Whose Little Monster?

The Venus Club was a transgender strip club up an alley in New York's Chelsea district where men came to an intimate-atmosphere bar, with a stage, to satisfy their curiosity about fully transformed T-girls. We gave them a Chippendales style strip show and more, if they wanted to pay the big bucks. We were eight dancers who filled six dance slots each show, with two either off or ill or someplace of their own choosing. We were of different ethnic origins—I was twenty-four and olive-skinned, dark-haired, of Lebanese extraction—but we all shared some traits, traits that were somewhat different from the norm for guys who had chosen to fully transform their sexuality. We weren't effeminate or willowy or limp wristed. We were all athletic types with great bodies, if not overdone in the muscles, and good looks. We all could have stood a real Chippendales dancers' line as one of the sexy, sleek ones if we hadn't traded dicks for cunts.

It was Saturday night and I held a front-line position in a dance. The place was packed. In our routine we had it all off for a full half minute at the end of the routine and strutted our surgically provided "stuff" openly and proudly before the stage lights went out. Saturday was a special night at the Venus Club. For big bucks a guy from the audience could have his pick of the dancers and come on stage and fuck the dancer for all to see how that worked out with a T-girl.

This Saturday night I was chosen. The guy who paid the big bucks was a surprise. He was a hunk and a half himself, almost worthy to stand in our Chippendales-style line with the exception that he didn't have a cunt. He had a dick, and a very nice one too. He was blond and built to my dark, sultry, and built, and we put on quite a show for his money. There was a turntable in the middle of the stage. When I was brought out, naked, a large ottoman had been placed on the turntable. The blond hunk got naked, snapped on a condom, and, as the crowd cheered and voiced raucous encouragement, the guy fucked me in the cunt in a missionary, with my back on the ottoman and me holding my legs raised and spread. As he fucked me the ottoman slowly turned full circle on the turntable so that the guys in the audience could see how it worked from all angles. He only fucked me in the cunt for a few minutes before turning me over on my belly, mounting my ass, and fucking me there in a doggy. He knew how t do this to the best effect. He took a stance that clearly showed my snatch with the cock penetrating it.

I thoroughly enjoyed it and the crowd thought it was the greatest thing they'd ever witnessed. Invariably whenever I was picked for this extra performance, the guy was old, ugly, or fat—or all three and the skit became sort of garish. You couldn't be a college kid and be able to afford the price; the old, fat, and ugly held most of the wealth in the world. This guy had been a god in comparison and he knew how to fuck, regardless of the hole he was fucking. He also treated me right—he was more a lover than a fucker.

For that reason, when he was standing in the alley outside the stage door, along with other hopeful guys nursing a chance to take one of the dancers to a late-night supper and perhaps more, and he gave me a smile and voiced a proposition, I went with him. He fed me at a good restaurant and bedded me in a very good hotel room.

He fucked me good—as good in private as he'd done on the stage—in both holes. His dick wasn't outsized, but it was talented. He embraced me closely, dived deep into me on both sides, and pounded me for more than an hour, making me, jaded as I was for it, pant, moan, groan, and move with him in the fuck, crying out each time I felt him tense, jerk, and fill the bulb of the condom. He came twice and I did so three times. It was quite the lover who could pull three ejaculations out of me in a long fuck session.

After his last shudder and release, him on top of me, embracing me close, my fingernails dug into his shoulder blades and the heels of my feet rubbing on the meat of his calves, I would have followed him anywhere.

His name was Cash. He called me Samir, because that's who I was at the Venus Club.

"So, we know you will go with men when you're away from the club," he said as, still closely embraced, we gently rocked out bodies against each other, him still inside me, in postcoital cooldown.

"Obviously," I said. "It helps if the guy is a hunk, like you are."

"But if his money is good, does it matter what he looks like?"

"Not really. As long as he has a dick that can get hard, the room can get as dark as it has to be. I no longer have to be visibly aroused. My cunt receives a dick just fine no matter how not into it I am. I can make my own pleasures. That's one of the nice differences between men and women. A guy has to be able to get it up; a woman only needs to open her legs. I can make my own pleasures."

It was night, but the hotel room wasn't dark. We'd left the curtains open to the lights of downtown Manhattan. I didn't need the dark to receive this blond hunk.

"Can you break away to do weekend road trips?"

"If I want to. If the money's good. If he's a stud like you are."

"How important is the last?"

"What do you mean?"

"If he isn't good looking—but he's still hung and can be a stud in the dark—and the money is really, really good, would you let him fuck you for a weekend?"

"Is this a real question? And are you talking about someone other than you?"

"Yes. I have a client—in Vermont. There's nothing wrong, really, with his body and he's hung like a bull. But he was in an accident. He got burned on one side—his face and his chest. He fully functions but he's no looker anymore—to the extent that, even though he's filthy rich, he can't pull guys off the street himself anymore. He doesn't go on the street. He remains a recluse in Vermont."

"And he hires you to procure young men for him?"

"Yes. For any guy who wants to ride a big one for a big fee, he's fine—in, as you said, a very dark room. He pays extremely well. And he's intrigued about doing it with a T-girl. If the money's really, really good, do you think you could—?"

"Would you be there that weekend too?"

"I can be, yes."

"Sure, why not? But for now, something seems to be 'up' again. Do you want to—?" Such was the prowess and satisfaction of this man's cocking that I was asking if he wanted to have another go at me. That wasn't something a rent-boy regularly asks a john he's already serviced a couple of times for the same fee.

He did. He turned me on my belly, ran an arm under my waist to raise me on my knees, mounted me from above, slid into my cunt, and banged the hell out of me again. It didn't matter where he was inside me—in my pussy or my ass, he had a cock that drove me crazy. It's why I did this—dance for men to whip them up into a wild enough frenzy to fuck me to heaven.

* * * *

I went to my shared apartment the next morning and returned to Cash's hotel in the afternoon with a bag packed for a long weekend. He had a car—a nifty red Camaro convertible. Once we'd cleared the city, headed north, he put the top down. The drive into a mountainous section of the southern end of Vermont took five and a half hours, with Cash driving swiftly, giving me meaningful looks, reaching over and touching me now and again, letting me know he wanted to fuck me again. I was wearing a T-shirt and baggy shorts and, from time to time, his hand would come over and his fingers would work their way up to my pussy through the leg hole of the shorts and he'd rub me there, playing with the labia, as if to assure himself I had a pussy.

When he did this, I'd moan for him, spread my thighs and take his hand, holding it to my crotch through the material of my shorts and the red silk thong panties I was wearing. And to keep up the tension, I'd murmur, "Yes, yes, find someplace to stop and put it in me. Stretch my cunt."

We would have only been five hours on the road if he hadn't once gone off the road, found an abandoned gas station near the interchange, drove in behind it and parked, pulled me over into his lap, and without having to remove either my shorts or my panties, unzipped and released his erection and managed to push himself up by the leg holes and penetrate. Crouched in his lap, facing him, with my back against the steering wheel, I whispered, "Yes, yes, just like that," rose and fell on his hard cock up my cunt, and we fucked to a mutual ejaculation.

"You'll be with me all weekend, won't you?" I whispered as I slow fucked myself on his shaft, and he assured me he would be.

The last town we went through in Vermont was Ludlow, and then the Camarro was rising up and winding around a small mountain. Our destination was at the top, the peak of a small mountain surrounded by higher ones, with little but greenery and trees on view. It was growing dark as we arrived at the top to see that the area had been graded down to a relatively flat area with thickets of trees and groupings of rocks and, in the center, like a medieval bastion, a concrete castle tower rising several stories, with side extensions angled off the central tower and made mostly of glass. The structure was of modern construction, but it gave a medieval vibe. It certainly was a surprise to find at a remote area like this.

We were met at the door by two beefy men of somewhat thuggish appearance—muscular and raw and rough looking. They were wearing dark blue mesh T-shirts with some sort of logo over athletic shorts of the same color and ankle-high black leather boots. I could also see that they had black leather chest harnesses under the mesh T-shirts. It gave the impression of militancy, stringency, and a hint of intimidation. They tersely introduced themselves as Ivan and Milos, which didn't soften the impression. They didn't smile. They had strong, rugged features, more foreboding than either ugly or attracting. The effect was unsettling but compelling. They both gave me hard, hungry, knowing looks. I immediately wondered if I was to let one or both of them fuck me, and it sent shudders up my spine—a mixed reaction of fear and excitement. The thought of both having me at once, which I'd done a time or two, had me trembling.

One, Ivan I think, took our suitcases and the other informed us we were late and the dinner service had just started. There must have been other servants around, but Ivan and Milos were all that I saw.

We were ushered into a cavernous, concrete-wall dining room lit by just a few wall torches. There was no artwork on the walls. The table was heavy, dark wood, very long. Two place settings were set at one end, where most of the light fell. Milos gestured for Cash and me to sit there, me at the end and Cash to my right. The only other person was sitting at the far end of the table from me, in heavy shadow. I knew instantly that this was the man I was being paid to open my legs to this weekend and that he probably would continue to cling to the shadows.

"That is Peter," Cash said in hushed tones. "He already knows your name, but he isn't likely to speak. That is painful for him."

I got a good inkling of what his problem was. He was sitting at the table, so I only saw him from head down to mid-chest, but I could see that his left side was covered. He had a half mask on his face and very short, little, or no hair on the left side of his head. His hair was long and combed over as best it could be from right to left. He was wearing a dark-blue mesh T-shirt, just like the two attendants I had already met and that were serving us dinner, as Ivan had returned from wherever he'd taken our luggage. He also had a dark cape over the left side of his torso and he was wearing a black leather glove on that hand.

He said nothing, but that didn't mean that he made no sound. During the meal, and, indeed, afterward, he made sort of a snuffling sound. Cash had warned me he would and that he physically couldn't help doing so, so I did what I could not to react to it in any way.

"This is his house. Everyone here—you now, as well—works for him and adjusts to his needs," Cash said.

As we were eating, I realized he wasn't the only diner on that side of the table. There was an archway behind him leading into an even darker room, which also had a table in it. There were two figures at that table, but it was just too dark back there for me to discern more than that there were two figures eating with us, and yet not with us.

After dinner, Ivan and Milos guided us into another large, darkened room, a lounge of some sort with groupings of sofas and chairs around. Cash and I were settled on a sofa facing a large TV screen on the wall. Videos were showing—gay porn. Older men were fucking younger men on the screen.

I heard the snuffling approaching and realized that Peter was being positioned right behind us and in a raised chair that hovered over the back of our sofa.

Cash took my hand in his, leaned in close to me, and whispered, "Don't look back at him. Let him do what he wants." And when I turned my head toward Cash to acknowledge I had heard him, I saw two other figures being settled in the dark across the room.

Before withdrawing, Milos pulled my T-shirt over my head and Ivan was in front of us briefly and pulled my shorts and the red silk thong off my legs, leaving me naked on the sofa. Cash unzipped himself and brought his cock out. "Here," he whispered, "focus on stroking me off."

I did that as I could as Peter's right arm came down over my shoulder from behind, and, snuffling very close to the back of my head, the man used his right hand and arm to fondle and feel me up as best he could. He gave my chest, which had surgically supplied breasts that fell between what a woman would have and a well-built, muscular man would have, but with puffy, sensitive nipples and large aureoles, close attention, discovering that he could make me moan and tremble by working my nipples. He also was able to reach my folds and slit and the vestigial penis at the top of the slit, which he worked well enough for me to gasp and come for him.

When I had done so, Ivan and Milos reappeared. Ivan rolled Peter back and out of the room—I could hear the wheels of the wheelchair he was in, and Milos took me up a couple of flights to a large, marble-lined bathroom, where considerable time and effort went into preparing me for Peter's bed. I had no doubt that that was where I was headed. Cash didn't come with me. The shower was thorough and I was given something that cleaned me out, that made me totally clean inside for what was to come. I was also given something to drink that both made me hazy and loosened both of my channels up.

I was to remain hazy from that time forward—a bit confused, highly sensitive to the touch, prone to ejaculate quickly and prodigiously, and mellow—with little concern of what was happening to me.

The bedchamber, three more flights up, quite possibly at the top of the castle tower, was in total darkness when Ivan and Milos guided me there. I only knew that Peter was already there, in a large bed, because I could hear the snuffling.

I could see nothing, it was so dark. Thus, I was surprised and gasped when the attendants raised me up onto the bed, raising my arms up, and I found that my wrists were being bound to a chain dropped from the ceiling. I was bound and raised facing up.

The interminable fuck was beginning. Ivan and Milos were standing at opposite sides of the bed. Peter was under me, I knew, because I could hear the snuffling and my knees brushed against skin, smooth on one side, rough and bubbly on the other. The attendants were grasping my ankles and raising, spreading, and pulling my legs toward the head of the bed. I gasped again when I felt the tongue at first at my pussy, concentrating in the vestigial penis at the top of the slit and then at my asshole. I knew it was Peter, because, again, skin was brushing up against my inner thighs and hands, one gloved and one not, were fondling my breasts as my pussy and ass were being eaten out. I had already begun to slacken when I was brought into the room. Now I was gaping open in both orifices and I was so sensitive to the sensual touching that I was panting hard, moaning deeply, and begging for cock.

I opened my mouth and cried out when I got my wish. Ivan and Milos moved my legs back, bending them and setting them down on each side of Peter's thighs—one side smooth skinned, the other one rough. One of them held Peter's erection up and the other one settled me on in. The both of them were pushing me down on one of the most massive shafts I'd ever had in me. Whore that I was, I still suffered at the saddling, as the shaft slowly penetrated, spread, and stretched me.

He fucked me raw and deep in the cunt. After the attendants set the rhythm of moving me on the cock and Peter helped by matching the rhythm in his thrusts and withdrawals, I took over my own movement, rising and falling on the shaft, moving around on it, helping to provide Peter a great fuck.

As I knew was desired of me, I cried out how huge he was—he was huge—and how he was the best man I'd ever had, a cruel man, a man who was killing me. "Yes, yes! I can't do it! You're a stud! Fuckin' kill me with your mammoth cock! Fuck me, Screw me! Breed me!"

He did breed me in the cunt, coming with a great shudder and buckets of cum, firing off again and again. He had needed this. I came too, repeatedly, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he had done me royally. In the process, I had been turned and I had ridden facing the headboard and turned and ridden him facing the footboard. Since my wrists were restrained above me, there was nothing I could do with my hands, but his hands were in constant motion and my knees and thighs were rubbing flesh—smooth on one side, rough on the other.

There was a brief cooling-down period when we'd both finished shooting our loads, but he was on enhancement pills, I was sure. I think we fucked for more than two hours and he was massively hard the entire time—and firing off salvo after salvo throughout the session, flooding me. By the time we were finished, cum was running down my thighs in rivers.

When Peter was ready to go again—this time wanting to enjoy my ass—Ivan and Milos repositioned me again, setting my butt down between Peter's spread thighs, putting my ankles on his shoulders, and raising and pulling forward my pelvis so that he could enter my ass with his stretching, possession shaft. He had to have a fair amount of strength in his legs, as he bent them, placed his feet flat on the mattress for leverage, pushed his tail—and thus my pelvis too—up and managed the deep thrusts into my ass passage under his own steam.

He spent as much or more time fucking me in the ass than he had in the cunt, moving from the first ass-stretching position to Ivan and Milos releasing my wrists, turning me over on my belly again, stretching toward Peter's feet, tucking my legs under his arms, and Peter grasping my waist, with a hand of flesh on one side and gloved on the other, and pulling me on and off his cock thrust up my ass.

With a grunt and a flood of cum deep up my ass, Peter was done. He had fucked me forever, remained hard throughout, and released a lake of cum inside me. He had, quite definitely, gotten his rocks off good.

So had I.

And so, I assumed, had two others. Ivan and Milos were too busy helping with the fuck to get themselves off, but almost from the beginning I realized there were two figures—probably the same two who were in the side dining room and the lounge—watching—or at least listening, which would have made an impressive sex tape in its own right—from the deep darkness of the far reaches of the room.

Ivan and Milos carried me back to the bathroom I'd been in before—my head was spinning and I was exhausted and could not have walked a straight line on my own—and let me clean myself up again. They did not let me clean my cunt out, and, at the time, I had no idea why not.