tagTranssexuals & CrossdressersNever Make the Last Out at Third

Never Make the Last Out at Third

byPenelope Street©


This story contains graphic sexual descriptions. If you don’t like, or may be offended by, romantic stories augmented by explicit sex, read no farther.

This story is intended for adults only. Minors should in no way read any of what follows. The following is entirely a work of fiction.

The events and characters described are completely imaginary.

* * * * *

Frank looked at his watch; 15:30, local time. He turned his attention to the sliding glass door of the apartment immediately across the courtyard. As sure as the time on the clock itself, the smoke-colored glass pane slid and the girl appeared.

The young lady was a classic beauty, a long and leggy blonde, with a body more athletic than trim. Every strand of her shoulder-length hair not only shimmered like gold, but also managed to somehow stay in place no matter how she maneuvered her muscular, yet limber, form. She was a woman really, Frank knew, but somehow he still thought of her as a girl.

Everyday she came onto her balcony to tan. Everyday she wore the same thing: A light blue skirt and a similarly colored bikini-style top. Everyday she would peal that top off and spend half an hour under the natural sun, in spite of the fact that there were faster and safer methods of achieving the uniform bronze tone that graced the blonde's epidermis.

Frank was a confirmed breast-man and he nearly drooled every time he observed her heavenly hooters under their thin veil of azure, especially since he knew that veil would be removed. Someday, if he maintained his vigilance, he was bound to catch a glimpse. Thus he gawked through his own smoked, single-direction, windows while she reclined out of view behind the similar glass that made up the railing of her balcony.

As she did everyday, the girl flipped the skimpy blue garment so that one of the cups dangled tantalizingly over the outside of the glass. Frank sighed and closed his eyes, imagining what a beautiful bounty lay just out of sight. After half a minute of such daydreaming, he opened his eyes, stood, and retired to his study.

Frank paused for a moment as he reached his computer. He wondered again why he so coveted the few minutes per day he got to view her partially clad form. He could see many more women easily from his computer screen. Most of them would be prettier too. "On," he commanded.

The machine hummed instantly to life. "Yes, Master."

Frank smiled. He imagined the blonde addressing him in the same manner. He felt his cock twitch in his trousers. "Stocks," he ordered.

"Yes, master." Frank’s portfolio filled his three-by-two meter screen.

Frank nodded as he perused his investments. "E-G-&-G," he said. "Buy all you can at eight or less within the next hour."

"Yes, Master," the device replied. Instantly, the figures on the screen began to change, reflecting the machine’s compliance with the man’s instructions.

Frank continued to analyze the display and issue additional instructions until the machine said, "Master, the time is fifteen-forty-three, local daylight time."

"Complete existing instructions and then power down," Frank said, rising.

"Yes, Master."

As he had done for countless days this spring and summer, Frank moved to his recliner and faced his own balcony, and the balcony beyond. Two minutes later, a hand appeared briefly above the railing to retrieve the dangling blue garment.

Frank smiled and leaned forward in his seat, anxious to not miss a glimpse of his dream girl.

She rose slowly and faced Frank, apparently lacing the straps behind her. Then she smiled, tilted her head and issued a slight, yet seductive wave.

Frank froze. His eyes widened. His scalp and the sides of his face tingled as if all the blood had suddenly been drained from the tissue.

The girl smiled even more broadly before turning and disappearing into her abode.

Frank sat back and clasped his nose between two sets of vertical fingers. Surely she could not really see him, he thought. "House," he demanded.

"Yes, Master."

"Check windows for opaqueness integrity."

"The auditory and visual concealment features of all transparent surfaces are functioning within normal parameters."

Frank leaned back in his chair and stretched. She must have guessed, he told himself- but how? Maybe she didn’t guess, he quickly ventured. He nodded as he considered the possibility. Perhaps she had waved in case he was watching.

Frank scanned his own memories, wondering if, on the chance occasions he had seen her in the condominium’s compound, he had ever gazed at her too longingly; or for too long.

Frank rose and returned to his study. "On," he demanded, taking his seat. "List of videos featuring the girl in the blue swimsuit."

"The Girl in the Blue Swimsuit," the computer responded, as the identical words appeared on the screen, followed by a list of dates.

"Play my favorite," Frank instructed.

"Yes, Master."

Frank sighed as the darling of his dreams appeared on his monitor. "Zoom," he ordered. "Focus on the breasts. Keep them full screen." He licked his lips as he involuntarily salivated.

"Rating," Frank demanded. "Overall desirability of the girl in the blue swimsuit, within gender and apparent age categories."

"Overall rating of the girl in the blue swimsuit, eighty-eighth percentile," the computer responded. "In this video, ninety-first percentile."

Frank sighed. "And my ratings."

"Forty-forth percentile within your gender and apparent age categories."

"And within her apparent age category?"

"Thirty-seventh percentile."

Frank knew the numbers by heart already. Still, he tortured himself with them weekly, and always he wondered why. He scowled as he recalled her wave.

"Factor net-worth into my tally," Frank instructed.

"Seventy-eighth percentile."

Frank smiled as he considered his score. At least it's up a point from last time I asked. With a sigh, his smile melted. She lives in the same condo as me, She probably has just as much money. That's ok, I don't really want to buy her anyway. He squinted at the floor. Do I?

Frank looked once more to the stunningly rotund pair of breasts that graced his display. Yes, he decided, I would gladly buy her if I could.

"Master, the time is fifteen-forty-three, local daylight time."

Frank jerked from his nap. Shaking his head he made his way to his recliner. He smiled as he saw the dainty blue top still hanging over the balcony rail.

Frank shifted forward again and rubbed his hands together. "House. Begin video recording now." If she waved again, he was determined to capture and analyze the event.

As if on cue, the blonde reached to grasp her clothing, donning it in the same manner she always did, back to him. She rose and looked once again toward Frank’s apartment, but she did not wave.

The woman walked slowly to her door, which slid open at her approach. She walked through the open portal. Frank frowned and emitted a massive sigh as the door closed, terminating his all too brief view of the woman he worshipped. "Cease recording," he instructed.

As if by Frank’s command, the glass in the girl’s door suddenly changed from an opaque grey to nearly transparent. There she stood, on the far side of a well-illuminated room.

She smiled and splayed her bra-like top, exposing the majority of her bosom.

"Record! Record!" Frank demanded.

The girl massaged her massive mammaries for mere seconds before covering them once again. Then, with her index and middle finger, she seductively beckoned. Then her lips moved and the glass went grey.

"Cease recording," Frank demanded. He jumped from his seat and rushed up the corridor. "Begin playback!"

Frank took his seat, but only examined the monitor briefly before he turned his gaze to the floor with a dejected sigh. By accident or design, the girl had chosen a spot where he could see her, but his camera could not. "How did she know?" he muttered absently to himself.

"Unable to interpret command, Master," the computer replied.

"Cease playback!" Frank snapped. He scrutinized his memory. How did she know?

The man rubbed his face with both palms. "Mirror." He looked into the now reflective display, examining himself from various angles.

Finished with the cursory inspection of himself, Frank scrutinized his memory a second time. I did see her beckon didn't I? Yes, I'm sure she did.

Holding his fist before his face, Frank extended his index and center fingers. He locked his eyes on the digits as he flexed them.

Frank looked back to the mirror. Does she have me confused with someone else? Or maybe she just didn't get a good look at me.

Frank tilted his head, checking his scruffy beard that was already hinting of grey, though he was barely thirty. His nose he judged to be too long and his figure too gaunt, both entirely accurate assessments.

Frank leaned back, arching his spine over the back of his chair. Running his hands through his hair as if massaging his brain, the man tried to discern what, if anything, he should do.

"Computer. Yellow pages," Frank demanded as he snapped forward in his seat. "Harlots. Blonde. Mid-twenties. Big tits. Medium height and build. All night service."

Frank examined the selections on his display. He shook his head as the first list of candidates appeared. "Female only!" he barked.

Frank perused the updated advertisements for the better part of an hour, but found something wrong with every purveyor. With a prolonged sigh, he admitted that what was wrong with them was simply that they were not her. "Off," he demanded.

Frank stared at the blank screen. What makes her so special, so different? Other girls have big tits; lots of girls really.

Unable to answer his own question, he rose and returned to his parlor. "House, shift the video camera one and a half meters to my right. Maintain the orientation." He looked again across at the opaque panes that potentially concealed his beloved.

"What else could she have meant?" Frank mumbled as he considered how she had moved her fingers. He looked back across the way. "She asked you over," he continued, trying to buoy his own courage. "This is your chance."

With a grimace of determination, and anguish, Frank stomped toward the entry to his flat. "House. Unlock and open." He began the long walk around the horseshoe-shaped building in an increasingly nervous state. Several times he stopped, but managed to coax himself onward as he recalled how the woman had summoned him.

Arriving at her door, Frank looked to the side of the threshold and the simple numerals 320. He had memorized her apartment number long ago, but once again he found cause to hesitate. He opened his mouth to order the door to announce his arrival, but stopped.

Perhaps she didn't really invite me over after all, Frank decided. Maybe she was merely doing some strange hand exercise? That was all the excuse his insecurity needed to seize the situation. He started to turn away.

As Frank's head started to lean into his pivot, the door turned from grey too transparent. He inhaled quickly and stiffened as he saw the girl beyond, still in her tanning garb.

The blonde smiled. Her mouth moved slightly and the door slid to one side. "Hello," she said. "Frances, isn’t it?"

Frank gulped. He had zoomed in many times while replaying his videos, but seeing her so close was somehow much different. She was taller than he expected, his height if not a shade taller. Her build was a bit softer, less defined than it had seemed from a distance, but he was nonetheless enthralled. "Frank," he managed to mutter.

"Ok, Frank," the woman smiled. "I’m Charlie. Charlie Forbes."

"Charlie?" He queried, embarrassed that he had never bothered to learn her name.

"Yes," she smiled. "Charlie. Did you want to come in or did you plan to just admire the door and then leave?"

"I came to admire more than the door," Frank ventured, surprised by his own audacity.

"Then please do." Charlie stood aside and motioned with one arm.

Frank moved tentatively through the threshold.

"Opaque. Close and lock," Charlie demanded. The door complied.

Frank gave the apartment a once-over. It was somehow starker than he had envisioned. He had always pictured a goddess living in splendid luxury. Not that the home suggested squalor, but it was decorated no more elegantly than his residence.

"Nice place," Frank offered politely. He sniffed twice quickly. "Lilac?"

Charlie smiled. "Yes. Would you prefer a different scent?"

"No," Frank replied. "Lilac is fine."

"If you don’t want something to smell," Charlie began, "then perhaps I could offer you something to eat?"

Frank shrugged. "Ok."

"Did you have anything in mind?"

Frank shook his head. "No."

"House," Charlie said, glancing upward. "Pizza. Thirty centimeter. Type-two crust. Basil Alfredo sauce. Imitation ham. Real mushrooms. Real onions, half-portion. Extra cheese; half provolone, one quarter each mozzarella and pepper jack. Bake natural, at two-hundred degrees for fifteen minutes."

"Yes, Milady," the house replied.

"You a vegetarian?" Frank inquired.

Charlie shook her head. "No, but I figured you might be."

"I usually am," Frank admitted. "But more for health than ethical reasons. I’m a social carnivore."

"Really?" Charlie asked excitedly.

Frank nodded. "Yes."

"House," Charlie said. "Substitute real ham for the imitation." She looked at Frank and smiled mischievously with a gleam in her eye. "And add bacon."

"Yes, Milady."

Charlie smiled at her guest. "Thanks."

Frank responded with a grin of his own. "My pleasure."

"So," Charlie began, "would you ever have come over if I hadn’t asked?"

Frank paused to sigh before admitting, "Probably not."


"I guess I’m just shy."

"How long have you been checking me out?"

"Couple of weeks."

Charlie issued a decidedly fake pout. "Not the whole six months I’ve lived here?"

Frank’s eyes wavered. "Ok, maybe several months. How’d you know? Did my windows malfunction?"

Charlie giggled. "No. They work fine. It was you going onto your balcony so often to check them from my side that tipped me off. Why didn't you trust your house to tell you if the windows were working?"

"I have a hard time trusting technology."

The blonde's head bobbed a solemn nod. "Me too. I figured you frequently inspecting your glass just before my afternoon ritual couldn’t be a complete coincidence. At least, I hoped it wasn’t."

Franks eyebrows bounced upward. "Hoped?"

"I hoped you’d eventually come over someday too," Charlie declared. Her face assumed a more sincere pout. "But you never did."

"I just didn’t imagine you could see much in me," Frank admitted.

"Why not?" Charlie asked. "What do you see in me?"

Frank’s eyes fell to her breasts as if drawn by the gravity of a black hole. He quickly snapped the treasonous orbs back to the girl’s now smiling face, and her bright brown eyes. His gaze roamed higher, to the roots of her hair.

"It's natural," Charlie insisted.


"My hair," she replied. "I really do have blonde hair and brown eyes."

"It doesn't matter."

"Really? Then why'd you look."

"I wasn't," Frank insisted. "Besides, with all the ways to change hair color permanently, how would I know?"

Charlie shook her head. "I'd never mess with any of that internal stuff. I'm all natural and I intend to stay that way."

Frank's eyes once again fell to her bosom.

"Yes," Charlie giggled. "They're natural too."

"Oh, I didn't mean to..."

"It’s ok," Charlie said. "I like them too."

"You do?"

"Sure," Charlie replied. "Any reason I shouldn’t?"

"No," Frank admitted. "I guess not."

"So what were you thinking all those days when you watched me?"

Frank sighed. "I was thinking how beautiful you were. I mean are."

Charlie grinned. "You mean you never thought, ‘I hope she likes the Red Sox too.’ or ‘I sure hope she’s into scraggly guys and tit-fucking.’ You never thought any of that?"

Frank creased his brow and tilted his head. "Red Sox?"

"Sure," said Charlie. "You’re from Boston, right? And Boston fans are loyal to a fault, even if their team hasn’t won the Series for, what is it, two centuries now?"

"One hundred and ninety-five years," Frank noted coldly.

"One hundred and ninety-six," Charlie corrected, "If you count this one."

"Yeah," Frank agreed. "I don’t see them making the playoffs this year either. So, what, have you been checking up on me?"

"Hey," Charlie began. "You were checking me out. Any reason I shouldn’t do the same? You’re Frank Marshall. Thirty-four. Business Degree, University of Massachusetts. You play racquetball on Tuesday. You rabidly follow all five of the major sports franchises that are based in New England."

Franks jaw dropped. "How did you find out all that?"

Charlie shrugged. "It wasn’t hard. Not like you’re keeping your personal info a big secret or anything. You mean you never bothered to learn anything about me?"

Frank swallowed. After a few seconds of staring at the floor, he dared to look the girl in the eye. "I guess I was checking out what mattered most to me. I’m sorry."

Charlie twisted her lips and looked at the man sideways. "Why?

"I feel so shallow," Frank said.

"Honesty’s pretty important," Charlie noted. "More important than anything else maybe. At least you’re that."

For a few seconds Frank pushed air through lips drawn thin, trying to conjure an appropriate response. Eventually, he settled for a simple, "Thanks."

"So would you still want to date me if I was a Yankees fan?" Charlie asked.

Frank nodded shallowly. "Sure."

"So you do want to date me then?"

Frank blinked a few times as he realized his loathing for the New York franchise had obscured the real question. "Do you like the Yankees?"

"I asked first," Charlie countered, eyebrows raised. "And you said it didn’t matter."

"Yes," Frank affirmed. "I would like to date you even if you like the Yankees."

"That’s good," said Charlie. "Because I do like the Yankees. I’m a sucker for winners. Maybe that’s why I like you."

"Me?" Frank queried.

"Yes, you," Charlie insisted. "Any reason I shouldn’t?

"It’s just your so pretty and I’m so…."

"So what?" Charlie interrupted. "Grey and scraggly? Remember, I like natural and what could be more natural than grey and scraggly?"

Frank shrugged in an embarrassed, rather than disinterested, fashion. "I guess I am natural, if nothing else."

"Oh, I think you’re more," Charlie said. "A lot more. Care to make a friendly wager?"


"I’ll bet that you end up dumping me," Charlie ventured.


"A thousand bucks says you do."

"A thousand, eh?" Frank shrugged. "Ok."

Charlie smiled. "What kind of beer do you like with your pizza?"

Frank creased his brow again. "How’d you know I like beer with pizza?"

"That one was easy," Charlie snickered through a broad grin. "What real man doesn’t like beer with his pizza?"

Over the next week, Charlie proved everything Frank thought he could ever want in a girl, except she was a bona fide Yankee’s fan. But she knew the subtle game as well as he did, if not better. She could beat him at tennis and hold her own with a pool cue.

Charlie enjoyed the cinema as much as anyone and she even preferred watching at home as much as going out, which was fine with Frank. Her knowledge of food, particularly beer, surpassed his own. She even seemed genuinely interested in stocks. And she was always in a good mood.

The only thing Charlie didn’t seem to be, at least that Frank would have preferred, was fast. Though she often caught him ogling her bosom, and she always smiled when she did, she never gave him any inkling that she was willing to take the relationship physical. Not being willing to risk what seemed to be the perfect opportunity with the almost-perfect girl, he never seriously considered making the first move himself.

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byPenelope Street© 10 comments/ 88809 views/ 23 favorites

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