I Understand

He held me to the bed with one hand grasping my throat, pressing my head, my hair down now and streaming around my head, to the mattress. With the other hand he was holding his cock to my snatch, playing in the folds with the cockhead, teasing the vestigial penis at the top of the slit. I grasped his wrists and panted, arching my back, trying to impale myself on his shaft.

Get on with it, I screamed in my mind.

"It will take it," I cried out. "It's the same as any woman's. Fuck me!"

And then, following his languid routine of spreading me with his fingers and positioning his cock between them, he was inside me, doing what was natural. And I could stand up to the size of him. Thrust, thrust, thrust. I was being fucked by a big, black bull.

Happy birthday to me.

He stretched and filled me. I brought the soles of my feet up to the edge of the bed and leveraged off them to raise my pelvis, to lean into the fuck, and go with the thrusts. He filled, consumed, possessed me.

This was what this was all about, why I had done this, why I had to do this.

He could only take so much curiosity, though. He was accustomed to something else to build and release. Before he shot off, he turned me on the bed, one hand palming my belly and the other cupping and squeezing my breasts. He changed holes, fucking me now in the ass. What he was used to.

That was OK with me. I rolled my hips up to give him maximum access to my ass. This was what I had been used to as well--before. And he'd fucked me in my lady bits. He'd filled and stretched and worked me. He'd hit the top of the channel, rubbing and working what the doctors had given me there to allow me to orgasm too. And orgasm I had as he fucked me--again and again.

This was for him, to give him the familiarity of what he needed to get off. He fucked me in the ass until he tensed and jerked and came, tensed and jerked and came.

I lay there, on the bed afterward, turned onto my back, propped up on an elbow, playing with the folds of my new cunt with the fingers of the other hand, watching Jamal, standing at his picture window, leaning into the glass, and smoking a cigarette. I wanted his attention to go back to my snatch. I so wanted him to say that that was tremendous--that transforming myself to be used in both holes by big black bulls like him was the best ever sex he'd ever had. But he just stood there, looking at me.

Was he going to come back, when he had fully recovered, and fuck me again? Did he want to come in my cunt this time?

I got my feet under me on the edge of the bed again and pushed my pelvis up. "Come do me again, sugar," I murmured. "Fuck me in my cunt again."

I wanted him to want to fuck me in the cunt. I needed him to want to fuck me in the cunt. I needed him to cum in my cunt. I'd made the change, the difficult, expensive change, because I believed it would make a difference. I had grown so tired of men who wanted to do me there to assuage their curiosity, found that once was enough, and next time went back to the ass entry.

I spread my thighs wide and, supported myself on one elbow, moved the other hand to between my legs, fully exposing the fine work of the surgeons, spreading the folds with my fingers, showing both the outer and inner labia, teasing the big black stud to shove it in again and fuck me hard.

He looked at me. I could see he was trying to form something to say. I understood that it was hard. But I wanted him to want me for what I had become. He stubbed his cigarette out on the ledge of the window, picked up a condom packet, split it, and removed and smoothed on the rubber. He was going to fuck me again, but in what hole? Was his curiosity spent about my new cunt? Had I gone through all that just to satisfy a man's momentary curiosity?

I wanted him to be fucking a woman. I wanted the thought of every man fucking me since the change that I was there to be a woman for a man.

He was about to speak when he started to keel over onto the floor. The image preceded the sounds of the shots by a nanosecond. One second he was standing at the window, smoking, still in his T-shirt but pantless, his gigantic sheathed cock in erection, giving every indication he was going to fuck me again, and then he was sliding to the floor, leaving a shattered window, with two distinct holes in it, and blood splattered across it.

There was a moment of silence before a woman's face appeared beyond the shattered window of the trailer and she started to scream.

* * * *

"Don't worry. We know it wasn't you. The shots came from the outside. A witness puts you inside the trailer right after the shooting." He was polite enough not to mention that the witness had seen me naked and probably never had seen a fully transformed T-girl naked before in her life.

That didn't stop my trembling, but it did stop my stomach from doing flip-flops. I had managed to get my shorts and T-shirt back on and was sitting in a chair at the other end of the trailer, facing away from the shattered picture window and the people in white space suits working over the body. A detective--or at least someone who had identified himself as a detective--Jim Someoneorother--was standing over me, cellphone in hand. He was maybe thirty-five or forty years old. Blond. A looker and in very fit shape. Yes, I checked all men out as sex partner potential, even in circumstances like this.

"No, it wasn't me," I said. What else that had been going on here in the trailer, though, that certainly was me, and these cops knew it. Jamal was lying over there half naked with a rubber on his shaft. A witness had seen me naked in the trailer while she was still screaming.

Just then another guy in a suit sauntered up and said, "Jamal Andrews. The vic's name. This is his trailer. He's a gun for the Desilva family that owns the Crown Casino. There's a range war going on between the Desilvas and the Crawleys."

"Thanks, Ted," Detective Someoneorother said and then turned back to me. "You aren't part of the Crawley family, are you, Mr. Watson? Or is it Ms.?"

"No, I'm not. Ms., please."

"'Cause if you were, we'd find that out pretty quickly."

"No, I don't know any Crawleys or any of that other family either."

"Sure, I believe you. So, how do you know this Jamal Andrews, Frank... Ms. Watson? Or should I call you Francis?"

I wanted to say he should continue to call me Ms. Watson, but he was a looker and was in complete control--not that I minded a man who controlled. "People call me Frankie," I answered, giving him a tentative smile and looking to see if he shrank away from me even slightly. He didn't.

"I don't know him, not really. I didn't know his last name. First time I've seen him was tonight--uh, early this morning." It was after 4:00 in the morning now--my birthday still. Happy birthday to me. This would be one I'd remember. "We met at a coffee shop over on West Hacienda. He wanted to show me his trailer."

"Ah, I understand, the detective said." And I knew from the way he said it--but more interested than judgmental--that he did understand. I latched onto the "interested" angle and that made me more interested too. He could tell what--who--I was and didn't seem to be withdrawing from that. And he was a looker.

"And when was this... when was it you met up with Mr. Andrews at the coffee house?"

"About 2:00 a.m."

"What were you doing out on the street at 2:00 a.m.?"

Are you asking if I'm a hooker? If maybe I set this guy up? That's what I wanted to answer with, but I didn't. "I was returning from work. I live over on West Reno. The coffee shop is half way between my work and my apartment. I left work after 1:30."

"And where do you work?"

"Suzy's, on West Hacienda."

He gave me a sharp look. "Suzy's, the trans club?"

He gave me a hard look of recognition, pulling me up into his memory banks now. If he'd had any question about it before, he certainly didn't have any now.

"Yes. I'm a stripper there at night. I work at a computer repair shop in the day." No use lying to these cops. They'd found me with my pants down--well, with the dead guy's pants down and a screaming lady being able to place me in the trailer when he got shot.

"I understand," he said. And I knew, from the look he gave me, that he did.

"You know Suzy's?" I asked.

"Yes, I know Suzy's," he answered. His eyes looking into mine holding steady. I gave him another look. He was looking any better to me. But, what the hell, we were at a murder scene. I decided that didn't bother me if it didn't bother him.

"I know Suzy's very well," he said. "I thought I'd seen you somewhere before Just hadn't placed you yet."

Yeah, on stage, at Suzy's, I thought. That was telling on us both, and if he wanted to build on the idea of hooking up, this gave him all the opportunity he needed. He did. His hands gripped my knees and I felt him pushing my thighs apart. Master to slave, just like that.

Everyone else was on the other side of the trailer and couldn't look through him to see where his hands were or what he was doing with them. In my world, this maneuver--gripping a girl's knees and spreading her legs--was a signal of sexual control. I nearly barfed up my cookies at that. In my world, that was part of sex play, the dominant parting the submissive's legs. He looked down at my crotch, which didn't change my feeling about what he was signaling one bit.

He wouldn't see a bulge down there. A camel toe more likely.

"Address and then I think we can let you go, although we'll be in contact with you again. We'll keep this as discreet as we can. Discreet is good for all involved," he added, giving me an assessing look. "Discreet good with you too?" I didn't think he required an answer to that, so I didn't give him one.

So, he did understand. "The address at Suzy's?" I asked.

"No. At your apartment."

I gave him the address. "I live alone," I said.

"I understand," he answered. He stood from his crouch in front of me, turned, close to me, brushing the back of his hand against one of my nipples as he passed me, just like Jamal had done at the café--just, I was sure, for the same reason Jamal had done it. I shuddered for him just as I had for Jamal. Before he moved away from me, I brushed his basket with the back of my hand, and it was his turn to give a little shudder. As he walked back to where they were working at the picture window, I looked at his ass and wondered if he was as hung as Jamal had been.

I didn't think I'd seen the last of Detective Jim Someoneorother.

* * * *

Sunday morning, late, but I was up, barefoot and in athletic shorts and a loose T, when I heard the knock on the door. It was Detective Jim Whatshisname. I wasn't really all that surprised.

"Can I come in?" he asked. "I have a few follow-up questions from yesterday."

"Sunday? Do you cops have to work on Sundays too?" I asked, as I stood aside and let him enter my living-dining combination room, with the kitchenette on the far wall. He took a look around as he entered.

"No one else is here," I said.

"Nice place," he said. "You keep it neat."

He passed close to me, and I turned toward him so that he'd brush against one of my breasts as he'd done the previous day. He was in slacks and a polo shirt. No suit today. I let my gaze drop to his crotch and made sure he saw that I did.

"You have to work on Sunday's?" I repeated.

"Well, there are times when every day is a work day," he said, stopping his check of the apartment.

"You don't get play days?"

"Yes, I make sure I get play days too."

"And you have some very interesting play interests?"

"Very."

"And today is a workday?" I asked. God, he was looking good to me. I must have been panting a bit and looking like I needed it, because there wasn't any seduction going on here. Time wasn't taken for that. We obviously had had a meeting of the minds the previous day. I looked down again and saw that he clearly was hard in his slacks. I could follow the line of the shaft. His eyes followed mine and he gave a little laugh.

"No, today's not really a work day," he said.

"And you're not here about work... or about yesterday."

"Not about what happened yesterday, no. But because of yesterday. I'm hoping today is a play day."

"What about what happened yesterday? What about me? You don't think I'm involved in the shooting now, do you?"

"No, you're clear of that. I'm here because of you... where you said you worked... how you responded to me. Because I've never done it with a trans before, although, as I'm sure you've guessed, I've taken looks. Because of curiosity, I guess. But I'm saying too much here, aren't I?" Despite what he was saying, he had reached out and was touching--rubbing--one of my nipples through the T-shirt. "These are really nice. Natural like."

"Paid big bucks for them, sweetie. And, no, I understand. You're not saying too much." I backed up to my dining table, and pulled my T-shirt over my head, arching my back and jutting my very nicely sculpted breasts out toward him.

"Fuck those are beautiful," he hissed. "Just a handful, but silky smooth and firm. Those..." His hands were all over them, weighing and squeezing. I jutted them out toward him.

"Tits, yes," I said. "They're my second-best feature. Cost a fortune."

"I don't... I don't really..."

"I understand," I said, but then he melded his body to mine and I pulled the polo shirt over his head, baring both of our torsos. His body was beautiful, muscular, perfectly cut. One of his hands palmed the small of my back, holding me into him. His mouth went to my breasts. He began sucking on a nipple. His free hand slid down under the waistband of my shorts and he was satisfying his curiosity, his fingers exploring and working me in the snatch, tracing the ridges of the folds and then penetrating, separating with his fingers. I rocked against his hand and moaned for him. He knelt down and pulled my shorts and silk jock down and off my legs. His fingers were replaced with his exploring tongue and teeth, working every aspect of my new cunt. I was naked within his control.

"I was hoping--" he murmured.

"So was I--that you'd come for me." I leaned back onto the table, my fists pressed to the surface. "You gonna fuck me right here on the table, baby?" I murmured.

"Yes, if you let me." He stood, fumbled around in his slacks and came up with the condom packet. "This," he said. "This is your yes. Open it and sheath me. That's your yes."

I did it, reaching down with my hands while maintaining eye contact with him and pulling the rubber onto his cock.

He turned me, bending me over, looking down at the surface of the table. I gave a gasp as he entered me strongly, in the cunt, two of his fingers engaged in stretching me open--followed by the shaft itself, penetrating between them. He wasn't wasting any time. I guess I wasn't surprised. This was Vegas and he was a cop. They took what they wanted in this town, when they wanted it. He held there for a moment when the two of us were fused as one, him inside me, me shimmering and my legs going to rubber, and he panting, breathing heavily, his hands gripping my hips, holding me in place as he continued to harden--inside me. I raised an arm, gripping the back of his neck, holding his head to me, his face buried in my throat.

"This OK, baby?" he asked.

"A little late to be asking that, sweetie," I answered. "If it wasn't, I wouldn't be this easy for you."

"So nice, just so natural," he whispered.

"Oh, baby, baby," I murmured, every nerve fiber focused on that shaft throbbing in my cunt, "Do me good, baby." I gasped as, grunting, he started to move inside, in and out, fucking me, doing me good. Now, this was a birthday present.

He fucked me there on the dining table, both of us naked, me bent over the table, but my torso raised a bit because he was cupping and kneading my breasts. He got a good grip under both tits, jutted them out, with his index fingers rubbing the nipples, and gave them a good working over while he fucked me. I rocked my buttocks against him, taking him deep, and reached down with one of my hands, fingering the root of the shaft that was moving in and out of me, filling me, stretching me, owning me.

I was his woman and he was my man--if it only could be for that moment.

He fucked me from behind, taking me in long, deep thrusts, his cock working the nub at the top of the pouch, causing me to shimmer and writhe and come for him. I didn't have to tell him that I could manage anything a woman could. He didn't treat me as tentatively and carefully as Jamal had to begin with. He fucked me in the cunt. He fucked me like I was a woman and he made me explode for him. He came for me too--in the cunt.

Happy belated birthday to me.

He stayed inside me, still working my breasts with his hands after he shot his load, both of us panting, working on calming down.

"I don't really... I have a wife... and kids."

"I understand," I answered. "No problem."

"We can't... after this."

"I understand." I didn't, though, not completely. I wanted more--and often. And he was so good at it that I could take it from him regularly. But I recognized what this had been--a curiosity fuck, one time only. But we were still in that one time. He was still hard inside me--or hardening again.

"Is there... do you have a bedroom... a bed... in this apartment?"

"Through the door over there."

He picked me up in his arms like I was his precious baby and carried me into the bedroom in his arms.

* * * *

It was the next Friday night and I was leaving Suzy's after my closing act. I hadn't seen Detective Jim again. I'd been questioned again, but it was by some other Detective Whatshisname, who said the case had been transferred to him. I wasn't surprised. Jim had warned me. I understood.

"Night, Frankie," Tom said as I came up beside the box office.

"Night, Tom," I answered.

He smiled. "Say, I have two tickets for a piano concert at the Bellagio on Wednesday afternoon. The French-Canadian, Louis Lourtie."

"Shit, I love him," I answered. And I did love his piano playing. And I loved watching him play. He was a sexy man.

"I wondered if you'd like to go with me."

"Go with you? A date?" I had never considered Tom as datable, but I gave him another look now. He certainly looked datable.

"No, not a date, just sharing interest in music. Just the concert. Nothing afterward... unless, of course, you were interested in something afterward."

"I'd love to go, Tom. It's great we share that interest." His look told me that our shared interests might go beyond music, and, suddenly, that was just fine. A possible relationship, something built on a shared interest other than sex... and curiosity.

"And, well, we don't really have to..."

"I understand," I said, showing him an assuring smile. And I did understand, but I also knew that it would be just fine with me if we did do more than a concert.