Sweet Pauly Purebred

"I want you." He forced it out past a clenched jaw, his eyes lasers on mine.

I nodded. Strangely, I hadn't yet fully considered what it was he might want. Strong hands seized my waist and spun me around, bent me over the counter. My skirt was shoved up, my tights down. I felt my hard cock pulled down, then released by the suddenly tugged elastic band now around my small thighs. It slapped back up against me.

I was frightened, startled and thriller. He wanted me. Her, yes, of course, but still me. Me. A hand wrapped around my hardness, suddenly but not rough. Fingers stroked the underside, joined by more fingers that traced the sensitive track between my exposed cheeks, feather-touched the tightening sack below. My hips moved, into and away from overwhelming intimate invasions.

My bottom had clenched in reflexive defense as soon as they felt the unexpected, unfamiliar touch between them, but my hips betrayed me. When the pad of what must have been his thumb pushed against my most private puckered hole, my traitorous hips pushed back. Wanton, welcoming, wanting more. I groaned in mixed pleasure and embarrassment.

"Good girl." Two words. A flood of emotion roared through me. I wasn't a bad, disappointing failure of a boy, a son, a grandson. I was good, I was a girl, and I was wanted. All of me, as I was. I was beautiful.

Bathed in the red light, I felt him kneeling behind me, the thumb leaving, sliding up and back down along my crack, always returning to press against, but enter, me. His hands dropped down to my thighs, inviting my legs to spread wider. They failed, bound by the tights. Sliding higher, the hands stretched my cheeks wider instead.

I screamed, not loud, not long. Little more than a squeak, a high-pitched squeal that stopped when I shoved the side of my wrist between my teeth. No breath to hint at what was coming, I felt the flat broad surface of a warm tongue pushed full against my puckering opening, his face spreading my cheeks wide. My legs shook, my calves straining me upward onto the tips of my toes.

Lick after slow slippery lick. The wetness retreated and the thumb reappeared, the pad barely opening the now slick entry. They traded places again, the tongue adding its exploring, probing tip, inspecting the thumb's work.

My wrist was wet with my frenzied, panting breath. His mouth left enough wetness for the excess to drip thickly down my sack as he stood again. A hand felt huge as it cupped one tiny cheek of my ass. He opened me.

Immediately, I felt too full, stretched too far. And I wanted, dreaded, more. I felt the intruder twist, stretching me sideways instead of up and down, then twist back again. Two fingers, and they felt like a rolling pin. Pushing deeper with one twist, pulling back with the next. I was filled full and fulfilled. My body wanted to run and hide and push back and be opened deeper, wider.

He pushed, stretching me wide, holding the fingers in deep. I heard the sound of his belt, his zipper, his lowering pants. They twisted again, staying buried deep before easing slowly out. I felt hollow, hungry, empty.

"This might hurt at first." He was so sweet, almost regretful. But there was a hungry longing in his voice that seemed barely held in check. A tip, softer, smoother, far larger than the paired fingers, pushed against me after sliding wetly down from above.

"Please." I don't know if I begged him to fuck me or to spare me. It didn't matter: I gave myself to him. I think my cheeks clenched back around him before he truly opened me, but I can't be sure.

My wrist muffled most of my louder cry as he stretched me wide, stopping only when the bulbous head that had strained my jaws eased past the protesting ring of my sphincter, now locked below his ridge. The earlier fullness had been a dim shadow of this. I felt stuffed from my ass to the hollows behind my eyes and sinuses. My neck and back strained. And this was only his head.

"Good girl." The same two words, the same soothing, encouraging tone.

"Please." It came out wet, slobbery, nearly a sob. A high wail punctuated the word as he pushed deeper, withdrew. He stopped his retreat only when my clinging ring stretched back with him, refusing to release, to stretch the extra bit to slip over the wide ridge that marked his head.

My hands scrambled blindly on the counter, seeking anything to grab, to squeeze. A purchase of some kind. He pushed deeper yet, retreated, pushed. Gasping breaths and tortured groans were inseparably entwined. Dimly aware of tears streaming down my cheeks, I had no knowledge of when they had started.

His pace quickened, my breaths following his cadence. How could anything fill me so? I felt as though something inside my head or chest might rupture, begging for it to be over, hoping it never was. I dreaded the emptiness that must follow.

I became aware of Matthew's ragged breathing, his hands clawing into my hips. Finally, his legs and groin meeting my smooth, soft flesh. Heavy balls slapped against me; fingers dug in deep. I felt a warm wet splash on my lower back, then another. He was sweating, dripping down onto me.

I floated in a place entirely new to me, my body taxed beyond any limits I had known, feverish waves coursing through, electrifying nerves and senses, but buffered and soothed by a rightness, a sureness, that I was accepted, loved, where and who I needed to be.

The tears that flowed freely now were of joy, of relief. As Matthew claimed me and his need, I felt Roxie's embrace as well. Bent over, taken, bathed in the red light, I was free. I was her; I was me.

Then Matthew growled. His clawing grip moved higher, near my sacrum, wrenching my spread cheeks up and in, forcing my back into a deeper sway. His invading, filling plunges slowed, lingered.

Once last time he pulled back before slamming deep, his cry filled with anguish, torment released. His hips tight against me shook as he erupted inside.

"Please." I whispered. "Oh god, yes. Please. Fill me."

He did, his voice rising and falling with each lunging pump. "Fuck. Oh my sweet girl. Fuck. Yes. So good. So fucking good."

His words were almost a babble, as though he might have no idea if they were said out loud, or if they were aimed at me or heaven. More hot sweat hit my back as he drew in a labored, ragged breath.

I felt my cheeks released, his hands slide under me, pull me upright and against him. His embrace was tight, claiming, possessive and comforting. A wave of his man-scent hit me, whispering of distance ancestors, animal and primal.

When breaths and hearts had slowed he eased out of me. The emptying was almost less endurable than being stretched open and filled. My body clung to its softening violator. The overfull pressure behind my eyes returned briefly as we finally separated, as I was again forced wider open to allow the still-swollen, fatter head to pass.

Under the red light we cleaned each other. The darkroom had sinks, and coarse paper towels. Soap and water that missed the sink, splashing to the floor, mingled with years of photo chemical spills. The sink was low enough, and Matthew tall enough, that I could rinse him thoroughly clean as he pushed his hips forward over the lip of the deep bowl.

I lingered at the job, enjoying the feel of his heaviness in my hands, not hard and rigid, but far from flaccid. He moaned loudly, almost in pain, when I - when she - bent and sucked him into my mouth. I slurped, licked, reveling in the ease with which I could engulf the whole length this way. My lips left him with a satisfied, loud smack.

"I had to make sure you were clean." I explained with a grin and a shrug. A thrill past through me: she was so bold, flirty, confident compared to Small Paul.

"Look." He'd said, pointing low on the cabinet door below the counter that had supported me. His hands had rarely left me after his cock had, stroking, touching an arm, a flank, a cheek. I had no memory of my own orgasm, but the thick glistening track was clear, ending with a small puddle where the cabinet met the floor. We both laughed as we cleaned it as best we could, confident traces of our new mess would be unnoticed among the many left by the long succession of students using the room.

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Let's jump forward a year. A year that brought three big changes to Small Paul's life. In fact, the only thing that's the same as a year ago is the frigging summer heat and the stink it brings to the city.

So, what's changed? First, Roxie, Matthew and I live together and that works out surprisingly well. The other two members of our unique nuclear family are younger. Only three months old, in fact. It turns out I got Roxie pregnant that afternoon and now we have twin little beauties, more genetically blended than me. They got the best of Roxie's predominantly European feminine gorgeousness and my Asian fusion cute-as-fuck androgyny. And, at three months old, I could definitely see their multiethnic intelligence.

So the three of us were walking home, winding our way to our front door, arm in arm in arm - little Paul in the middle, of course. I started to skip, almost bubbling with joy. After midnight and still sticky-hot out with sweat running down my back and I didn't care a bit. We had just finished an evening centered around the second big change:

Who knew I could have hundreds of fans, and a budding new career being this new she-me?

Sweet Pauly Purebred gets paid appearance fees to do drag events and shows all over the Midwest now, and she's getting more and more offers for modeling gigs and, recently, a few acting parts. I had no idea how much people would like me; how strong, how big it would make Small Paul feel when jaws would drop, when eyes would widen at Pauly's appearance.

Tonight was special. The twins were finally old enough for Roxie to trust leaving them with the babysitter (the most trustworthy babysitter in the world, by the way) for the evening, and all three of us had attended a charity fundraiser. When Sweet Pauly Purebred took the stage, someone in the crowd began singing her unofficial theme song."

Oh where Oh where has my Underdog gone..."

Personally, I had never seen this 'Underdog' cartoon, but apparently his girlfriend is Sweet Polly Purebred, a snooty little canine reporter (a bitch, obviously) who always gets caught by the villain over and over again. And she sings this whiny little song, hoping her hero will rescue her. So, more and more lately, fans in the audience have begun singing this line whenever yours truly, Sweet Pauly, makes an appearance.

Inspiration struck tonight. She'd held up one graceful Pauly hand, quieting the crowd. In total silence, I played up her exaggerated 'cute and naive' routine. Small fingers smoothed down a tiny little plaid skirt, acting nervous. The toe of one clunky platform shoe twisted on the stage and prominent upper teeth bit down on my lower lip.

She let a look of startled, innocent, shocked realization freeze her made-up face. Sweet Pauly spun, facing away from the crowd, and pulled up the skirt's front pleats to look underneath. Giggles, laughs rewarded my exaggerated look of surprise when I spun back around, tugging the little skirt lower, snugged against her slim thighs. (I know, I'm still trying to figure out the whole pronoun I-me-she-her thing.)

Then I burst into my own song, high and whiny. Words no one else had ever heard. Lyrics that had popped into my head after that stupid single line from a cartoon song was stuck in my head for the third straight day.

"Oh where Oh where have my Underwear gone..."

Through the filter of the spotlight on me, I saw grins, heard cheers and whistles, laughs. They loved the slight but definite change in lyrics. More lines spilled out, and my voice grew, projecting out, the whine gone.

"...Oh where oh where could they be?

"When I left home I had them on,

"But then-n-n I had to pee!"

It brought the house down. Roars, laughs, cheers and whistles drowned out the few voices attempting to continue their own verses, perhaps fueled by the free-flowing drinks.

Just remembering that roar, my elbows still held on both sides by my two beloved lovers, I wanted to squeal. Life was good.

"The lights are on." Roxie had started missing our little sweethearts as soon as we'd left the house. "The twins must be awake; they'll be hungry."

Who wouldn't be hungry, waiting for those big, extra-full titties of hers? Motherhood had just made Roxie more sexy than ever.

Ready for the third big surprise? It's the babysitter.

Matthew held the door open for us, revealing the twins and their great grandfather - yes, my Japanese Grandpa - sitting on our couch, one gorgeous twin in each arm.

His grin stretched wider yet when I slipped through door behind Roxie. "There she is again! That radiant, happy girl!"

Roxie looked puzzled: he was looking past her, right at me, and I had removed my make-up and pulled on simple jeans and a button-down shirt before we left the club. She dropped onto the couch next to him, a mother eager for her babies to be in her arms again. "What happy girl, Ji-ji?"

Grandpa looked at me, one white eyebrow raised. "May I tell them?"

I nodded, feeling heat rise on my cheeks. The dignified old man drew in a deep breath. "Almost a year ago now, on a hot, sweaty Sunday, I took a long walk. I was bothered by the...discord...the disharmony I had allowed to fester in my home and family. The rose garden in the park had always been a place where I could be alone, to seek answers, to find calm."

I saw Matthew glance at Roxie at the mention of the rose garden. We had actually framed one black and white picture he took that day, before Curly's attack, of two very different girls holding hands and grinning, one starting to skip, a single knee high. It hung on the living room wall, behind Grandpa.

"I saw Paul's friend Roxanne walking with a beautiful young Asian woman, not quite Japanese. Still, she and her outfit were very cute...kawaii." I held back a giggle at his use of the term, a word that hadn't existed when he learned Japanese.

"This girl, this young woman, was very small, but seemed large to the eye." I shivered, just like I had the first time he had told this to me, describing what he saw in me the exact same way.

"She radiated happiness and life and it was contagious. People walking by her looked happier in her wake. I found myself smiling as well; I felt joy in the world for the first time in a long time."

He looked right at me. My breath caught when I saw the glittering beginnings of tears in his eyes. "I thought then 'I wish my Paul could be happy like that. He looks so sad all the time lately.' I determined then to no longer be part of this stupid fight to control you and your father's legacy. I set off for home."

He looked back at Roxie, cradling the twins in her own arms now.

"Imagine my surprise when the same small Asian girl, in the same pretty outfit but no longer radiant or happy at all, was helped out of a police car in front of my house. Pained, shamed, and embarrassed, I recognized my grandson's face at once, even in the girl's clothes. The shame I felt then was terrible, that I recognized my only grandchild's face immediately in pain and shame, but could not recognize it in joy, happiness."

I saw Matt wipe his hand at the corner of one eye. Roxie was crying openly and so was I. Her voice was tight as she leaned against his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her and the twins. "Thank you, Ji-ji. For sharing that story with us. And for sharing your beautiful, radiant grandchild with all of us."

Eventually, Mother and Grandma came around. They had to, with grandbabies needing their special female attention and Grandfather getting to spend all his time with them.

Burly Curly was caught. Two other trans girls came forward when my story hit the news. I wasn't the first person he'd tried to abduct, and their testimony - along with what a search of his house revealed - helped convict him, along with the witnesses in the rose garden that day.

Matthew and Roxie fight over me and that makes me happy. Just kidding about that. They both want different things from me, so it works out: they each get me their own way. I get to be wanted for me, more than I ever dreamed, instead of being wanted only because some dead guy, a father I would never know, shared half my genes.

More and more, the two team up. The other evening when Matt wasn't around, Roxie brought out some skimpy little outfits for me to try on. I mean really skimpy. I couldn't figure out why she kept leading me in front of the big living room window until I saw a reflection of light outside, in the big tree: my favorite photographer was hiding in the dark, perched on a branch with his camera, perving on a half-dressed little cutie.

I put on a good show for him through the window then. Later on, when we knew he'd be busy in the darkroom we had installed downstairs, the naughty, half-dressed cutie snuck in and gave my favorite peeping Tom a very special reward, starting in the dark, and finishing under the dim glow of our own special romantic red light.