I mounted and penetrated her in the doggy position, and it wasn't more than a dozen more strokes before she cried out, "Oh baby, baby. Yes, breed me!" and I, gripping her hips hard, was tensing, jerking, and coming, tensing, jerking and coming.

"Oh, baby, baby, that was good," she whimpered as she collapsed under me. "Can't get enough of that big black mambo."

And, yes, yes, it was good. It was very good for me too. My first male-to-female trans and it was more than good. It was fine, mighty fine. I knew it was becoming more popular and I'd encounter it at some time. This was the time, and it didn't turn me off. I was aroused. I could attain and maintain an erection for this. This was just fine.

I fucked her and fucked her and fucked her. She got her deep moaning worth.

I couldn't help but think, though, as I had now seen Christine stripped down into a more ambiguous Chris, moving toward an original Christopher, that I had seen her . . . or her . . . somewhere before.

* * * *

It was two weeks later than a TV production crew came to Venice Muscle Beach to film a beach segment of the popular Generational Clash situation comedy series. As the king of the beach in physical form, I quite naturally was engaged to play volleyball in a Speedo with three other cut guys in the background, while they filmed a segment of a family being comically, but poignantly dysfunctional on a beach outing.

At a break, the volleyballers were permitted to rest from our interminable game and, like the others, I looked down toward the water, where the actors were also breaking character in between filmings. I found one of them, a slender blond guy, who I knew played the part of the older teenage son, Craig, in the comedy program, was looking at me with a silly grin on his face.

It hit me like a lightning flash. This was why I thought I'd seen the MTF guy, Chris, before. He was Craig from the Generational Clash show. He was made to look younger than he really was for this program, and he was wholly male appearing, but it unmistakably was him—or her, or whatever. He was recognizing me as well.

After the break, we went back to playing volleyball in the background as they went back to filming on the beach. The difference now was that I had hardened off and was humming to myself while I batted the ball over the net. This was a mystery solved. It had been bugging me for two weeks where I'd seen this honey of a Chris before—and whether I'd ever see Chris again and delve in the delights of his expensive cunt again.

That question was answered when the film session was breaking up and a production assistant was handing out checks to the extras. There was a note from Chris in my envelope. "I'll be at the Adonis Club at eight tonight if you are interested," it said.

Of course I was interested.