Honey-Lee–the journeys of a TG Nympho
Chapter 11 — Honey stranded at a truck stop
We were in Lake City, Florida taking in an antique car show and sale. Paul had his heart set on picking up a 1958 Cadillac convertible to be offered the following day. Then he got the text! “Emergency on oil drilling platform in the Sea of Japan! Down hole pressures fluctuating wildly! Your presence required Now! Your flight departing Gainsville Regional Airport, GNV 2100 hours for connections in Chicago. Be on it.”
Paul is a highly respected consultant and the peremptory tone of the text concerned him. He called a trusted old friend at the head office of the international firm operating the mid-ocean rig. “Get there, Paul” he was advised. You can bill them whatsoever number you can think of. They all have their asses in the air because none of their engineers understand what’s going on and you’re the guy who wrote about this potential problem in a paper you presented several years ago about feathered fragmentation in deep sea formations.
“I’ve gotta go, baby” Paul decides. “It’s not just big bucks. It’s international reputation. In minutes I’m behind the wheel of our trusty Toyota van and we’re burning up the pavement of I-75 southbound for Gainesville about 50 miles away. We arrived GNV at 1940 hours and since the first hop is domestic, we’re pretty sure he’ll get on. Paul grabs the small bag he had packed for Lakeland, inappropriate likely for the Sea of Japan but it will have to do with his always-carried Canadian passport — and he’s gone.
I pull out of GNV and toward I-75 but I badly need to pee-pee so pull over at the first rest stop where suddenly, disaster strikes. Florida maintains a network of clean, safe and pleasant stops built and maintained by the state to enhance the “Florida Experience” for millions of Americans and foreigners who flock to Florida annually to enjoy its unmatched attractions, both natural and man-made. I’ve never encountered a problem in any of them. This time however, two 200 pound bull-dikes belly me back into the cubicle as I emerge. One shoves a blade to my throat while the other snatches my bag from my shoulder and cuffs my wrists together high behind my back and secured to an upper rail on the cubicle. They depart with my bag, cell phone, keys, money, credit cards and . . . well, everything that says I’m me.
There’s an emergency phone in the central area and after I struggle free, I use it to summon help that soon materializes as two state police cars arrive from opposite directions, blue lights flashing. Did I get their license number? No. Can I describe their vehicle? No. But I do describe two husky bull dikes with very short cut black hair, distinctive tattoos and one with distinctive leather boots. It will have to do, they agree. They take my cell number but of course, the bitches have my phone.
My one ace in the hole is that the Toyota has a keyless entry system, a concealed ignition key, and hopefully, a few dollars in change scattered amongst its many and capacious compartments. I gain entry and sink gratefully into the Toyota’s familiar seats. “I’m OK”, I tell myself. “I’ll be fine. It’s only two and a half hours home and I can call all the credit card companies and the mobile phone provider to report the thefts. I’m going to be all right.” But my hands are trembling and I’m not reassured by a group of a half-dozen dike bikers watching me intently as I pull away, even though I don’t see my attackers amongst them.
I pull back onto I-75 and head for home but I’ve gone fewer than ten miles when the trusty Toyota begins to hiccup and balk. I know instantly what has happened. They’ve sabotaged my van, for what reason I can only guess with trepidition. An exit flashes ahead and I spot a major truckstop sign so I wheel into the off ramp, and eight big bikes follow just a few cars back. The Toyota is foundering like a mule with a bellyful of mouldy oats so I head her into a forest of parked, rumbling highway behemoths. There are still a few “eighteen wheelers” but most now are “22 wheelers” and up. I see mostly 53 foot trailers, lots of “B-trains” and a scattering of highboys hauling heavy equipment. I hunker between an idling Kenworth and a Mack both pulling 53s.. The Toyota coughs to a stop and I don’t try to restart her, knowing her tank is probably laced with sugar and her faithful heart may have stopped forever. But will be only a matter of time before the bikes I hear prowling the lot discover me.
I’m not exactly dressed for safely navigating a southern truck stop either. I’m dressed as Paul likes me to dress for his private pleasure on the road: black, lace-top, thigh-length hose, black micro panties, black mini-skirt extending about an inch south of the tops of the stockings, black bra, black silk v-neck top, and a black velvet ribbon around my neck. There’s a gold chain around my left ankle and I’m wearing pale makeup with thick black mascara on my eye-lashes, thick grey shadow around my eyes and brilliant, wet-look scarlet lipstick.. My long blond hair is blown “big” and the only shoes I have other than laceup a pair of tennis shoes are the ones I’m wearing, 4″ black patent spikes. I debate the tennis shoes for a moment and elect to keep the spikes. My old English grandmother (who was actually Norwegian) had a saying: “in for a penny, in for a pound”. I think it means something like “if you’re gonna go for it, then GO for it”.
I stepped out of the van with the idea of getting to the central building, finding a pay phone (do they still exist?) calling a tow truck or a taxi and somehow getting home. With my wallet gone however and no AAA card, my hopes of getting a tow truck to take the trusty Toyota, even to Sarasota or my dealer in Venice seemed slim indeed. I might have enough cash for a taxi but at this time of night, no sane driver is going to pick up a woman like me at a truck stop and drive her 240 miles to an address deep in a darkened residential neighborhood. No way. I’m strutting along in my spikes between the trucks when I hear the rumble of bikes at the end of the row, about the same time a Georgia drawl from a window above my head says: “Y’all look a bit lost there, little lady”. I glance at the single headlight turning in at the end of the row, look up at the bearded face above and say: “Oh yes sir. I’m lost and I’m afraid those nasty bikers are comin’ after me.”
The truck door swings open, a booted foot is planted on the step and a strong arm swings me up into the cab. I’m enveloped in man-scent. Not nasty, just the distinctively rich thick scent of Man. He juggles me around the huge steering wheel and various other pieces of equipment before depositing me on a seat to his right. He turns on a low, purplish under-dash light and examines what he has hauled in from the night. “Y’all kin call me Thad” he introduces himself. “From Sugar Hill, Georgia.” And I’m Honey-Lee from Punta Gorda, Florida I counter.
“Right proud to meetcha’ll. Honey-Lee from Punta Gorda. But what in tarnation y’all doin’ wandrin’ amongst the wheelers in the middle of the night?”
I spill my tale of a boyfriend snatched away by shadowy oil barons, criminal dikes at a rest haven, my sabotaged beloved Toyota, my stolen ID and credit cards and my fear of the dike’s now patrolling the parking lot for me, for reasons I can only guess and fear. I don’t forget to spill a few tears and numerous deep sighs and soon Thad’s big hands are stroking my hair and I am sitting on his lap as he comforts me. “There’s a good ol’ boy just south of Sarasota” he muses “can prob’ly save that little van of yours.” “Prob’ly set you back $500 ‘stead of $5,000.00 fer a new engine– ‘specially ifn y’all kin show him a little kindness. He’s bin mighty lonely since his Lizza went off with the SnapOn Tools salesman. ”
“There’s one small l’il ol’ problem with that” I disclose. “I’m a TG woman and that just might not set too well with a good ol’ southern boy.”
“Is thet an acc’ual fact?” Thad is suddenly animated. “Looks like them bikers gonna be buzzin’ around for quite some time. Mebbe we just as well bunk down back in the sleeper?” I thought he’d never ask. His manly smell has been driving me crazy since he lifted me into the cab. So I lay my head against his shoulder and whisper that I really am getting sleepy from all my experiences today.
The “sleeper” in a deluxe long-haul highway tractor is amazingly spacious. But Thad only needed enough room to kneel as he removed my panties and enough space to spread my legs wide as lifted my skirt to access my clit. After he had sucked enough to elicit a few squirts he was already in nirvana but I persuaded him to shuck his clothes (ohhhh! More of that man scent! Can I bottle it?) He was reasonably well equipped, his cock and balls hairy (not my first preference) but certainly responsive to the touch of my fingers. When I kissed the tip of his cock, his pre-cum was already bubbling out in sweet droplets that I lapped up greedily before circling the head of his cock with my tongue. Despite his apparent age of about 50, Thad was relatively inexperienced and seemed to enjoy each of my little forays almost excessively and when I finally laid back with ankles hooked up over his backside and let him take me, he lasted only a few minutes and a dozen strokes before exploding about a half quart of semen into my pussy. (a little poetic license here but he did deliver a good deposit). I stroked and comforted him and assured him that his performance was the best I’d known and he fell asleep in my arms so I was able to sleep through “til about 4:00 when diesels began to rev up on all sides and Thad had to be on the road.
He wanted me to stay with him but he was northbound for Chicago so he got on his radio, said “breaker, breaker” a few times then carried on a cryptic conversation, at the end of which he told me “Top Wheel” in the red Mack two rows over will look after you and he swung me down to the ground. He handed down a scrap of paper. “This here’s the good ol’ boy down by Sarasota who kin fix your van. I’ll let him know y’all gonna call. And this here’s a little somethin’ to help you on yer way. It was a hundred. I stumbled two rows over in my high heels but as I no longer heard prowling motorcycles, was inclined to again try to make a break for the central building. “Top Wheel” however spotted me and with one powerful arm around my waist, swung me up into his cab. “You’re in luck, little lady” he exclaims. “I have four hours of an eight hour lay-by here to let the numbers catch up and then I’m legal on the road and can drop you at the Pilot at exit 161. From there it’s a $7.00 cab ride into town. But since we have 4 hours to kill we may as well have some fun, huh.” He tosses me back into his “sleeper” which is decorated with girly and tranny pics on every wall and the ceiling. I know what I’m in for so, in an effort to preserve my clothes until I can access fresh ones, I strip and fold my clothes neatly on a little shelf. “Top” crawls back into the sleeper and sees me huddled behind a blanket. He grins and pulls off his shorts and top, displaying a hairy chest, developing pot and a disappointing 4 inch cock.
Like some small-cock men, he has a mean streak. He yanks the blanket away from me, then grabs and squeezes my tits ’til they hurt. He grabs my hair and shoves my face roughly into his crotch. “Suck that, bitch” he growls. Wanting to vomit but knowing I’m trapped, I give him some decent head and he quickly starts to cum, so I finish him off with my hands. He turns away to pull on his shorts and tee.. “Get dressed bitch” and crawls out of the sleeper. I dress quickly and crawl onto the passenger seat, but he throws two 20s on my lap, pops the door and says “Out”.
“But what about Punta Gorda,” I protest.
“Hell, I ain’t even goin’ that way, but it got me a blow job anyway.”
I climb down from the truck and turn away in disgust. This time I make it to the central building. It’s a big busy noisy place and it has a store stocked with everything a traveler might need. I buy a comb, toothbrush, paste, small bottles of mouthwash, skin moisturizer/ lubricant and sunscreen, deodorant, lipstick, eye liner and shadow, mascara and several packages of individually wrapped “feminine wipes”. On a last minute impulse I toss a six-pack of condoms in the basket and then a can of Raid wasp spray. The makeup is a brand I wouldn’t normally consider but it’s better than nothing and I take my purchases to the women’s washroom to check and repair the damages.
Looking at myself critically in the mirror the damage is mostly “cosmetic” and has more to do with the way I feel than the way I look. In one of the stalls, I clean myself as best I can with the delicately scented wipes and apply the deodorant generously. Back at the mirror, while I’m putting finishing touches on my makeup, a waitress from the restaurant is washing her hands. I smile at her in the mirror and she smiles back. “You’re new here. I haven’t seen you before.”
“Yes. Just tonight. My car broke down.”
She smiles knowingly. “It’s a good place to work from and most of the regulars haven’t come down yet because Season doesn’t really start for another month. A lot of the long-haulers are pretty needy by the time they get here and can be pretty generous if you give them what they want. Just don’t be too obvious in the restaurant or store or the managers will run you off. But with your looks you won’t have to do any soliciting. Just walk on by and the boys will follow you outside.” She dries her hands and says “Have a good night, sweetie” and walks out.
I gather my treasures back into the bag and go searching for a payphone that I eventually find outside an entryway on the tourist side. I phone AAA and they are sympathetic but, while they do have reciprocal arrangements with out-of-state automobile clubs, (mine is in Alberta) they have to see a card to provide service as they have no way to way to access other club’s data bases. Sorry.
I call two taxi services and get the same story. The trip would be about $1000.00, $2.00 a mile round trip plus $50.00 “nighttime charge”. Money to be paid “up front”. If I want, they’ll put a call out to see if there are any drivers willing to make the trip tonight.
In desperation I call the Holmstead’s and get Donna. Mike and Gloria are at a convention in New York. Would I like the number of their hotel. I take the number but don’t call because I can’t see what they could do at that distance. I guess I’m on my own. Time to see if I can earn that $1000.00 cab fare at a truck stop. I walk into the restaurant watching out of the corners of my eyes for reactions or signs of interest. I see lots and walk outside through the other door, pausing as though for a breath of fresh air. I’m there for maybe 30 seconds before a male voice says quietly “Hey baby. You lookin’ to party?”
I check him out quickly. He’s at least ten years younger than I am but shaved and clean-looking. “Depends on the kind of party,” I smile.
“Blow job?” he says, inquiringly.
“A hundred dollars” I reply matter-of-factly. “In advance for a full half hour”.
“Wow. You always charge that much, even before Season? (“Season” in Florida is the height of the tourist season from Christmas to the end of April)
“I get one fifty and tips in Season” I lie confidently. “I’m that good. And my repeat customers tell me so.”
“And if I want the full meal deal?”
“If you would like to fuck a transgender woman, it’ll cost you $250.00.”
He starts perceptably. “You have a dick?” he exclaims astoundedly. “Could I suck it?”
“On a TG woman it’s called a clit, but there are similarities. And yes you may suck it, included in the $250.00 package.”
“And will you stick it in my ass” he asks obviously getting more excited by the minute. So I tell him that would be a special $100.00 service over and above the $250.00 package.
He’s already reaching for his wallet when I caution him “Not Here! In your truck. I’ll follow you. ” I follow him around the building to his shiny new Peterbilt and let him boost me up, not minding him feeling and squeezing my butt as he does so and I let him enjoy a flash of skin and panties before twisting around to sit on the seat. He’s breathing heavy by the time follows me in.
“In the sleeper” he says eagerly but I tell him cash first. He lays four hundreds on my lap “including tip he says” and reaches for me. I tuck the hundreds away in my all-purpose grocery bag and put my arms around his neck and let him kiss me on the mouth. He’s a wet, sloppy kisser but responds eagerly when I stick my tongue in his mouth and feather his ears with my fingertips. I run my fingernails along the skin of his neck and he moans. I unbutton his shirt and run nails along the skin of his chest and he moans some more. I touch the bulge of his cock and become concerned that he might come right then and maybe demand some money back so I pull away and tell him now is the time to climb in the camper.
I lay back in his soft bed, lift my hips and pull off my skirt and top and fold them neatly onto the little table. I’m laying curled like a sex kitten in my black stockings, panties and bra by the time he’s untangled his pants from his boots, pulled pants back up, removed boots and socks, pulled pants off and wriggled out of his open shirt. He knelt in front of me and began running his hands over my body; I reached over and cupped his balls in my hand, squeezing gently before guiding him to my mouth. I could see the droplet of precum on the tip and playfully flicked it into my mouth with the tip of my tongue. It was quickly replaced with another sparkling drop and another and another. He’s obviously a non-smoker and his pre-cum is sweet. I lick the length of his shaft, starting with his balls. I do it again and again, each time swirling my tongue around his bulging knob. He throws his head back and enjoys, one hand on my head, the other fondling my right boob. When I pop that knob into my wet mouth and start “munching” on it between the roof of my mouth and my tongue, he exhales a deep, rapturous breath and starts to pump my mouth. I let him out. “Easy baby. You can cum in my mouth if you want but there’s lots more to come and it’s all paid for.”
He opens his eyes, recognizing the truth of my advice. He puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me down then moves between my legs which I spread open for him. He makes a sharp intake of breath when he seems to notice my clit for the first time. He approaches my clit with his mouth slowly, almost apprehensively, kind of reverently. It has got to be his first time sucking clit or cock. He takes me in his mouth, sucks hungrily, withdraws and has another look at it before sucking it back in again, repeating the performance several times. At last I ask him if he would like me to come in his mouth. He stops what he is doing and looks at me in astonishment. “Would you? Could you? Oh yes! For sure!” So I let him suck some more, then I roll my hips a little and let loose a few squirts of clit juice for his pleasure. He sucks harder, masturbating his cock with one hand while holding my clit in place with the other. When he’s sure there is no more to be had he lets loose of my clit and licks downward toward my tg pussy. Once he’s moistened me and starts to use fingers, I figure its time to put those condoms to use. I pop one in my mouth, pull him up so he is straddling my torso and finger his ass while rolling the condom onto him with my lips. He doesn’t object and may not have even felt it going on and I push him back down so I can extricate my legs.
I ask him if he wants to come in front or back and he chooses front so I pull his pillow under my rump and raise my ankles to his shoulders. He grabs them and enters me in one shove that momentarily takes my breath away with pain. Next time I’ll insert a lot more moisturizer while I’m in the ladies room. Once he’s in, the lotion does its job and he slides smoothly in and out like a slow running cylinder-pump on the farm back home. He doesn’t have any finesse at all but he makes up for that with enthusiasm. He gets a thing going with my legs, thrusting my ankles out to his arms length, bringing them back together, crossing them over to trap his hard-pumping cock, then alternately pushing and pulling each of my legs back nearly to my head then down nearly to the bed. God, what a workout. But when he gets to finally pumping in earnest, he wraps both arms around both of my knees and pins my legs together flat against his chest. With my legs trapped in that position, he doesn’t get a lot of depth but the friction is enormous and my cunt is starting to burn. Fortunately, the friction has its effect on him too and he shortens his stroke even more and revs it up hitting nearly two strokes per second before crying “I’m cumming! OMG, I’m cumming.” He needn’t have told me because I could feel his cock pumping out it’s own unique story as it drew the hot sperm out of his balls and injected into the condom. “Uuuuuuh, Uuuuuuuh, Uuuuuuh,” he uttered. Oh baby, baby.”
I let him finish and snagged the condom on his way out, quickly disposing of it in a tissue as he collapsed on the bed beside me. I caressed his damp skin, put a little spit on my fingers and started working his ass. “Do you still want me to fuck your ass?” I ask.
“Oh baby, that’s enough. You’re the greatest. — But wait! My buddy that was sitting with me; that’s his truck right behind my rig; he wants you too. He just lost the coin toss. Let me phone him. He grabs his cell but I tell him, I have to go to the ladies room first. I’ll walk past here in 20 minutes and if he wants me, he should have a cab light on. He agrees and starts phoning.
I clamber down and get to the ladies room, clean myself up in a cubicle and go to the counter to wash my hands. Well $500.00 down and $500.00 to go, I tell my image in the mirror. Just for safety sake, I go and find my poor disabled Toyota, conceal the cash and makeup under a back seat and grab a fabric grocery bag to use as a purse before checking on my friend in the parking lot. The cab light is on and an arm reaches down to help me up into the passenger seat. He has a square face, curly red hair and beard. “Damn if you’re not a gorgeous woman,” he exclaims. “How did a pretty woman like you come to take up hooking?”
“It so much harder if you’re ugly,” I quip. “But what would you like me to do for you tonight?”
“Buddy told me all about you,” he says. “Did you really fuck him in the ass?”
“A lady never tells,” I evade.
“Well, I want everything he got,” Red resolves.
“I’m not sure I’m quite up for the ass-fucking thing again so soon, but I’ll give you something extra your friend didn’t get and that you won’t forget for awhile.”
“What could that be?” Red leans forward in anticipation.
“A full-meal deal plus a three finger ass fuck with a prostate massage.”
“OMG” he gasps. “I’m in. What’s this all going to cost me?”
“Your friend gave me four hundred” I reply honestly. And he had four crisp ones in my hand before I could see where he got them from.
I lean forward and unbutton his shirt helping him shrug it off his shoulders. I unbuckle his belt, unzip his fly and fondle his handle through his boxers. I reach for his boot laces but can’t reach in the confines of the cab. He pulls the laces and kicks them off himself and together we manage to drop pants, boxers and socks on the floor of the cab. I comb my fingers through his thick, curly red chest hair. “I don’t usually like hairy men,” I murmur, “but I can really go for you”.
His big red-haired hands try to encompass my breasts and he says “And I’m going for you in a big way right now.” After that, we don’t talk much. He lifts me back into the sleeper and follows, big cock swinging under his belly like a church bell on Sunday morning. I get my clothes off — all of them — and folded on his shelf post-haste all while he is running his hands over my ass, my tummy, my boobs, my legs and finally, my clit. “Buddy said it was a lot like a penis, but smaller,” he remarks and pops it into his mouth, popping it back out for a second to report “tastes good too”. Red wants it all, he sucks my clit, my boobs, my mouth and even my fingers. His heavy cock swings back and forth on my tummy leaving a trail of pre-cum as he looms over me sampling the product he has paid for. I let him prowl and sample for awhile but then skid over and make him lie belly down.
I straddle him facing forward just north of his buttocks letting him feel my skin on his skin and firmly, using my strong fingers to full advantage, massaging his neck and shoulder muscles, digging deep, finding knots he didn’t know he had. “Feel’s good, baby,” he groans. I work my way down his spine, rubbing the knots on either side of each bump, then turn myself around to face his feet. I start on his buttocks and deliberately dig deep, feeling for taut muscles concealed by the fat of his butt. Only then do I anoint him with lotion and start circling his anus with the oily fingers of my left hand. I slip in one finger, then two, gently spreading his virgin butt to admit a third, but to go deeper and actually reach his prostate, I have to change position. I dismount his body and move down between his legs so my oiled fingers can search for his internal hot spots. From this new position and with the application of more oil, my remaining baby finger slips easily inside. My fingers are strong from constant daily exercise, but they are slim and tapered as are my hands. I consider, then with my thumb tucked deeply into my palm and my entire soft and lubricated hand funneled, I nudge firmly and feel my whole hand slip through his anus until it is gripping only my slim left wrist. He jerks and sort of “scream/moans”. “Oh baby, you’re killing me. But don’t stop.”
What now? I think briefly, then start blindly exploring this new dark, wet cavern. Brief snippets of remembered anatomy flash across my mind and my exploring fingers soon identify his prostate and massage it with interest, if not precision. He groans with pleasure and I smile in the delight of my new discovery. But I still have commitments to fulfill for this client and need to find others to contribute to the fare I must pay to regain my life. I slowly withdraw my wrist and hand from his rectum wiping my hand clean with tender caresses to his hide. I roll him over and let his cock spring back to its vertical position. I straddle him and let is cock ride up inside my butt crack while I pinch his nipples. “Like this?” I ask him, “or do you want to come on top?” Wordlessly, he positions me with my pussy poised on the tip of his space-bound penis. His boat-shaped cock (narrow in front, very deep and broad in the middle and smaller at the base) is my ideal. It penetrates painlessly, stretches a woman out pleasurably, then settles in comfortably. When he sets me down on it and I feel the expanding presence of its massive midsection, I start to cum, then think “I’m a prostitute; I’m not supposed to cum.” But then, “I’m not a prostitute; I’m just a girl doing what she has to do to get home.” Freeing myself from guilt, I pleasure myself by rocking like a boat at anchor, waves and wakes washing by, his cock planted somewhere amongst my lungs causing my breathing to catch in my throat. When my pussy begins to contract with involuntary spasms, it turns Red into a rocking, bucking, fighting machine that unsettles the foundations of my world.
Anyone who has experienced a significant earth tremor will understand. I was mounted on Red, riding as easily as on one of our purebred rescue horses on the ranch back home, albeit with his rigid cock nestled alongside my backbone somewhere around the 5th vertebrae. Suddenly, the earth starts shifting and sliding. The North Pole thrusts up my cunt and out the top of my head. The effect is similarly cosmic upon Red. He shouts and grabs my waist to hold me on board while his hips gyrate in tune with the earthly forces. When he erupts it comes from outside the aluminum container we are in; it comes from somewhere deep within the bowels of the earth and keeps coming for awhile until finally we both start to come to our senses. “Damn! I forgot the bloody condom,” I think. “Hot damn” Red exults. “You’re the hottest cunt on I-75″. I’ll be seein’ you next time I’m down this way.”
Released, I wipe myself off on whatever I can find, get my clothes back on and myself out of there before he changes his mind. By now I’m getting good at climbing in and out of trucks with my heels on and I get to the ladies room intact. I clean myself up, inject a good dose of moisturizer in my puss and I’m good to go, dropping off my haul in the Toyota before trolling through the store and restaurant, hips grinding, and outside to pause for a breath of air.
Again I have a bite on my first cast, a guy about 40 with a slightly military bearing, short brush cut, prematurely grey. “Nice legs, he cracks.” “Do they always travel together.?”
“It takes a lot to pry them apart,” I crack back.
“How much is a lot?”
“As long as you’re interested in getting into transgender pussy territory, tonight’s your opportunity for only $300.00,” I tell him.
“Haven’t had some of that for a while” he allows. “You clean?”
“As the driven snow” I purr. “Tested every month and use safe sex always, — or almost always,” I amend.
“Just a straight fuck for $300″ he probes. “Seems a little steep for out-of-season.”
“The best TG-fuck you’ll find in the South” I promise “not to mention the best preliminary blow job you’ll find anywhere” and some clit sucking if you want it. The package goes to $400 in season.”
“You’re certainly the most exciting fuck I’ve seen all the way down I-75 so far” he allows. “But it’s getting late. Let’s do it for $200.00.”
“Sorry, soldier” I smile. “You’re right its getting late but I’m still short of my cab fare home so it’s $300.00 for the best piece of tail in your life, or a missed opportunity. By the way, I just noticed there are four guys standing at the window waiting so see if you can make a connection or not. Should we make it $400.00? I stretch a bit, kind of turning away from him and showing a little more boob and a lot more leg under my mini. He groans, knowing he’s outplayed, and offers $350.00. “May as well make it $400.00 including tip,” I say “and I’ll give you a trip around the world. A blow job that’ll make your head spin; you can cum in my mouth if you want to and I’ll swallow every drop AND I’ll stop you early if you want and you can suck my Transgender clit AND I’ll fuck you and milk you with my TG-pussy ’til you let loose of cum you’ve had saved up from last year.”
The dirty talk hooks him. ” Alright., four hundred” he agrees. “But you must know that I carry a heavy load and sometimes two.”
“Bring it on Soldier” I say hopefully. “I’ll follow you to your truck.” The scene plays out predictably by now. He pays. We fuck. He cums and hollers. I climb down and go clean up in the ladies washroom before trolling thru the roiling pool of eager customers in the restaurant. Now however, I have a stash of $1300.00 plus a little “parking money” scrounged from the Toyota. It’s a little more than I’ve been quoted for a taxi home to Punta Gorda. I call the taxi companies again to check on the availability of drivers. Well . . . it seems that a trip of that distance doesn’t really fit within their normal guidelines. For a trip over 200 miles, I would need to employ their limousine service. That would be a flat $4.00 per mile Gainsville to Punta Gorda return, $1856.00 . I hang up. I have a little over $1300.00, my pussy is burning and it is 0400 hours.
I troll through the store and restaurant a couple of times and reject several requests from night workers on their way home for blowjobs, handjobs or miscellaneous services including golden showers, paddling, whips or apparently, stomping my sharp heels over quivering male flesh. None, however, seemed to attract the tariff I need within the next few hours. Finally I see a lowboy pulling into the lot, hauling some kind of monster earth mover. There’s an 8 ft by 8 ft sleeper module mounted on the tractor chassis. I watch them climbing down. “A bit scruffy,” I think, but I’m getting desperate. ” It’ll all be over in an hour” I comfort myself. I position myself near the door, leaning against the wall, back arched, hair slightly mussed. I moisten my lips as they approach.
“Hey Bob. Whatta we got here?”
“I dunno Bing” sez Bob taking up a position against the wall right beside me and looking down at my boobs. “Looks like a mighty fine piece of tail to me. Whatta ya think Bing?”
Bing, having taken up some wall space crowding my other side sez “Looks like tail to me too Bob. Think we should take it for a wag?” And they both laugh uproariously.
“Let’s go sweetheart” and they each take an elbow.
“Not so fast, big boys” I twist free. “First you need to know I’m a special, transgender woman and I don’t come cheap.”
“You’ve got a cock under that skirt?” Bing says incredulously. “Let’s see!”
“No advance viewing but it comes with the package: blow, fuck and suck plus I’ll throw in a prostate massage if you want. $400.00 including tip from each of you, separately or together, take it or leave it.”
“Too much, bitch” sez Bing, “we’ll leave it.”
“No, no says Bob. We’ll take it.” And he emphasizes “take” just a little too much. A look passes between them and I get the whole devious picture but by this time they have both of my elbows firmly fastened in big paws and are hustling me across the lot to the far side of their rig. There’s no way though that they’re going to get me up the little ladder and into the side door of that sleeper without $800.00 in my hot little hands — not while I’m conscious anyway. Finally Bob shrugs and peels off eight big ones. “Ain’t no other bitches with cocks around tonight” he sez. “Guess you get lucky.” I tuck my money deep into the bottom of my bag and let them boost me up. Bob gets his hand right up my skirt and onto my panties to do the job.
They follow me into the big two-bed sleeper and and are all over me before I can begin to get my clothes off. Bob grabs me from behind holding me with one hand clamped over each of my boobs. Bing tears off my panties and then my skirt. “By God, she does have a cock under here.” They rip my top over my head and then yank my bra off that way as well, shoving me down onto one of the beds. Bing holds me down with one hand while he unzips with the other and pulls out his cock like he’s going to pee. He thrusts it into my mouth and says “Blow baby blow.”
Bob doesn’t waste much time either but at least he removes his boots, pants and boxers. He pulls my legs apart and kneels on the foot of the bed beween them, hard cock in hand. He gives my little clit a few yanks with thumb and forefinger before attempting to access my tg-pussy. The angle of course is wrong and he’s instantly frustrated and cursing. I manage to get Bing’s cock out of my mouth long enough to say “You’ve got to put a couple pillows under my butt if you want in from in front.” He grabs one pillow from under my head and another from the other bed and stuffs them under me before clambering back between my legs. When he hammers into me without any preparation I almost faint from the pain. Yes my tg-pussy is practiced and accommodating, but it does need a little preparation before full penetration. I was grateful at least that I had inserted almost all the lotion remaining in the bottle into my pussy while in the ladies room so once he started pumping, the pain eased considerably.
I can see why they don’t want to pay $400.00 each because they seem to have no idea that sex can and should be a whole lot more than pushing a cock in and out of a cunt for a few minutes. They’re being so rough with me that, try as I might, I can’t add anything in the way of refinement or subtlety to the performance so I just buck a little now and again to show I’m alive and give Bing a little tongue whenever I get a chance. Bob quickly gets down to the short strokes and fires off a respectable load, commenting “Fuck! . . . Fuck! . . . Fuckkk!” as he hammers in the last few strokes, then he’s outta there and at my head. “Your go, Bing”. Bing is out of my mouth and into my cunt in about three steps, still fully dressed in boots, pants and sweat shirt . Bob shoves his waning cock in my mouth. “Suck it clean, bitch”. I comply and he flops naked on the other bed.
Bing deposits his load even faster than Bob and with less commentary. He just pulls it out and stuffs it back in his pants not bothering to even wipe. I roll off the bed and get my hand into my bag on the floor, half under the bed. “You get all you need, Bob?” Bing asks, tucking his cock back into his pants.
“Yeah, Bing,” Bob responds, still supine on the far bed. “But that little half-cunt done stole my perfectly good hard on. Guess you’ll have to give her the boot” and they both roar with laughter. Bing gets a three second spray of Raid wasp killer straight down the throat, gags and collapses. Bob is only slightly luckier. The Raid product, designed to let a user operate it well away from potentially angry wasps, throws a concentrated stream up to 20 feet. As he sits up, Bob gets it in the eyes and as he opens his mouth in a shout of protest, a good shot in there as well. I get the side door of the sleeper open and leap to the ground, naked in the big parking lot except for my black, thigh-high stockings but I run like crazy away from the truck and away from the building, clutching my shopping bag purse in one hand and my can of Raid in the other. Taking chances, I crawl under one truck after another feeling my stockings shred on the pavement but counting rows until I get to the one where my Toyota is parked. I run, boobs bouncing, cum running down my legs and get to the van, activate the keyless entry and the power side door and tumble inside. I have presence of mind only to hit the power locks and then lay trembling on the floor in the back until I see the first early rays of sunlight starting to show through its tinted windows.
Having finally stopped shaking, I remove my shredded stockings, clean myself up as best I can using “Wet-Ones” we keep permanently in the van. Sitting naked on the floor, I open the bags in which I’ve stored my cash and carefully count it out, sighing with relief at the total: $2,100..00. I retrieve the valise I had packed for Lake City, was it only 48 hours ago — find enough to cover myself — and head back toward the now familiar ladies room of the truck stop, carrying my shopping bag “purse” and my valise. The lowboy with its big machine is gone. Once more I clean myself up with the last of the “feminine wipes”. I wash off all of my makeup and replace it with just moisturizer lotion and a light trace of lipstick. I put on a white bra, modest white, tailored shirt, tiny dolphin ear rings, and sharply creased, white mid-thigh shorts. Short white ankle socks and white tennis shoes cover my “call-girl painted” toenails. I comb my hair out to smooth, un-backcombed waves tied gently back with a pink scarf and head for the payphone. When I dial the limo service I get a new woman’s voice. For such a long trip she explains, she’ll need a credit card number but when I say I’ll pay cash up front, she relents and advises she can have a limo my location in an hour; that will make it 0800 hours.
I go into the restaurant to enjoy some breakfast while I wait for my limo. I now look like the second “trophy wife” of a retired drug store chain owner, waiting for “the girls” to head off for a morning of golf.
I’ve just settled into a booth to examine the menu, a coffee at my lips when I’m joined by the waitress who had befriended me late last night. She is just going off shift and looks tired. “How can you look so fresh and beautiful after the night you’ve just had?” she queries. I thank her for the compliment but I must have looked surprised because she follows with “Oh I was keeping an eye out for you and so were a couple of the other girls. You look new and inexperienced somehow and there are some creepy guys that show up here sometimes. But it was ok. You took on some big lusty looking dudes and every one of them came back in later, strutting like roosters in the barnyard — except that last pair. They didn’t come in and looked like a couple of drunks when they pulled out.” You must have turned at least seven tricks and you still look fresh. You’re either lucky or very, very good.”
“A little of both, I guess,” I smile but I’m almost overcome with her kindness and concern and thank her profusely. When she asks if she’ll see me tonight, I blow her off with, “Not likely; I was just here tonight to pick up some spare change” but seeing the hurt look in her eyes, I apologize, look down and involuntarily let a tear fall on the table before telling her my story of yesterday from happiness strolling hand in hand with Paul in Lake City to “abandonment” by Paul to destruction of my beloved Toyota, to now. She looks into my eyes for signs of dissembling and, finding none, puts her hand on mine on the table and gives it an understanding squeeze and I know that she also has seen her times of fear and hopelessness.
After hearing the clatter of the telephone handset smacking into its cradle, the three of us, exhausted from fucking for hours on the denim covered sofa and the sprawling bed, settled under shiny black silk sheets, sheets unable to lose their cool tactility no matter what sort of friction might be applied to them. I was wrung out, went out like a light, as though pole-axed by a Mickey Finn, clobbered by the right hook from the ham fist of a heavy weight boxer. Eric and Harmony may have fucked after I fell asleep. For that matter every male living in the state of Washington between the age of 21 and 27, 28 tops, could have fucked Harmony Hill, had a veritable orgy, and I would have slept through it. I was that weary. Harmony, her insatiable demands, her ceaseless desires had worn me out. My own insatiable appetite and ravenous hunger were no less responsible for my exhaustion.
Hours later, I awakened, my stomach rumbling, felt hungry, ached for a stack of syrup laden pancakes, a rasher of crisp bacon, and a pot of steaming black coffee. Harmony lay on her left side, her silken right leg draped across my legs, her right arm flung across my groin, her wrist flattening my damp pubic hair, her hand softly gripping my cock. She snored. In the quiet of the bedroom the snoring did not sound raucous. She did not snort or make sounds like a motor with no muffler, imitate the creak of a rusty barn door. Her snores, a rhythm of noisy exhalations, a clicking sound uttered sotto voce barely qualified as snoring.
Her eyelids fluttered and her long silky eyelashes danced. Did she dream incessantly of young men with hard cocks and ceaseless erections or did she dream solely of one lost young man, a youngster buried under a simple white cross in the Quiet Nation cemetery near Puyallup? In her waking hours did her relentless need for sex with young men blot out the image, the memory of her dead son?
Shut the fuck up, I thought. I did not need to pollute this perfect situation by wondering what drove Harmony to sexual excess. At some point I hoped to find a woman to love, to share a life with, a woman who needed me as much as I needed her. Harmony Hill, a 55 year old vixen with issues was not this woman. At this moment in my life, I enjoyed my shallow life. It may have hurt my writing but I was no later day Hemingway, no one even considered me a manqué of F. Scott Fitzgerald. I lived simply, worked at a job not unduly stressful, shared laughs with good friends loved to read, go to the movies, watched Turner Classic Movies religiously, played football with my buddies on tepid fall afternoons, took in an occasional Mariners game during the season and get in as much fucking as humanly possible. Harmony bounced into my life one morning and one morning or one evening she would bounce out of my life just as quickly. As long as she desired to fuck me, I would be ready, willing and able. What good did it do to practice lay psychoanalysis or speculate on why she did what she did? As soon as I started trying to get in her head I could kiss her body good bye. Plenty of other men would gladly fill in for me. I knew our affair was transitory, a temporary liaison and nothing more. If nothing else the memory of her free wheeling persona, her endless quest to gratify and be gratified, her luscious body, its perfect curves, the moist and supple orifices I plied with regularity and her Nordic visage, its naughty mien, promised to delight me long into my dotage.
I still could not help wondering who scratched the graffiti on the front door, who she called early that same morning. I suspected her ex-husband Hugo, but could not be sure. Why call this person, why torture him? I had no doubt the person she called was a man. To me, it signaled a tremendous hate, a boiling rage. I did not wish to be pounding my cock into her one day and have some enraged behemoth burst into the room, a shotgun already pumped, a calloused finger on the trigger, the artillery aimed at our humping bodies. The last thing I would hear as I stroked in and out, the blast of the gun.
Raising my head off the pillow, peering across the contours of Harmony’s body, I could see Eric had vamoosed. The quiet apartment absorbed the sounds of giggling children playing outside, a car starting smoothly, a car door slamming and a lawn mower off in the distance.
My head dropped back on the pillow, for several minutes I studied the whirls of painted brush strokes on the ceiling and like Robert the Bruce in his cave, I watched a small spider in the ceiling’s left corner hard at work weaving its web.
Harmony’s snoring stopped. Her hand, the one gripping my cock, jerked slightly, much like a hose suddenly charged with water. She applied pressure. I closed my eyes, feigning sleep. She removed her hand quickly as though my cock was suddenly sizzling hot. Immediately, she made a necklace around my prick with her thumb and index finger. Her fingers, soft and smooth as satin, slid up and down my length in the same way I masturbated with my left hand. Being a south paw, my right hand was unable to establish the proper rhythm stimulating myself. It felt awkward. Harmony’s right hand did fine beating me off and my cock quickly responded to her stimulation.
For a few minutes she stroked slowly, her fingers moving up and down my stalk at a fast enough pace to sustain my hardness but not so swiftly to make me erupt over her the knuckles. Even after all the previous fucking, I still felt like fucking. Thoughts of chow easily forgotten, I wished to bury my cock in the vault between the juncture of Harmony’s legs, to drive my shaft deep into her mouth.
My eyes remained closed. Harmony removed her hand from my cock, shifted her leg from over mine, and smoothly twirled her body down under the sheets like a diver plunging into an Olympic-sized pool. A mound under the black sheets, she positioned herself over me. I felt her heavy breasts mashing down on my thighs, nipples poking into my flesh.
She took my cock into her mouth, swallowed its length, her lips buried in my pubic hair. Did it tickle, I wondered. She sucked. Not gently but greedily. She licked. Not like tasting it as a test of flavor but more like tearing into it, her favorite treat. Harmony never tired of giving me head, always dispensed it as a gift. Her warm mouth, its moist innards, the texture of her lips, the manner of blowing and inhaling cock by turns made her the ultimate fellatrix.
One of my former bedmates, a brunette named Angela, loved to suck my cock, any cock for that matter. She delighted in going down on me while I slept. Nothing felt finer then having Angela suck me off while I slept.Since the first time Angela applied her full lips to my cock and I awakened to the pressure, the pleasure of her cock sucking, I liked nothing better then opening my eyes after a night of restful sleep, looking down and seeing a female, any female’s head bobbing up and down. It was nearly indescribable, the feeling that burst in my loins before I opened my eyes. Awakening, my pleasure center not buried in my brain but busy in its annex, the cylinder between my legs. Jolts like electricity, the pleasing sensation of an itch satisfied, a thrill, something similar to a junkie’s high but healthier welled up in my cock head, spewed through my body in the most delicious waves of contentment.
Nothing else matter while this woman or that woman sucked, nothing else existed except my cock and her connection to it.
Getting hard, a woman on her knees noisily sucking me from under a desk, in a car, the windows steamed over, her rising and falling head narrowly missing the steering wheel sucking me off. Sitting in a rocker recliner, the movie Silverado playing on the tube, fucking a woman’s mouth to the sound of Winchesters blazing and clopping horse hooves, then coming. All these situations, more, added a fillip of excitement but the best head came from having it administered on my soft cock while I slept, the suction bringing my cock alive, a woman’s cheeks, her mouth, her tongue all working in concert to bring ecstasy, ecstasy unfurling with infinite slowness. Like wetness infiltrating a paper towel every molecule in my being sopped up the pleasure of her mouth. In real sleep, not the faux state I practiced now, the suction of Harmony’s mouth, any woman’s mouth, jolted me into consciousness, felt like being born in a heaven where ecstasy was so pervasive that orgasms came merely by touching anything, breathing the air, tasting any flavor, hearing any sound or seeing any scene.
Harmony’s mouth made noises like a baby plastered against mother’s tit or guzzling on the nipple of a bottle. Not opening my eyes, a smile creasing my lips, I imagined one of her fingers or all of them fitted together like a spade digging away inside her pussy while she ardently sucked me
“Fuck, that feels good,” I said, letting her know I was awake and tired of play acting.
My sperm shot into Harmony’s mouth, she released me and then patted the head of my cock like it was a well behaved puppy. The room’s stale air smelled of spent semen, the musky scent of Harmony’s drippings, sweat and silk.
“Good morning. Our partner in crime seems to have left the building. Are you up for coming in my mouth again? She laughed at her little joke looking at my readily apparent upness, tapped her index finger on the drumhead tightness at the summit of my cock. “I am going to suck really really hard. I want to taste your warm sperm, swallow it into my belly.” Her voice sounded so sexy, so relaxed and so gentle.
“You young guys never stop, never need a breather. Your sperm is a tonic for this old girl. My skin is softer, my teeth whiter, my hair shinier, my pussy tighter. I think my boobs may be bigger too.”
Harmony’s mouth returned to my cock, swallowed it, and sucked exactly as she said she would.
Deep inside me, in the place where my sperm lived, but not for long since losing my virginity to Emily Proctor, the entire colony lined up, bumped into one another, jostled, slid down the chute in my cock, and filled Harmony’s mouth. In the pleasure of their passing, ecstasy in the form of tumultuous waves of bliss and delightful explosions of joy radiated through me. I watched her swallow my little Dwights and when she finally lifted her mouth off me and I saw my glistening semen dribbling from her lips, I nearly called up another squad of underdeveloped troopers to send her way.
For several minutes after my prodigious ejaculation into her mouth we enjoyed the greatest byproduct of intimacy: comfortable silence. Then in an explosion of movement combining elements of a gymnast’s fluid range of motion, a cat’s limberness, a dancer’s innate rhythm, Harmony bounded from between my legs and stood on the floor next to the sleigh bed.
As she turned on her slender ankles toward the bathroom, the morning light painted her alabaster flesh in a golden hue. She turned in my direction, offered me a stupendous view of her profile and a face on shot of her body in its entire splendor. She yanked the black wig from her head, threw it on the chair, and removed a series of bobby pins from her blond hair; let it cascade on to her shoulders. As she massaged her scalp with her fingers and brought life back to the blond tresses smothered under the wig, she said: “Lover, I just realized your face and body’s remarkable resemblance to Brad Pitt.”
I was bowled over by the compliment but I could not see any resemblance. On my eighteenth birthday my grandfather smeared butter on my nose. He always did this on my birthday, my brother’s birthday, my mother’s birthday. It was some sort of ancient Druid ritual I think. Six months and two days later I fucked Emily Proctor, a first year law student with a gap between her two front teeth and a giant intellect to boot. Did she fuck me because I resembled Mr. Pitt? Did I owe all my other conquests following Ms Proctor to Mr. Pitt? What did it matter? I was the one getting to fuck Emily and Tiffany and Sharon and Gwen and Helga and another Emily and Dawn and Laurie and Connie and Edwina and Suzanne and Mirabelle and Katrina and Megan and Angela and Frankie and several Janes and Janet and a well preserved 62 year old by the name of Mildred and Donna and Pam and Shirley and Sarah and Sara. I fucked one woman after another, getting my fill of them, enjoying the thrill of a new liaison before moving into another woman’s bed. Sometimes I managed to get into the pants of several women during the same period of time. On Monday night I might fuck Daphne, Wednesday I formed a two backed beast with Sheila and Saturday night found me between the thighs of Amber. If all those women opened themselves to me, including Harmony, let me plow into them so freely due to my resemblance to Brad then all I could say was, “Thank you Brad.”
“I am going to take a quick shower and if you have no other plans, I want to come back to bed and ride your cock. I want to be on top, ride you like a cowboy, and have you suck my tits. While you are waiting there is food and soft drinks, water in the fridge. I have no clue what time it is and it may be too early but I also have rum, whiskey, vodka and fixings in the cabinet to the right of the sink.”
She blew me a kiss, entered the bathroom, shut the door, the shower soon running.
Naked, I walked to the guest bathroom, peed copiously, washed my hands in Yardley lavender soap and walked to the kitchen. No sign of Eric anywhere.
As I opened the refrigerator, I heard no singing in the bathroom. I did hear one or two sighs, verbal expressions uttered no doubt as the hot water pummeled her body. Come to think of it, other then the occasional double entendre in her speech, the little joke she made earlier about me being “up” Harmony’s sole joy seemed to come from sex. At other times her attitude, her expressions were nearly vapid. Other then her sexual turn ons, I had no idea what she liked or disliked, what her political beliefs might be, what she liked to read or listen to, what delighted or infuriated her. Other then a few facts culled from several less then reliable sources and a few sexual vignettes told by Harmony, every point of reference in our relationship was plotted inside the confines of this luxuriously appointed apartment.
The extent of my knowledge of Harmony Hill was confined to the topography of her body as learned in our sexual dalliances. Virtually every memory of us together was physical and sexual. She knew as little of me as I knew of her for that matter. When she was in a fever to fuck she fucked. Apparently, the only governor on this lust a self imposed and scrupulously obeyed rule to screw men with certain physical characteristics and be between the ages of 21 and 27 or 28. Perhaps an older man might be able to fuck her if he was youthful looking, intelligent, lean, slightly muscled, had an edge about him yet retained a nugget of innocence no matter what level of depravity he experienced.
I poured two percent milk out of a half gallon plastic jug into a tall glass, quickly fixed a sandwich by slathering creamy peanut butter and grape jelly on white bread, dropping it on a robin’s egg blue plate next to a scattering of stale nachos and a nearly overripe banana. Standing naked in front of the double basined sink, a modern day Adam cast out of one paradise and finding refuge in another, I quickly ate the sandwich, the nachos, and the banana after striping its skin and finally polished off the glass of milk in three gulps.
Harmony remained in the bathroom, the shower still running. I returned to the bed, covered myself with the sheets and positioned several pillows under my head. The time spent waiting for a woman to finish her ablutions, to prepare herself for sex passes with an infuriating slowness. It is akin to being struck in a traffic jam or confined inside a plane’s fuselage after it lands and waiting and waiting some more and watching and watching some more as passengers eke down the aisle and out through the door at glacial speed.
Hearing the shower stop a good sign. Now some time spent looking in the mirror, applying this and that to restore what was rubbed off when Eric was in this hole and I was in another. Lotions, unguents, powders, gloss, perfume applied here and there. I could see her studying her reflection, dabbing at her lips, plucking eye brows that sort of thing.
Waiting, I stroked my cock, ran my fingers across the tightness of my nut sack.
The bathroom door opened. A procession of scents: Jean Nate’ bath splash, floral odors, citrus smells, the sharp aroma of aloe and a dash of Channel Number Five advanced in front of Harmony. She emerged as a flash of flesh and turned to the left. The fading sound of her bare feet padding across the carpeted floor reached my ears. The door of the refrigerator opened and quickly closed. Harmony, her alabaster skin suffused with a lobster’s red color from the hot shower, returned to the bedroom, stood at the foot of the bed smiling at me, a naughty glint sparkled in her blue eyes. She held a large plastic jar of honey in her right hand. Her blond hair, a waterfall of wheat, flowed down on to her shoulders. Her breasts, a Nordic milkmaid’s huge breasts, pointed at me. Note to self: fuck Harmony while she wears a lace up bustier, her tits spilling over the top of the thing, a mini skirt with an attached apron bordered in lace trim, a duplicate of the costume Helga wore in Munich when I first fucked her. Erect nipples the color of mahogany centered in areolas looking like walnut stained saucers. Under the swell of her breasts, a flat plain over her stomach, a tiny waist, flaring hips, its landscape only appreciated under the tiniest panties or naked like now. My eyes feasted on the bald cleft, the camel toe looking thing between her legs. Then my eyes licked over her smooth long legs and her wonderfully sexy feet their toes painted a garish pink.
Harmony leaned most all her weight on her left leg, cocked her right leg as posing for an erotic shot. She stared at me reclining under the silk sheets, the fingers of her right hand stroking the nipple of her left breast as counterpoint to the stroking of my cock.
“Lie flat on your back lover,” she said.
I removed my hand from my cock, pushed the sheets back exposing the length of my Brad Pitt like body. She moved to the left, climbed in the bed. Framed by the black silk sheets her flesh appeared blindingly white, the areolas on her breasts more significant, the pink slit between her legs that much more enthralling. She straddled me, squatted down on my shaft. Perched on the prong of my cock, she lifted her head toward the ceiling.
“Ah,” she said.
She lifted the container, opened its plastic cap with the flick of her thumb, turned the bottle upside down, and squeezed its sides. The honey’s amber color ejaculated from the bottle and landed on to the surface of her tits in a jagged string that glistened on her flesh as it spelled the word SLUT.
I pushed my loins toward her, she dipped toward me. Not my favorite position for fucking but it did allow me to play with her tits, and in this case, to lick the honey trickling down over her skin and dripping on to my heaving chest. Squatting on me she then lifted herself. Nearly letting my hardness slip from inside, she then dropped back, letting my cock fill her full once more. Keeping to this cycle with the efficiency and precision, I lapped at the honey on her down stroke and gradually erased the sweet nectar with the brush of my tongue.
The telephone ringing disrupted our rhythm. Harmony leaned over, picked the telephone off its cradle, and dialed a number as she continued to ride my cock.
“It’s me,” she said into the phone.
“Right now, I am getting fucked by the nicest and hardest cock. It feels so good going into me. Fuck me lover.”