T-Girl Comes to Krakow Pt. 01

Late 2010 was characterised by the start of a very messy and bitter divorce. I was in a very dark spot as a result. Out of the blue, came a friend request on Facebook from someone named 'Teresea' whose photo looked vaguely familiar. This person's surname meant nothing to me, but this friend request came from the UK, Leeds to be exact.

I wondered if this friend request was from that beautiful T-girl I dated. At the same time, at university and who managed, with the help of her wealthy benefactor, to extricate several friends and me from an unfortunate sexual blackmail incident in 1994.

So, of course, I clicked "Accept".

And nothing happened.

Given my current circumstances, the friend request quickly lapsed from my list of increasingly urgent divorce priorities. Skip forward a few years to the summer of 2013, whereby my divorce proceedings were finalised in my favour. The Black Dog had been kennelled for the time being, and I was in a reasonably good space.

Concurrently, my postgraduate studies supervisor had put my name forward for a conference in Poland in a few months. I was flattered and thrilled that my university had enough faith in me to put my name forward for such a prestigious event.

Still having lots of childhood friends in the UK, and family, a trip to Poland would require a detour to the old country. Inevitably, I announced my European tour to my friends on Facebook. While receiving offers of meeting up, some of which were feasible, but others were not due to distance or time constraints.

Then 'Teresea' sent me a message.

It was the Teresa from 18 years ago with an added 'a' at the end of her name for artistic flair. She was nothing but the consummate show woman.

All class. All the time.

Teresa was never far from my thoughts. After arriving in Australia, I pursued a mostly heterosexual lifestyle for the most part. Yeah, there was sone adventures in-between with men, but no other T-Girl experience. I cherished my time with Teresa because it was so unique.

"Is there time in your itinerary to meet up?

I would make the time.

Knowing that Teresa had made contact made me smile and wank off to some of the filthiest encounters we shared. Teresa was my guilty pleasure back then. My mates, the bi-sexual quintet from university, knew of Teresa, who they called Sam for some unknown reason, but did not realise that we shared a passionate and secret summer. Even when she used her considerable resources to get us out of a blackmail situation, they had no idea that it was my relationship with her then got us out of Dodge.

They were all distant memories now.

Teresa was not though.

We made plans to meet up in Leeds.

My family and friends lived in Yorkshire, so my flight plan was to fly from Perth to Manchester and then get the Trans-Pennine train to my destination. Two weeks later, I would fly to Poland for the conference.

Leeds was a direct and easy diversion.

We made the appropriate arrangements over subsequent messages, and I booked one night at a Leeds hotel. If Teresa was a no-show, and that scenario was fully present in my planning, the hotel would not be wasted since, despite the monetary cost, the bed would relieve my jetlag.

I was shattered when I arrived at Manchester following a non-stop Emirates flight from Perth at the crack of dawn on a frigid late-Spring morning. I made the short journey to Leeds and shambled towards my hotel.

In the lobby, I checked my messages using the free Wi-Fi and was disappointed not to have anything from Teresa. Luckily for me, the hotel staff gave me access to my room at 9 am whereby I sank into a restless, haunted sleep.

Sometime after midday, I awoke with a start, somewhat refreshed but not wholly refreshed. Groggy, I took a shower and changed my clothes. Picking up my phone, I answered the messages from my family and friends, announcing my safe arrival. No message from Teresa though.

Somewhat disappointed, I walked into the city centre and looked around. My last venture to Leeds was in 1995, but the intervening years had changed the city for the better. It was a vibrant and welcoming place.

My overriding memory of Leeds was the high-quality pubs serving real ale, not a shitty lager. The 2013 version of Leeds was a vast improvement from the 1995 version. With too much choice, I settled on a pub not far from a second-hand bookstore that enjoyed several.

Sitting down with my pint, I perused my literary haul with satisfaction. In England, used books cost £2 on average. In Australia, the same used book costs $10-$15 such is the cost of freight, mate. While there, I took the opportunity to switch SIM-cards in my iPhone and recharge my UK account.

Within seconds of the recharge, I received a flurry of text messages. Most were from family, but there was one from an unknown number, "Are you in Leeds?"

J: "Yes, arrived this morning."

A few back and forth messages established that the messenger was Teresa and that knowledge caused my cock to stir in anticipation.

T: "Where are you staying?"

After disclosing my hotel, Teresa told me she expected to be there around six o'clock, traffic dependent. I glanced at my Omega Seamaster, only four hours to wait. My cock then hardened in expectation. I don't know why, though. In the intervening years, Teresa could be married, and this meeting could be simply a catch-up between Facebook friends. Still, despite the logic, I harboured a secret desire for that filthy sex we had shared.

A little after 6 pm, Teresa entered the pub. I had a direct line of sight to the entrance, and when I saw her, she took my breath away. Teresa was several years older than me and had matured like a fine wine. Sure, there were crow's feet by her eyes, and other signs of ageing but, fuck me, Teresa looked good. In 1993, I sported luscious, long blonde hair but now I was Patrick Stewart from TNG and X-Men.

"Oh my god, you're exactly as I imagined!"

We embraced warmly, and Teresa perfume was intoxicating, more than the real ale I had imbibed over the last four hours.

Fuck, I missed England.

There was no way that anyone in that pub would consider Teresa anything but a woman. She was dressed in a smart, and expensive, business suit, plaid grey and white, with a skirt to the knees. Exotic black stockings swept down to the feet, encased in high priced shoes. Her beautiful face, together with cascading long blonde hair, caught my attention immediately. Still, the chest appeared to have increased a cup size of two—no doubt another gift from the unknown benefactor.

Over the next few hours, Teresa and I caught up. But that is a little misleading for you see Teresa was by her very nature secretive and shadowy.

Her transition was paid for by a wealthy sponsor who set her up as a sexual vanity project. Teresa wanted for nothing in life, she was wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, but there was a dark past that some knew about.

Back in 1995, or thereabouts, my university quintet had an inkling of Teresa's past, and, being the bigoted but sexual deviants they were, mocked her without shame.

That is how Teresa and I came to meet.

What followed was a whirlwind of sexual and lifestyle lessons that elevated me above the average. Classes I am truly grateful for learning and applying.

Blackmail that occurred following a gay group sex experience in late summer 1995 was my catalyst to leave England but not before Teresa used her influence to resolve the issue behind the scenes.

My sudden departure from the country post the blackmail incident undoubtedly caused Teresa heartache because we had become emotionally close, and she had expended significant effort to extricate my friends who hated her and me. Those selfish pricks did not know it, of course.

Despite all the water under the bridge, time has a way of healing all wounds.

And Facebook once had a role in reconnecting people.

With the lengthening shadows in the west, I was happy to be placing a glass of wine in front of Teresa as she beamed at me with an unusual youthful exuberance.

"So, how's life been for you in sunny Australia?" She asked after taking a large gulp of wine.

I provided a very potted summary of life, leaving out essential milestones that I considered irrelevant.

"You seeing anyone at present?" Teresa asked.

"No," I answered truthfully, "What about you?"

"Not at the moment." She replied and looking into her wineglass.

"Did you make the disastrous move that I did and ever get married?"

Teresa laughed, looked sad for a second and then beamed at me.

"That's not for me," She began, "Despite all the progress society has made in accommodating alternative sexual lifestyles, there's still a lot of prejudice remaining."

Then I felt sad for Teresa.

"Online dating has certainly helped," She continued, "At least there I can be honest about who and what I am."

What I am? Teresa went on to explain that her great reveal would usually end any type of budding relationship. Online dating attracted the curious male and female, and Teresa enjoyed many emotionally satisfying relationships in the first decade of the new millennium. However, I sensed there was much depression interspersed between these episodes as partners attempted to reconcile her "form" in a world still crammed with bigotry. For my part, I fully sympathised as someone that was essentially bisexual but gravitated towards the heteronormative lifestyle as a choice.

I never experienced any sort of amity towards Teresa. It was her vibrant personality, a sense of fun, outward look on life and her deviant sexual tastes that attracted me. In a way, since I was actively experimenting with other bisexual males, Teresa came along at the perfect moment and bridged a gap.

While I never stated it, Teresa probably knew I was bisexual. Had she known I was occasionally getting it on with Lyndon and his bigoted university housemates, I would have been kicked to the kerb in an instant. But in an odd irony, it was their bigotry that led me to Teresa so I can be thankful for small mercies, I guess.

"Are you in touch with Lyndon and his friends?" Teresa asked, over a meandering and wholesale conversation.

I had, I replied in 2001 and 2005. I explained that Lyndon was in a relationship with a woman who claimed her kids as his when, in fact, they were the progeny on someone else that she was cheating on. As a result, he was taken to the cleaners financially before extricating himself at a high cost.

"Perhaps, he should have got in touch with me," Teresa asked without malice, surprisingly, "I could have sorted out that mess with ease."

"How so?"

This was the issue with Teresa; she was shadowy and mysterious about what she did on this earth. Financially, she was secure and had a wealthy benefactor that provided for her on the sly. What Teresa gave back in return, I dared not ask at the time.

"Well, I have the ways and means to resolve all sorts of issues." Came the same cryptic reply I last heard back in the mid-nineties.

"Mysterious as always," I replied, rolling my eyes in faux irritation.

Teresa laughed and drained her glass.

"Another one?"

"Sure."

Teresa opened her wallet, and I saw an enormous wad of "twenties". There must have been a thousand pounds at least. She caught my stunned look and laughed again.

"What?"

"Why so much cash?" I asked.

I rarely carry currency, preferring to keep it in the bank offsetting the interest on a mortgage and allowing me the freedom to spend without a limit using my card. Teresa's answer, by contrast, stunned me.

"The government can't trace me if I pay cash for everything."

Such a revelation only made her more mysterious and alluring.

With our drinks refreshed, I tried to probe her for answers, but she was far too smart for me, and so I gave up as the alcohol tempered my brain's functioning capacity, took a back seat and allowed Teresa to direct the conversation.

We talked and laughed into the evening, and I wondered if I could entice Teresa back to my hotel or that she would invite me back to her exquisite loft conversion on the river if she had not already upgraded.

"Well, I better go home," Teresa stunned me with while draining her glass around 10 pm, "Big day at work tomorrow."

Doing what? Something secretive, no doubt.

Playing coy, I replied with some vague words about getting the train to my folks' town and the jetlag.

I packed my books away into my backpack and rose to escort Teresa to her car or taxi, or whatever means she used to get to the pub.

We walked down a small incline towards what looked like the main city centre taxi rank. The chill air made Teresa consciously lean into me. I was happy to wrap my arm around her while getting slightly hard below. I had no information about her relationship status despite her knowing mine, but I felt a glimmer of anticipation. While waiting for a taxi, Teresa looked up in the direction of my hotel, visible about a hundred metres away.

"Travelodge, eh?"

"Yep."

"Will you take me there?"

With that, I pulled Teresa towards me and kissed her deeply.

Years of lost potential and passion came streaming back as we sunk into the shadows and embraced our animal passion. As my cock rose to prominence, I felt hers press against mine.

When we ended the kiss, Teresa looked deeply into my eyes and by extension, my soul and told me that she loved me till the moment I left her all those years ago.

At the time, I felt the same, at least I thought I did, and I felt the passion flowing through me again.

All the shit that was a crappy university experience in Sheffield, studying a course that held zero interest for me (but my parents thought was right for me), my social awkwardness with women, the blackmail incident and Teresa's ambiguity blew the lid off my pressure cooker. And I ran away, like a coward.

Mature me could easily accept Teresa for what she was, and after a terrible marriage, she was water in the desert. I could have easily surrendered there and then, but a nagging voice restrained me impulsive self.

In reply to Teresa's confession, I mumbled something emotionally satisfying because she nestled snugly against my chest as we waited in the frigid air for a taxi to the ridiculously short distance to the hotel.

At the lobby, Teresa handed over a twenty-pound note and told the driver to keep the change. The fare was £4.20.

As we ascended to my floor in the elevator, Teresa pushed me violently against the mirrored interior and kissed me hard.

"Treat me like a girl." She breathed when I was released.

To be fair, I had not mapped out the sexual mechanics of an encounter with a T-girl, or another man since Thomas six years ago. Those six years were purely heterosexual, and aside from a tongue, from the more adventurous female, I had received nothing in my arse since that time.

In a way, I was relieved because I knew from the mid-nineties Teresa had a fair slab of meat on her. I was not sure that my arsehole could take that tonight.

When we reached my floor, I whipped out the key card on opened the door to my hotel room. Due to the mix up with bookings, my view overlooked the tennis court, so I was granted a £100 credit, which did not bother me in the slightest.

"Nice!" Exclaimed Teresa as she cast her privileged eye over my choice.

Given the university was paying for the trip, I thought to spoil myself with this hotel room, irrespective of whether Teresa crossed the threshold. That she had was more than I hoped for.

"Make yourself comfortable," I said, throwing my backpack on the couch.

Teresa did so by opening the bar fridge and emptying it.

That was my £100 gone.

Even before the total of alcohol had been consumed, and I was on the flaky side of that coin given the jetlag and the generous consumption of real Yorkshire ale, Teresa suddenly stood up and declared she wanted to fuck.

Absolute gold!

"Be a slut for me!" I asked with a massive smile on my face as I placed myself at the head of the bed with a rapidly fuelled cock at the ready.

"You want me to be a slut for you?"

Back in the day, Teresa and I shared a passion for New Order and the Pet Shop Boys, among other tastes, so I picked a favoured track on my iPhone and pressed play.

True Faith '94!

The effect was immediate and electric.

Teresa began seductively stripping for me in time to the beat, like a showgirl, exhibitionist or pole dancer.

Her "work" clothes were flung across the room as the beat enveloped Teresa. Her blonde hair threw left and then right, up and then down, as her body gyrated to the music.

Then she fixed her gaze on me as she unbuttoned her white shirt. This was the big reveal, the enhanced, enhanced chest and all my stars those bolt-on boobs were massive. Teresa took devilish pleasure in disclosing her latest assets, bending down, pushing them together and tweaking her nipples.

As hard as I was, I received a jolt when Teresa dropped her skirt on the floor. The aforementioned black stockings had no accompanying garter but were standalone up to the thigh. Her black panties were useless against the raging pole of meat that poked through.

As the various music track cycled through, Teresa continued her striptease, and with each gyration, her massive cock swung in the air, mesmerising me. Still, I was not sure I could take her meat up my shitter, at least not yet.

My mouth, though, indeed and I salivated at the thought.

When she removed her flimsy lace panties, Teresa crawled up the bed towards me. Her naked, impressive form caused sparks of energy to ping me until Teresa's lips met mine.

Then all was a passionate blur.

Without barely a conscious thought, I was un-clothed, and Teresa and I were rolling across the king-sized bed, wantonly kissing and laughing as old lovers tend to do.

Our cocks were rock hard and pressing against each other.

Teresa went down on me without hesitation.

I gasped in lust and spasmed wildly.

She laughed at her control over me, then swallowed my meat.

And sucked me hard.

I was in danger of orgasming such was her expertise in the sexual arts.

"Stop!"

"Why?"

"You know!"

"It's been years since I've tasted you."

"And it has been years since I've fucked you."

"So, you want to fuck me?" Teresa teased with my helmet, whacking against her moist tongue.

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"Then do it." She replied with a wink.

If I took Teresa up on her offer there and then I would have lasted all of thirty seconds.

"I will," I said with a smile before rising off the bed and grabbing a miniature bottle of Johnny Walker.

Teresa rose from the bed and took the proffered bottle after I took my swig.

In the low light, I marvelled at her body. Teresa certainly kept in shape, more than I did, but for a forty-something-year-old, she looked and felt sensational.

"So, who paid for these upgrades?" I asked after fondling her rigid plastic bolt-on breasts.

"My man."

"Partner?" I asked with a Spock's eyebrow raised.

Teresa drained the whiskey and expertly dunked the bottle in the bin.

"No, dummy," She answered waspishly, "the man who created me."

The transition.

As we slowly consumed the rest that the bar fridge had to offer, while I had a chance to calm my "enthusiasm", Teresa opened a little about her cloudy background. The benefactor was from the landed gentry, a Lord no less, who had a specific sexual interest. Teresa was a conflicted man that worked in a Leeds brothel, but the Lord was a favoured client. Following some discussion, the Lord agreed to finance Teresa's transition to her current form in return for some sexual service. As time went on, the Lord's mental faculties declined, but not before he provided an off-the-books benevolence which, in 1994, set Teresa up in her loft conversion which stunned me at the time.