One-Summer Stand

"This is very nice. I always wanted to see what was inside this old house. I love the shades of gray on the walls and the deep tuxedo chairs and couch. Very elegant. Very Savannah. And so many windows."

Yes, it should look great, I thought, as I guided Lucy into the one-bedroom long-term rental in the historical Bird Baldwin house on the corner of Barnard and Liberty Streets in the heart of historical district of Savanna, Georgia, between the Orleans and Pulaski parks. It was costing me $15,000 for a summer stay—two and a half months—and there was just the one bedroom. One bedroom was all I needed, though—and the queen-sized bed, of course.

"Beer good enough?" I asked.

"Yes, please," the lovely slender Lucy in her slinky silver-sequined minishift said, as she ran her neon-blue polished fingernails over the back of the sofa, facing the fireplace with a flat-screen TV above it. She was multiraced, as so many in Savannah were, a white mother and black father, she'd told me between dances at the Savannah Smiles Dueling Pianos nightclub on Williamson near the riverfront. She hadn't been shy about telling me that. It wasn't the only significant mixed element about her.

I came out of the kitchen with the beers, came in close behind her, and handed her one. When she took it from my hand, I moved that hand down to palm her lower belly as I nuzzled my face into the hollow of her throat. She sighed and leaned back into my body. I moved my hand down lower, under the hem of the minishift, and then up. She gasped as I possessed and worked her folds and slit. There was no question where the evening was headed. She wasn't wearing panties, and she rocked on my possessing hand for a few moments.

This was one of the new experiences I had wanted to acquire in taking this sabbatical in Savannah—exploring the world of fucking fully transformed T-girls.

"Naughty, naughty," she murmured in a breathy voice, but she leaned into the exploration rather than moving away from it. I moved my fingers deeper, stretching her channel, preparing her for mounting.

"Oh, baby, baby," she whispered, turning her face for a deep kiss and moving her pelvis on my spreading fingers.

It wasn't a surprise to me that she was a fully transformed T-girl, not that I had any experience with them before coming to Savannah. I'd seen her on the stage in the altogether. I admit I was intrigued. Pursuing such fetishes without embarrassment was one reason I'd come to Savannah. Changing venues to one where I wasn't known so well was freeing in the sexual pleasures I pursued.

I spread the folds more and buried a third finger in her while rubbing the vestigial penis at the top of the slit with my thumb. She maintained her interest. "Fuck me. Fuck me now," she begged. "Fuck me in the lady bits."

I laughed. "All in good time." I was pleased, though, that there would be no coyness, no required seduction. I was hard, in heat. I released her, backed away, and said, "I'll go get comfortable. I'll only be a few moments. There's a stack of DVDs over by the fireplace. Pick out one you like and put it on." The bathroom was by the kitchen on the opposite side of the small apartment from the bedroom and I went there first, scrounged around in the medicine cabinet for a tub of lube and a fistful of condoms. I brought those back and put them on a side table next to the sofa on my way to the bedroom. Lucy was at the fireplace, sorting through the DVDs. I made no effort to hide the sex implements. She turned her head and gave me a coy smile.

The living room was separated from the bedroom with its queen-sized bed by double pocket doors, but I didn't bother to close them as I went to the closet, stripped off my party clothes, and pulled out a pair of green velour lounging pants that I knew I looked good in. I stripped completely down, giving her a full look. I was in full erection. I wouldn't need even briefs.

I was thirty-eight, but I gymed myself into great condition and I'd never had trouble gaining approval in the looks department. I received more compliments for the gray streaks in my hair and at the temples than I had before the gray started to show. The pants hung low on my hips, dipping in front almost to the root of my cock. It may only have been my raging erection that was holding them up as I walked back into the living room. The erection certainly pushed the front of the pants out, leaving no question that I was hard—and hung.

What I saw when I returned was a sequined shift hanging over the back of one of the side chairs. The DVD that was running was of a muscular white guy fucking a small, shapely black woman in a missionary position. What was showing invited the question of how she could sheath what he was putting in her. Prominent in the frame was the black woman's blue-lacquered fingernails moving on the white stud's back—the same neon blue on Lucy's nails. An empty beer can was on its side on the fireplace mantle. I could see a shapely brown arm dangling off the sofa toward the floor, a delicate gold bracelet on the wrist—and, of course, the neon blue fingernails.

This was going to be something different. Andre Bouchard the manager of Club 1, who had introduced me to Lucy, had told me that it would be—that I couldn't go all summer in Savannah without experiencing one of the special delights of the city. I already was three weeks into a two-and-a-half-month sabbatical stay here from my New York job.

"You haven't fucked a T-girl with a cunt yet, Mark?" he'd asked, and upon the shake of my head, he said, "We'll have to fix that pronto." Soon after that he brought Lucy to my table. I'd seen her on stage already, but she had been so convincing in her performance that I had thought she really was a woman.

What was unique about Lucy, was that, though she was Lucy at night, during the weekdays she was Lamont, who worked in the pharmacy, as male unquestionably, in the Bull Street CVS store. I had gone with transvestites before, but not with a fully transformed one. Though Lamont, small and trim, could pass as male in men's clothing, s/he now was fully transformed with breasts, albeit pert ones, and a cunt. I don't know if I'd ever get the hang of what to call T-girls like Lucy, who had gone male to female. I'd heard the acronym MTF for that.

Picking up the beer I'd left on the side table, I tossed that off and came around to between the sofa and the fireplace. Lucy, naked, slender and small and beautifully formed, milk chocolate, sat up on the sofa, ran her hands under the waistband of my lounging pants and onto my buttocks, cupping them, as she shrugged the pants off my hips with a flick of her wrists. My eyes followed the neon-blue fingernails as best they could.

"Oh, baby, baby, you're magnificent," she murmured, as she took my cock in her hands and glided it up between her small breasts, bunching them together to give me a brief tittie fuck. It wasn't long, though, before she'd guided me to her mouth and into her throat and gave me head.

I could only take this for so long before I moved my hands from her head to her shoulders, turned her, and laid her stretched out on the sofa, her torso inclined on the sofa's side pillow, her breasts, small and perky, invitingly jutting out to me. I slipped my lounge pants off and moved over her, knees pressed between her legs on the sofa, on hand cupping her head and the other gliding down her belly and into her V, possessing her as she gasped and arched her pelvis up into my hand. My lips went to her nipples and I feasted on her there, as the fingers of my hand explored her surgically provided lady bits.

"You gonna go right to fucking me, sugar?" she asked. "No play first?"

"Yes, I'm going fuck you now—and then fuck you later, and fuck you later than that," I answered.

She laughed a deep, husky laugh, but yelped as I drove a finger deep up into her cunt.

The hands weren't enough to satisfy my curiosity. Pulling away from her nipples, I kissed and licked down her torso and belly and into her tightly groomed snatch. She clutched at me and rocked as I took her vestigial penis at the top of her slit between my teeth and toyed with it.

"Oh, baby, baby," she moaned. "Put it in. Fuck me," rocking her pelvis against my face.

After several minutes of this, I rose up, reached for and picked up the small bottle of lube and a condom packet from the table by the arm of the sofa by her head, did what I had to do with them, brought the other knee up to between her legs, and hovered above her in position. Lucy hooked her ankles on my shoulder, moved her hands between our bellies, grasping my erection in both hands, and putting it in position.

"Now, fuck me now," she begged.

Looking down into her face, I saw her eyes flash and her mouth open in a long, low moan, as I entered her. I took it slow, not knowing how it would feel. But it didn't feel much different from any of the women I had fucked.

She began to pant and move her body under me, as I became well saddled and attained a steady cadence. I looked up at the screen where the white stud was still missionary fucking a black beauty. He'd gotten a start on me, but I wondered which one of us would finish first. I was pretty good at control and endurance. I was great at stretching the channel.

"Oh, baby, baby." Lucy moaned. "You're huge. Take me to heaven." I was in deep, both of us working together on the long slide in and the momentary pull back, me in awe of what the new snatch would take, Lucy knowing what she was capable of sheathing, her surgeons having been generous and understanding what she wanted. Her neon-blue fingernails moved from stroking my cheeks to grasping my biceps and then to digging into my shoulder blades as I gave her no mercy in how much of me was inside her. Surprisingly, I bottomed in her.

She didn't have a whole lot of variety of expressions. I got a hand behind Lucy's back and moved it down her back and over her buttocks. I slid my middle finger into her crack, and lower. Lucy gasped and gave me a wild look with her eyes, as I entered her ass with, first, one finger, and then two, and stretched and fucked her ass with my fingers while I was fucking her cunt.

She bucked and panted and groaned. "Oh, baby, baby," she moaned.

"I want it old style now," I murmured.

"Oh, baby, not after I went through all this to get this. Come in my cunt, baby. Oh, fuck,"

I turned her on her belly. She didn't resist.

The white muscle dude on the screen won the endurance battle, but he was a pro and they'd spliced together multiple sessions anyway. I knew he'd win—and that it involved the splicing of multiple sessions. I knew it because the white muscle guy in the film was me from a previous life—before I'd left porn and moved on. It was why I had the DVD. I wondered if Lucy knew that—or suspected it—because she chose the film. She couldn't have known before the DVD was running that the black woman had the same neon-blue fingernail polish as she did. It was a nice touch, though.

I was pleased with my first time—but to be a one-night stand like all the rest—with a luscious T-girl.

Lucy was sprawled out, on her belly, as open as she could be on a sofa, arms spread wide, thighs open to me, me stretched out on top of her hovering over her, propped up on my toes and one hand, the other hand under her, fingers inside her slit, me deep inside her ass, doing her the way she took it before the transformation. And then I was jerking and coming, jerking and coming in the bulb of the condom.

I rose from her, stood there over the sofa looking down at her for a moment, and then stripped off the spent condom and dropped it in the brass bowl I'd put on the coffee table for that purpose. I picked up another condom packet and moved to a club chair facing the sofa. We held there for several minutes, Lucy on her belly, sprawled on the sofa, looking at me, her eyes big, watching me sitting in the chair, stroking my cock, making myself erect again.

After several minutes, she said, "I guess I should leave. It's late and I have work tomorrow."

"Nope," I said. I stood up from the club chair, split open the condom packet, crowned myself again, and strode over to the sofa. I picked her up in my arms and carried her in the bedroom, on the queen-size bed. I did her in a missionary there, putting her ankles on my shoulders and fucking her in the cunt. Knowing there was more to her than a new cunt—that she'd let me have it both ways—though, I pulled out, grabbed and separated her butt cheeks, rolling her hips up to me, and, as she clutched at the sheets, tossed her head back and forth, and cried out in pain-passion, I spiked her in the ass again and gave her the vigorous, deep ass fucking she'd well known before she'd gotten herself transformed. Sometime in the night, she turned me on my back and rode me in a cowboy. I had no idea in the dark and being only half awake what hole I was in and it didn't seem to matter.

I woke in the morning to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom across the living room from the bed. I feigned sleep as she padded into the living room, drying herself off with a towel, pulled on her slinky shift and her high heels and, after giving me a look showing an expression of "maybe he'll wake and tell me he's taking me to breakfast," shrugged when that wasn't forthcoming, and left the apartment.

She'd been quite an experience. But this was the awkward stage for me. I've never committed. It had always been a one-night stand. The morning after, if they stayed, and I usually prevented that from happening, was just too awkward for me. One and done—night, that is, once fucking, I rarely did it just once. That had been me. Always. And I'd never had trouble getting it done.

First time in a T-girl's cunt, though.

* * * *

It began the previous evening with me sitting at a table at Club 1, famous for having been the home grounds of Savannah transgender icon Lady Chablis, with the club manager, Andre Bouchard, the two of us chatting while we watched a vivacious, slender Diana Ross mimic shimming on stage in a sleek, silver-sequined minishift. Bouchard had been informed that I'd come south from New York City for a summer sabbatical in Savannah and had invited me to the club. He wanted me to write up a couple of revues for the club's troupe to perform. It's what I made the most money from in New York.

"Our routines have gotten stale," he said, pouring me another flute of champagne. "For 'consideration' maybe you could write up a couple of new group revues for us."

"What I do in New York is for much different preferences," I said. Several of the male-on-male bathhouses put on Chippendales dancer knockoff revues, and I was in talks with a producer, Cliff Taggert, to open a full-scale gay male revue theater somewhere in Manhattan. I choreographed and designed the sets and costumes for those. I had started as a male porn actor in my early and mid-twenties and worked my way to this point in my thirties. What I designed wasn't what I saw being staged here at Club 1. I certainly liked what I saw on stage now. If I didn't know the performer was a cross-dresser, I'd take her—or him; I didn't know the right terminology going—as a very-close early-Diana Ross impersonator.

"It's all in delivering sex," Bouchard said. "From what I've heard, you are really good—and versatile—at it."

I suppose "versatile" was a fair thing to say about my background. It certainly had been versatile. I'd come to New York nearly twenty years previously to study in NYU's Tisch school of creative arts without having decided what I wanted to do: acting, art, set design, playwrighting? I wanted to do it all, and I dabbled in it all. I still wanted to do it all and hadn't settled on just one avenue. To get through college, I modeled, and when that didn't make enough, I became an escort—whether escorting a woman or a man, it didn't matter. A fee was a fee, and sex was sex was sex. When that didn't make enough, I did straight porn movies, and then bi ones and, finally, gay male ones. At the same time, I was trying to hone my art skills, concentrating on set design. What I really wanted to be was a playwright, though. I was managing to do that well enough now, but the real money was coming in choreographing and set designing sex ensemble stage revues.

I had come down to Savannah to immerse myself in the playwrighting for the summer season. Bouchard was trying to convince me to do a little backsliding into sex revue design while I was here.

"Tell me why you came down to Savannah for the summer," Bouchard said. "I'm told that you felt a bit washed out and were looking for inspiration and fresh perspective."

I was mainly looking for time to work on play scripts, but I wasn't telling anyone in the sex revue world that they didn't have my first priority. "Yes, largely," I said.

"The performer, up on stage, Lucy. You fancy her, don't you?"

"Yes, as women go. But I don't see—"

He laughed. "I know of your past—the escorting and the movies, both straight and gay. You have quite a bit of variety in your past."

"Yes, so?"

"Have you ever fucked a T-girl—one who has fully transformed? Have you ever done it with the sensation that you can do a woman and a man at the same time—that when you're tired of one hole, there's another one for you to use?"

"No. I don't see where this is going, though." That said, I'd heard about the T-girls of Savannah before coming here and I had, in fact, contemplated the possibility of trying them out this summer.

"You came down to get a fresh perspective. You have a history of fucking women and men and you've designed revues for both girlie shows and Chippendales routines. But you've never done a trans revue or had experienced with a trans, have you?"

"No, I haven't."

"Maybe that's a challenge you've come to Savannah to get. You couldn't go to a better place to get the best of transgender shows. Maybe what you need—what brought you here—was the need to do something fresh. That's Lucy up on stage. She'll come down here and sit with us after she'd done. You can have her for the evening—for the night, if you want. She'll party with you. She'll lay down and open her legs for you. She'll give you her ass if that's what you want. You can have her three ways—her mouth, her ass, and her cunt. She knows about you. She's eager for it. Then maybe you'll agree to work with us here while you're in Savannah—freshen up your perspectives and freshen up our shows at the same time."

What could I say? Lucy came off the stage and to our table. The three of us chatted for a while. She was delightful, and I was having trouble seeing her as anything but fully female. The knowledge that she was more than that, though, piqued my curiosity and I couldn't help but speculate on how this and that would work—where this would fit and what the resulted sensations were. Could I get it up with a mixed gender? I guess that wasn't really a question, though. I was bi; I still could get it up for female even though my preferences now were male. I was hard now, talking to her at the table at Club 1.

She was such a delicious little piece to sit with, talk with, contemplate coupling with: small, trim, perfectly turned out in the slinky, sequined shift, beautiful of face, coy and saucy without being saccharine. She was creamy chocolate brown, freely telling me of her black father and white mother parentage and how this in itself had brought her to highly tolerant Savannah. She made no bones that she fancied me. I had no doubts she would let me bed her. She put a hand below the surface to the table and quite thoroughly got the measure of me. I, of course, was in erection.

"My, my you are a big boy, aren't you? Andre told me you were the pride of the porn camera."

"Do you have a problem with size?" I asked.