I Understand

Taking in my breath, I was at the end of my act on stage again, standing there, just in red spike heels, bikini bottoms, and a gold chain around my narrow waist. This was the moment; the big reveal. The bra had already come off in my dance to reveal my melon-rounded breasts. As the music was coming up to a crescendo, I released the ties of the bikini bottoms and let them drop to the floor, standing there for the mandatory twelve seconds in the spotlight, clutching my feathered boa about me, spreading my legs and bending my knees into a slight crouch, jutting my pelvis forward, giving focus to the guys' attention out there, listening to the catcalls out in the dark audience.

This is me. Now. I am a woman now. I went through hell to get this cunt.

On the count of eight, I let my ruby-red fingernails glide down my small, willowy body to my surgically provided snatch, and I touched myself, fondling my labia and spreading them open to beckon into the mysteries below, my pelvis jutted forward toward the watchers in the shadows of the audience. I had no idea how many men were out there in the small theater at Suzy's, a trans strip show club two blocks off the main drag near the Luxor in Las Vegas--the spotlight on me was blinding--but I understood their curiosity and their urge to explore and experience, if only vicariously from a distance.

I understood. I understand. I went through hell to get this cunt.

The spotlight died and the rest of the house lights went out as well. I slipped off the stage and down the corridor to the dressing rooms, not looking left or right. None of the stagehands looked at me or spoke to me. There was no curiosity left for them and this was nothing special for them anymore. I understood that. Any of them who wanted to do more than look had already had their curiosity satisfied. I wasn't a nun.

It made me feel isolated. Getting fully transformed had fulfilled a dream and a need I'd had since I was young, but it hadn't resulted in more attention. I'd gotten more attention, more in terms of relations before I'd had the surgery done. Now it was a bit of standing off and curiosity--or a one-time satisfying of that curiosity. Even the sex became perfunctory and "once is enough"--an assurance that, yes, it does fit and feels about the same, but, yes, it's a bit weird to think about doing it regularly. I could understand that. It was lonely sometimes, though. This was my twenty-second birthday; my second anniversary as woman was coming up soon, so it was particularly in my mind now.

I took my makeup off, put my reddish-blond hair into a small bun at the back of my head, pulled a jock and silken athletic shorts and a T-shirt on--baggy enough to disguise that I had breasts now--and athletic shoes, and I went out through the front of the club. Mine had been the last act and the place had cleared out afterward.

Tom Blankensmith was still in the ticket booth and greeted me as I was leaving the club. "Happy birthday, Frankie," he said. "I hope you have something great laid on for tomorrow."

"Thanks, Tom," I answered. "Just sleep, I think. It's been a hard week." I winced a bit at the world "laid," as that's what I really would have liked--to be laid. Not be just anyone, of course, but by a hunk who clearly wanted what I had to offer. But finding one wasn't on my prospective agenda.

"I understand," he answered.

Tom was the only one who had wished me a happy birthday. He was likely the only one at the club who knew it was my birthday. He was the only one here who I knew outside of the club. I worked at keeping my various lives separate. Most in my two other lives didn't even know I'd gone totally trans. I repaired computers and I was the accompanist for the Las Vegas Gay Men's Chorus, piano being what I had been working toward making a living off of before I'd made the decision to make the total change. My whole life had changed after that. Tom was in the chorus. He was probably the only one who knew I played the piano, and I was the only one here who knew he was taking voice lessons and wanted to be a singer, not just a ticket seller at a Vegas trans club.

He was only a couple of years older than I was. He was OK to look at, but a little shy. I think Las Vegas was still overwhelming him. I understood. Las Vegas still was overwhelming me too. It was so hard to develop relationships here--and I hadn't had one since I'd made the change. That made a difference to all the guys I met up with. The change was there between us--a curiosity and a source of indecision and reluctance. But I could understand that. It wasn't something I wanted to do as much as something I had to do--to be able to continue breathing.

It was nearly 2:00 a.m. There wasn't much left of the night. It had just turned my birthday. I hadn't thought about what I would do tomorrow, Saturday, before it was time to come back to the club. I was off at the computer place where I worked on their geek squad.

I lived four blocks away from the club in a walk-up tenement. Everyone living here worked the strip in some low-level function or otherwise. It wasn't so bad. I had two rooms, a kitchenette, and a bath. That wasn't bad for as close to the strip and Suzy's as it was. I was paid pretty well at the computer repair shop and quite well at Suzy's. I couldn't complain about that. More was coming in than was going out. I kept my head above the water.

I stopped most nights I was working at Suzy's for a coffee at an all-night café half way between the club and my apartment, and I did so tonight. I didn't go right in, though. I had sensed that someone had been following me since I'd left the club--a big, hulking presence keeping pace with me half a block behind. It was 2:00 a.m. and Vegas wasn't a walking city, except for all the tourists on the main strips, so it was noticeable that someone was behind me. I paused before going into the café and took out a cigarette. I'd give him a chance to pass me by before I went in. But he didn't pass me by.

"Need a light?" he asked, and I saw that he already had a lighter out and a cigarette for himself and the lighter had flamed up.

"Yes, thanks," I said. I had a lit cigarette now and I couldn't take it into the café, so I was stuck standing there, smoking it. He apparently was too. This was a typical setup for a pickup, and it had picked me up before. It was my birthday and my other option was going to be loneliness on my birthday. I'd done casual tricks off the street before. This wasn't something I normally wouldn't do. Our heads had come close together and his hand had cupped mine when he lit me up. I had to admit that he really hit me up. He smelled nice. Some form of wood-smoke scent. An off-putting smell off the man wasn't what was going to make me walk away.

He was one big bruiser--black, towering, heavy, but in a muscular way, not fat. He was handsome as the devil--bald, but with a close-cropped, groomed mustache and beard. He had a good partial smile that promised a very good full smile. And what was it I'd heard about bald-headed men? That they were a man and a half elsewhere? My immediate instinct was to make him want to smile.

I was having mixed feelings. One part of me wanted him to move on--I found his size and that he was black a bit intimidating and there was a hint of the bad boy about him. But another part of me didn't want him to leave. It was my birthday. I craved contact, someone to talk to. Truth be told, it was my birthday. I wanted to be fucked--and by a guy who stayed around to do it a second time, a guy who appreciated the change I had made.

But we didn't talk--not at first; not out there in front of the café while we smoked. Trapped by the need to get the cigarettes smoked but not able to take them into the café and neither of us apparently ready to move on, we stood there, not talking, both of us looking up and down the deserted street as if we were just waiting to flag a cab, both of us very much aware that we should either say something or move on.

At last he cleared his voice and said, "I saw your act--at Suzy's."

"Did you?" I said, knowing that I wasn't giving him the smile he might have wanted for revealing that. There it was, then. But, shit, it was my birthday and he was a handsome devil. He was bald and I couldn't stop thinking about what they said about bald-headed men. I wondered how much of a devil he was. There was one thing him saying that told me that relieved the tension. He knew the lay of my land now. No, there were two things. He was a man who patronized trans strip shows.

"Were you going to go into this café?" he asked.

"Yes. I usually stop here after the club closes," I answered.

"Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

I didn't respond immediately. I didn't want to leave the impression I was needy or anything. But I think we both knew I'd say "yes". Neither one of us was backing off. "Sure, why not?" Yeah, why not. It was my birthday. Nobody else was throwing me a party.

We both ditched our cigarettes. They'd done their part in this little drama. We crushed them out with our shoes--mine stiletto heels--and he held the door of the café open for me to enter in front of him. He reached up and brushed a beefy black finger across a nipple puckering out in my T-shirt as I passed, maybe thinking I'd take that as just accidental. I didn't. I wore my T-shirts so that the nipples would show for this precise tease value. Not many guys were forward enough to touch them at this stage of the dance, though. So, maybe I should have taken it as accidental. At the time, I didn't.

"I'm Jamal," he said as we moved toward a table in the shadows of a corner.

"Frankie," I answered.

There wasn't much talk at the table, as we sat close together and sipped the coffee. It wasn't talk that had brought us here.

"What do you do--besides dancing at Suzy's?" he asked. I knew he was asking if I was a whore-for-pay or maybe gave it away for free. He probably thought that a lot of small, T-girls like me couldn't wait to get it from a big black bull like him. And I didn't have to guess if he knew I was a transformed T-girl. He'd said up front that he'd seen my act at Suzy's. I had to admit that he aroused me in that curiosity way, the curiosity of just how big he was, how well it would work with my new lady bits--how big an orgasm he could give me, how big an orgasm could I work out of him. Whether the legend of a bald-headed man was indicative or myth.

"I repair computers," I said, probably not giving him the response he was after. I didn't mention the piano, which was the real, by choice, "what do I do," but I didn't want to open up to him, to be vulnerable to him in that way. He didn't look like a music aficionado. I already was vulnerable to him sexually, and I wasn't totally wild about that. "And you. What do you do?"

"I guess you could say I'm a fixer. I work in security and cleanup," he answered. I waited for him to explain that, but when he didn't, I decided he wasn't going to open up more to me either. I felt the isolation of that. No talk. He wasn't here for talk. And then there it was--the curiosity that had caused him to follow me in the first place. I felt the hand on my knee under the table.

"You OK?" he asked. We both knew it wasn't a general question about my health. He was asking if I was OK with him putting his hands on me--intimately. He was opening up a proposition. If I went with it, we would fuck. There'd be no unpleasant surprises if we fucked. He'd seen me--all of me--on stage at Suzy's and he'd let me know he had.

It was decision time. Thank him for the coffee and get up and leave or carry through with this. It was my birthday and I was sorry for myself and the prospect of being alone on my birthday.

"Sure," I answered. I opened the stance of my legs and slouched down a bit toward the front of the chair. He leaned in; I leaned in; and we kissed.

It was late. We were the only customers in the café. We were sitting in the shadows. The counterman had gone into the back of the store.

The hand moved up, under the hem of my loose silk shorts. His eyes searched mine for signs of resistance, rejection. I didn't move a hand down to stop him. He already knew I had a snatch rather than a dick and balls. There would be no surprise there. Our eyes locked onto each other's and I didn't set mine to the "discouraging" mode. He stroked my inner thighs lightly, and I relaxed any tension there might have been in my legs, letting them part more, giving him separation to move the hand higher.

He was after the feel of the cunt. We both knew that. We maintained eye contact as he stroked higher, him looking for any evidence of resistance but also looking for a moment of collapse and surrender from me. He caught my shudder, relaxing into the chair, and my pelvis rolling up slightly to give his hand full access.

"Easy, there, sweetie," he murmured, and a gave him a little moan. Shit, he was good at this.

His fingers reached and explored me under the table, unabashedly taking full privilege of exploration. He gently rubbed the folds, finding the vestigial penis at the top of the slit where a clit would be on a natural woman, listening to me gasp and move ever so slightly on his fingers. He was breathing heavily, unable to control his curiosity. He was certainly giving me the impression that mine was the first T-girl cunt he'd fingered but, cocky bastard, that there would be no holding back in doing so.

I was breathing heavily too. His fingers spread the labia and a finger slid into me. I gasped again, but I held position. Yes, I'm a lady now, I purred in my mind. Make me your lady, you big brute. Put it in me. I made this for you.

"You feeling good for a bit of partying tonight, sweetie?"

I gasped, his middle finger up the hilt inside me, and pressing--up and down--gently, coaxing me to move with him. Involuntarily, I had, rocking gently on the finger. I'd been thinking about having sex with him, and here, we already were having sex. He continued to hold me under his control with the strength of the possession of my eyes by his.

"It's my birthday," I whispered, as if that was the only reason I would let him do this.

"You don't want to be alone on your birthday, do you?" he asked.

"No." He entered with another finger and used the two of them to start stretching my channel open.

To my questioning look, he said, "I have a birthday present for you. You'll need to be well open to fully enjoy it. You should enjoy your birthday presents, though."

"Your dick is a gift to the world?" I asked. His fingers continued working on spreading my snatch open under the table, and I gasped again. I broke our eye gaze and looked around the café in slight panic. We were still the only customers and were sitting in the shadows. The waiter hadn't come back to check on us. It occurred to me that Jamal had whispered something to the waiter when he left and might have slipped him some cash.

Was the black brute going to fuck me here on the table? If so, would I resist? No, I knew I wouldn't.

"Yes. You'll have to be wide open for me." The spreading with the fingers continued. I looked around in slight panic, knowing that, at the slightest hint someone--even someone out on the street--could see or figure out what he was doing, I had an excuse to pull away. But I didn't want to pull away and I didn't see anyone paying any attention to us. I wasn't anyone's idea of a virgin. My legs felt like rubber. He continued to have his way with me below the surface of the table.

But then he was pushing the café table between us to the side and I saw what he'd been doing with his other hand. He'd released his cock and, in full erection, he'd been working it up with the other hand. It all went quickly after that. He leaned forward, slipped my shorts and panties down and off my legs, encircled my waist with a beefy arm, and brought me into his lap, sliding down on his hard cock. He had opened me well. The penetration was swift and deep. With a heavy grown, I took him inside, flinging my arms around his neck. One of his beefy hands went to my lower spine, using it to pull and release, which I helped by pressing my toes into the floor on either side of his chair and moving with the thickness of his slides. His other hand gripped the back of my neck, pressing my face into his chest.

"Oh, baby, baby, it's so good," he murmured as he fucked me.

I said nothing--just moaned at how big and deep inside me he was. I didn't have to wait for it very long. He tensed and jerked and released. Tensed and jerked and released.

We held, both breathing heavily, still fused as one, when I noticed motion up at the counter. The waiter had come back to take in the climax. I saw him give a big grin and they disappear again into the back.

* * * *

"That was great for me, sweetie. It was good for you too."

Nice of him to tell me what I thought of it. But, yes, it did hit the spot. So, I didn't disagree with him or call him on his arrogance.

"I want more, I have a trailer not more than four blocks from here," he said.

"Yes. But be nice to me. It's my birthday. You gotta be nice to me." Make me your lady.

"Oh, I will, baby. I will. I just want... it's just so different, and I want--"

"I understand, sugar," I said. No relationship, no strings. It was just curiosity. I did understand. It was the way things were now. One night and done. Satisfying for us both.

I felt the loss of him as he withdrew his hand and stood up from the table.

* * * *

He was as big there as I thought he'd be--at least eight and half thick inches, jet black, a purple cap. I hadn't gotten a good look at it when he'd put it in me in the café. He drew in his breath when I pulled the foreskin back with my ruby-red-polished long fingernails, took the cap gently between my teeth, and flicked my tongue over the piss slit. I could feel him trembling, standing there, the big brute my captive for this moment, his trousers and briefs off, in front of a picture window in the side of his trailer. His chocolate body was magnificent, covered in tattoos, primeval. I was melting.

I was kneeling before him. He reached down, pulled the T-shirt over my head, and his hands went to cupping and squeezing my melon-sized breasts as I gave him head, reveling in the size and blackness of him--of it--and knowing already how it would fit, fill, stretch the new me.

I pulled my mouth off him and moved his erection to between my breasts, giving him a titty fuck, my ruby-red fingernails gripping the root of his shaft, as he panted and leaned down and took my mouth in his. Coming out of the kiss, he whispered, "I wondered... I do guys... all of the time. But a trans... I wondered..."

"I understand," I said. "Fuck me. Fuck me like a woman. It's fine. It will work."

I, in turn, trembled when, hovering over me and coaxing me to look down the line of my body, he slowly and deliberately inserted two fingers into my cunt and spread it open and, after giving me time to savor what he was doing and what he was about to do, he put the bulb of his cock in position between the two stretching fingers and pressed inside, slowly burying himself nearly to the hilt as I moaned the invasion of him.

"Oh, baby, baby," he murmured in the pleasure of possessing a trans-girl's cunt.

After a brief moment of savoring the sheathing--deeper than he'd done in the café--he tentatively began to move--in and out, in and out--picking up speed and vigor as he realized that it, indeed, would work with full penetration. I relaxed, clutched his buttocks to me and murmured, "Yes, yes, yes." He fucked me. It was fine. It worked. I stretched for him; he filled me.

It had happened as it would between any other two lovers--a man and a woman, two men, two women, there was little difference. The bed was right there and he nudged me onto it, on my back, and went down on his knees between my thighs. His face was buried in my snatch, his fingers and tongue and teeth discovering, worshipping, working my lady bits, and his hands reaching up and squeezing and kneading my tits as he ate me out, discovering the mysteries of a trans-girl, assuaging his curiosity and answering his questions.