Terry's Tree

I was playing skins. The guys who came to this gym used by the branch of the Police Big Brothers Organization, POBO, I worked with liked a big, muscular black like me to always play skins. Mikey, soon to be transformed fully to Michelle had always played shirts since the surgery had started. We were close under the basket. Mikey had the ball, holding it high, almost out of my reach, and was trying to take it back up court as I checked him close. He was a nineteen-year-old beanpole, over six-three and had height on me, but I still moved well at thirty-two and had forty pounds on him.

Seeing another guy from the skins team looming behind Mikey, I lunged to the left, hoping Mikey would go in the other direction, which he did. The other skin's guy, Ron, a recent counselor to the program who reminded me achingly of Terry, reached up, stole the ball from Mikey's raised hands, and passed to it me over Mikey's hip. I took the ball, swiveled, jumped, and put it into the basket. I high-fived Ron as Mikey gave him a raw look of hatred, which I marked but chose to ignore.

I supervised the street patrols in the rough North Central area of Allentown, Pennsylvania, which earned me the name Sarge, which I preferred to Nelson. On the off hours, I worked with POBO, which specialized in the gay guys from this raw part of town near The Maingate leather bar on 17th Street. I worked with the gay guys in the area with some success in keeping them out of trouble largely, I think, because I was one of them, having once been one of them and now running with them when I could do so rather than judging and hassling them. Mikey, in the throes of the change, was my main concentration at the moment. It wouldn't be long before he couldn't play in these pickup basketball game but would have to transfer over to the women's side of the club.

Until then, especially since he was getting some hassling from the leather guys, I had to "handle" him. I was aware that he resented the interest I involuntarily showed to Ron Pierce, a great-looking twenty-four-year-old blond who had recently been hired as a probation officer out of the Hamilton Street police department headquarters I worked for as well. I couldn't help the interested looks not just because Ron returned them, but because he looked so much like Terry, who I had lost at Thanksgiving time.

I could tell that Mikey was on edge and it wasn't just because Ron and I had bested him. He'd had what was nearly a tearful exchange with some of the other gay street guys before we started to play. They'd suggested he should be going over to the women's side already and they were razzing him about how feminine he'd gone. He was in a stage of wavering a bit with it being too late to go back. He was done below, and there'd already been a bit of surgery above. I was keeping him on keel by giving him assurances he'd be as desirable now as he ever was before. But the appearance of Ron, when I myself was vulnerable from the loss of Terry just under four weeks earlier, especially with the near approach of Christmas, was putting us all out of balance.

I had to do something to calm Mikey down. As we returned to courtside, I put a hand on his forearm and said, "Do you have any plans for afterward? If not, you want to come back to my place with me."

Mikey nearly melted on the spot. "I said I'd go give my grandmother her dinner. She's just a couple of blocks over, but if—"

"I'll wait for you here," I said.

He left happy, and I went into the men's locker room and stripped down, wrapping a towel around myself, ready to go to the showers. When I turned toward the shower room, Ron Pierce was coming out of the shower with just a towel around him. He was one gorgeous blond hunk, just as Terry had been. I couldn't help but look and smile, and he gave me a smile in return. I'm sure it was an accident, but the knot of the towel he'd been holding gave way and for a couple of seconds he was standing there, naked, the towel bunched around his ankles. His body was beautiful, everything was in proportion and first rate. He was half engorged. He held there, in suspension for a couple of long seconds. I let my towel drop too, possibly by accident and possibly not, and we took another half minute in shared suspension, looking at each other in "that way." Not all of the guys from the department who volunteered to work with POBO programs were gay, but I now understood that this new, young honey was—and he picked up on my interests as well.

"Was this an accident," he asked.

"No, I don't think so," I answered. But there was nothing else right then. I brushed by him and went into the shower.

Our lockers were in the same aisle. When I came back from the showers, naked, with my towel hanging over my shoulder, he was still there, fiddling around with getting dressed, not having gotten very far. It would have been obvious if I'd put my towel around my waist then, so I didn't. I was somewhat of an exhibitionist, with every reason to be proud of my heavily muscular ebony body, and not least in what was swinging between my legs. That wasn't exactly swinging at the moment. I'd been in the shower, thinking of Terry, but my thoughts occasionally going to this new guy, Ron, and I'd come out the shower half hard.

The guy looked astonished when I came over to where my locker was, still not covering myself, and I was sure I could hear him gasp. Well, take a good look, I thought. Yes, in fact, I am a big black bull.

I decided to break the ice with, "So, you're new to the department and to this program."

"Yes. My name's Ron. Ron Pierce," he said. "I came on as a probation officer, and several of the accounts I got were for guys being served by POBO, so I decided to do my bit here."

"I'm Sarge, chief of the North Central patrol."

"Yes, I know. And I understand you spend nearly every off-duty minute with this program. Even though it's Christmas time."

"It's a season like this that these guys need the support the most," I said. I didn't add that being swamped with activities was what I needed this Christmas too. I didn't know how I would make it to the end of the year without Terry otherwise. I also didn't dwell on him already having checked out who I was and how I spent my time. "So, are you new to the Lehigh Valley?" I asked.

"Not really. I grew up here—up in Bethlehem."

Bethlehem. The richer town abutting Allentown on the northeast. Where Terry was from. Where Terry had worked. He didn't just look like Terry, he was from the same, wealthier environment than I was that Terry had been from.

"Ah, the white side of town," I couldn't help but saying.

"I get along with blacks and Hispanic quite fine," he answered. It wasn't said in a huff, which made me think maybe it was a signal of another kind—that he'd go with a black or Hispanic.

"I'm twenty-four and I went to Lehigh University," he continued. "Just always knew I wanted to work with law enforcement."

Well, shit. He and Terry educated—the same university and age even—and me from the "University of Street Smarts" and older.

"Say, would you be interested in going for a drink," he asked. He leaned over and touched my arm. Yes, indeed, he was coming on to me. "Maybe you could help me on how to get the guys coming here to trust me. They all seem to think the world of you."

I wanted to tell him that was because I came from their world—and neither he nor Terry did—at least in background. I was black like most of them. Terry and he were white. The barriers were there from the color of the skin. But he was going out of his way to push the barriers aside. Maybe it was sexual interest, if he indeed was gay. He was obviously coming on to me and we'd just had the drop-towel incident and agreed it wasn't an accident, so I was sure he was gay. I just didn't know positively. But there was a direct way of finding out. "Well, I'm a big black guy. Black and big get respect on this side of town. Big, you know—"

"Yes, I know," he interjected.

"And this is an Alpha Dog world we're working with here."

"The biggest top rules," he said. "Yes, I understand that. Would you like to go for a drink?"

"I don't know if we'd be compatible," I said.

"Oh, I'm sure we would be. You're a black top and I'm a white bottom. Sounds like an interesting mix to me," he said. "And I'm not just talking about going for a drink," he added.

You can't get more direct than that. "Sorry, I couldn't tonight," I said. "I have plans tonight."

"But that isn't a no."

"No, that isn't a no," I said. It was wrenched out of me. He was so like Terry—maybe too much like Terry. Maybe I was cruising toward catastrophe here. At Christmas time. Being reminded of Terry and Christmas every time I stubbed my toe on that Christmas tree box on the floor next to the fireplace in my apartment where Terry had dragged it into, saying I needed more Christmas spirit. That we'd put up a nice tree. But there was no Terry now. There was an unopened Christmas tree box, but it wasn't going to go up this Christmas—at least not in my apartment.

* * * *

Later that evening I cursed as my toe hit the box again as I was guiding Mikey to the bedroom opening into the living room. He had gone docile and all girly on me, practicing for the life just a bit further down the road—doing so with me when he wasn't able to do it with anyone else, because I had made him comfortable and desired.

He sat, naked and vulnerable, at the foot of the bed, pulling my clothes off me, gasping again at the size and blackness of my shaft, as, nudging in between his spread thighs, he cupped my buns in his hands, pulled my hips into toward him, and took my cock in his throat. When I was ready, I withdrew, went down on my knees, and worshipped his surgically supplied lady bits with my tongue and lips. He sighed and groaned for me, holding my buzz-cut head into his crotch, his own long dreadlocks streaming out on the surface of the bed, and reveled in how I could treat him as a lady.

"Please be good to me, Sarge," Mikey/Michelle whispered. "No one's ever . . . yet . . ."

"I'm the first with you . . . this way?"

"Yes. Make me a woman. But don't be cruel."

"I'm afraid I might—"

"No, I'm built to take nine inches."

I had risen over his body, put myself in position, my solid, muscular ebony body over his willowy milk chocolate. The purple mushroom cap of my manhood slid between the folds of his new wings and opened his new world, stretching his cunt for the first time, going slow but relentlessly sinking in, as he cried out, dug his fingernails into my hips, and panted hard—when I heard the buzzer sound on the front door of my first-floor apartment in an old Victorian row house.

"Shit?" the word coming together in harmony. I withdrew, rolled off the bed, pulled on athlete shorts, and went to the door.

"Hi. I found this on the floor by your locker at the gym. I knew you'd need it."

Ron Pierce was standing on my front porch, looking oh so fuckable. He was holding my wallet. I hadn't missed it yet.

"Can I come . . . oh, I see that you're busy," he said. Looking beyond me, he could see Mikey/Michelle on my bed, her spread and bent legs showing. Her new cunt showing as well.

"Yes, thanks for finding and bringing my wallet. Yes, this isn't the best time."

"Some other time then," he said.

"Yes, some other time certainly," I agreed. Both of our voices registered the regret. His revealing a little confusion as well. The figure on my bed had a cunt. I don't know if he realized it was Mikey.

Shutting the door, I stubbed my toe on the Christmas tree box again en route to the bedroom and cursed yet again. I'd get rid of the damn box and all references to Christmas if I had any idea how to do that.

I found Michelle, on her back, legs spread and bent, pelvis pushed up, and her finger in her folds, holding her cunt open for me.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "Maybe that interruption was a sign from somewhere. You say you haven't before . . . yet. Maybe we shouldn't—"

"Yes, I sure. Fuck me. Fuck me as a woman. Stretch and fill me."

I went back into position between her spread thighs, positioning the head of my cock between her stretching fingers. She arched her back, shuddered, and gave a little gasp, as I penetrated inside her almost to the hilt and immediately started to stretch and pump her. This was what she wanted from me—from any man—reassurances that she had made the right decision to fully transform. I fucked her good. I fucked her like she was a woman—my woman—and that we did this five times a week.

She writhed and whimpered and sobbed, but she dug her fingernails into my buttocks and held me to her as I plowed her.

She was fully Michelle now, but there still were vestiges of Mikey in her. I wouldn't let her forget that she was Mikey as well. I pulled out, turned her on the bed, on her knees, her fists pressed into the bedspread, I worked my way into her ass, moved one hand around her to caress and work her "in process" tits and the other one under her belly to her cunt, entering her there, deep, with two fingers. She writhed under me, crying out "Yes, yes, yes. Be good to me, you big, black Daddy," as I pumped her anal canal full of cum.

* * * *

Terry and I had been polar opposites, but it was a relationship that somehow was working well and developing—up to the point where it was cut off. He was a sunny white and I was a morose black. He was from wealth and I was from the near-slums I now patrolled. He was a party boy and I was a recluse, going from work to gym to my Spartan one-bedroom apartment on the first floor of an old Victorian row house. We were both cops, but he was dealing missing persons and domestic disputes in up-scale Bethlehem and I was checking winos in doorways for signs of life, policing leather bars, and keeping gay street rent-boys from being cut up in the middle of drug transactions. If anyone was in danger of getting offed in the process, it was me, not Terry.

We had met at a raucous Halloween costume party in Fullerton. Terry went as a skimpily-clad wood nymph and I as a uniformed cop. Except I wasn't in costume. I'd been called in to tamp down the noise of the party. I'd pulled Terry off a table, where he was doing a dance and swinging a champagne bottle. He draped himself on me and said, "Nice costume, big boy. I have a thing for cops. You gonna fuck me? I'm a cop in reality myself. I could take you in for impersonating—"

"I'm a cop in reality too," I had said. "And you're drunk. I don't fuck drunks."

"But do you fuck drunks when they're sober?"

"Sometimes."

"More important, do you fuck men?"

"Yes."

"No, I'm not drunk. I'm just having fun. You're being too serious. You need to have some fun too." He still hadn't got that I'd come here to tone this party down. "And the question stands. You gonna fuck me? You're a big, beautiful bruiser. You got a big, black dick too?"

He hadn't lied about not being drunk, though. He was serious and went all calm. "I mean it. This party has just about run its course and you're the best-looking man here. My ride, Trevor, has left already. How about you give me a ride?"

He was right about the party winding down, so they didn't need a cop anymore. And what I had seen going on at the party had made me horny. I wasn't a party boy, but I could party one on one as well as any other guy. And this wood nymph, Terry he said his name was, was one fine piece of white, blond tail, just begging for it.

I gave him a ride—back to my place, which was closer to where he said he lived in Bethlehem—and then he rode my cock. I found he had a taste for the rough, and he loved what I did with my nightstick in foreplay. And then I laid him good. We both laughed when we verified that we were, indeed, both real cops. There seemed to be nothing that we had in common except fitting together perfectly in the various positions of the sex act—several times that night. In that way we were perfectly matched. I was a fast and frequent loader; he could take it—often and big.

Terry had wanted it bad—and rough—and I was in high heat when we got to my apartment that Halloween night, so that's how he got it. We didn't make it to the bedroom for the first time. I laid him on the dining table, to the right of the living area, separated only by a wide arch. The kitchen and bath were behind the dining area and the bedroom behind the living area.

I had him, naked—it didn't take much to get him out of his wood nymph costume—and on his back on the dining table, with his right leg bent to the side, the heel of his foot digging into the edge of the table. His other ankle was hooked my shoulder. I was crouched between his thighs, my blue cop's shirt unbuttoned and spread to reveal my muscular ebony chest. My tight trousers were still on, including my equipment belt, but my fly was unzipped and I projected out in all my glory, rubbing my mushroom cap on his bare thighs.

I was fucking him with my nightstick, which wasn't much thicker than what I eventually had to put inside him. Terry was loving it, crying out "Oh shit, it's so big. Do it. Deeper!" I went deeper, and he raised his pelvis to the invasion. Our eyes locked. We were both panting. He was in pain-passion. He cried out again, "Fuck!" as I went deeper with the stick.

"Now you. Now that big black cock of yours!" I exchanged shafts and fucked the shit out of him.

Afterward, we hunched beside each other on the sofa, staring at the fireplace, with a TV above it, and swigging beer. We were both naked then, except that I still had my boots on and my cop shirt on my back but gaping open.

"I've never been ravished by a black bull before," he murmured.

"Sorry," I responded.

"Don't be. I'm not."

"In that case I'm not either. I've never had a white guy who could take it all."

"So, we can—"

"Whenever you want. I'm always up for it."

"Then I guess I'll be showing up here pretty often. This is a nice apartment but it seems so serious—not fun."

"I know how to have fun when I'm serious about it," I said.

"I've noticed that—I've experienced it. How long is the working end of that nightstick?"

"At least eight inches."

"And you had it—?"

"Yes, just about to the hilt."

"And you?"

"Yes. Longer and to the hilt."

"Fucking A." He lifted his head and looked around "Your woodwork is so elaborate and you have two fireplaces, but everything you've put in it is so plain—so utilitarian."

There was a fireplace, with mantle in both living and dining areas, on the side walls, facing each other. "This is an old house. Once the fireplaces were the source of any heat they had. They'd be needed on a night like this. It's colder than a witch's tit out there."

"Apt for Halloween. But I see you haven't decorated for Halloween. This place would look great with seasonal holiday decorations."

"I'm not into that. Not even a Christmas tree."

"That's sacrilege. That fireplace is screaming to have a Christmas tree beside it."

"Shut up and blow me," I growled. It was time to get back into the rough sex. I grabbed his head between my hands and pushed his face down into my crotch, and that was the end of any silly decorating discussions. He was game on how far down his throat he could take me.

The next time he showed up at my door—just before Thanksgiving—he had a big, long box to drag in and put where I'd stub my toe every time I answered the door.

"What the fuck is that?" I asked.

"You are going to have a Christmas tree this year," Terry declared. Next time I come, I'll bring some decorations and we'll put the tree up right there beside the fireplace.

"Shit," I said. But I didn't contradict him. He was the best lay I'd had for years. I wasn't going to argue with him about anything. This time we made it to the bedroom—for an all-nighter. There wasn't a "next time" for Terry and me, though. I thought I was the one between us who had a dangerous job—patrolling in north-central Allentown. Terry operated in the affluent Bethlehem area. But they have as many violent domestic disputes in Bethlehem as in Allentown, I guess. On Thanksgiving night, Terry answered a call of a family brawling over the Turkey, and when he came to the door, one of the family's black sheep blew him away.