I Understand

Taking in my breath, I was at the end of my act on stage again, standing there, just in red spike heels, bikini bottoms, and a gold chain around my narrow waist. This was the moment; the big reveal. The bra had already come off in my dance to reveal my melon-rounded breasts. As the music was coming up to a crescendo, I released the ties of the bikini bottoms and let them drop to the floor, standing there for the mandatory twelve seconds in the spotlight, clutching my feathered boa about me, spreading my legs and bending my knees into a slight crouch, jutting my pelvis forward, giving focus to the guys’ attention out there, listening to the catcalls out in the dark audience.

This is me. Now. I am a woman now. I went through hell to get this cunt.

On the count of eight, I let my ruby-red fingernails glide down my small, willowy body to my surgically provided snatch, and I touched myself, fondling my labia and spreading them open to beckon into the mysteries below, my pelvis jutted forward toward the watchers in the shadows of the audience. I had no idea how many men were out there in the small theater at Suzy’s, a trans strip show club two blocks off the main drag near the Luxor in Las Vegas—the spotlight on me was blinding—but I understood their curiosity and their urge to explore and experience, if only vicariously from a distance.

I understood. I understand. I went through hell to get this cunt.

The spotlight died and the rest of the house lights went out as well. I slipped off the stage and down the corridor to the dressing rooms, not looking left or right. None of the stagehands looked at me or spoke to me. There was no curiosity left for them and this was nothing special for them anymore. I understood that. Any of them who wanted to do more than look had already had their curiosity satisfied. I wasn’t a nun.

It made me feel isolated. Getting fully transformed had fulfilled a dream and a need I’d had since I was young, but it hadn’t resulted in more attention. I’d gotten more attention, more in terms of relations before I’d had the surgery done. Now it was a bit of standing off and curiosity—or a one-time satisfying of that curiosity. Even the sex became perfunctory and “once is enough”—an assurance that, yes, it does fit and feels about the same, but, yes, it’s a bit weird to think about doing it regularly. I could understand that. It was lonely sometimes, though. This was my twenty-second birthday; my second anniversary as woman was coming up soon, so it was particularly in my mind now.

I took my makeup off, put my reddish-blond hair into a small bun at the back of my head, pulled a jock and silken athletic shorts and a T-shirt on—baggy enough to disguise that I had breasts now—and athletic shoes, and I went out through the front of the club. Mine had been the last act and the place had cleared out afterward.

Tom Blankensmith was still in the ticket booth and greeted me as I was leaving the club. “Happy birthday, Frankie,” he said. “I hope you have something great laid on for tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Tom,” I answered. “Just sleep, I think. It’s been a hard week.” I winced a bit at the world “laid,” as that’s what I really would have liked—to be laid. Not be just anyone, of course, but by a hunk who clearly wanted what I had to offer. But finding one wasn’t on my prospective agenda.

“I understand,” he answered.

Tom was the only one who had wished me a happy birthday. He was likely the only one at the club who knew it was my birthday. He was the only one here who I knew outside of the club. I worked at keeping my various lives separate. Most in my two other lives didn’t even know I’d gone totally trans. I repaired computers and I was the accompanist for the Las Vegas Gay Men’s Chorus, piano being what I had been working toward making a living off of before I’d made the decision to make the total change. My whole life had changed after that. Tom was in the chorus. He was probably the only one who knew I played the piano, and I was the only one here who knew he was taking voice lessons and wanted to be a singer, not just a ticket seller at a Vegas trans club.

He was only a couple of years older than I was. He was OK to look at, but a little shy. I think Las Vegas was still overwhelming him. I understood. Las Vegas still was overwhelming me too. It was so hard to develop relationships here—and I hadn’t had one since I’d made the change. That made a difference to all the guys I met up with. The change was there between us—a curiosity and a source of indecision and reluctance. But I could understand that. It wasn’t something I wanted to do as much as something I had to do—to be able to continue breathing.

It was nearly 2:00 a.m. There wasn’t much left of the night. It had just turned my birthday. I hadn’t thought about what I would do tomorrow, Saturday, before it was time to come back to the club. I was off at the computer place where I worked on their geek squad.

I lived four blocks away from the club in a walk-up tenement. Everyone living here worked the strip in some low-level function or otherwise. It wasn’t so bad. I had two rooms, a kitchenette, and a bath. That wasn’t bad for as close to the strip and Suzy’s as it was. I was paid pretty well at the computer repair shop and quite well at Suzy’s. I couldn’t complain about that. More was coming in than was going out. I kept my head above the water.

I stopped most nights I was working at Suzy’s for a coffee at an all-night café half way between the club and my apartment, and I did so tonight. I didn’t go right in, though. I had sensed that someone had been following me since I’d left the club—a big, hulking presence keeping pace with me half a block behind. It was 2:00 a.m. and Vegas wasn’t a walking city, except for all the tourists on the main strips, so it was noticeable that someone was behind me. I paused before going into the café and took out a cigarette. I’d give him a chance to pass me by before I went in. But he didn’t pass me by.

“Need a light?” he asked, and I saw that he already had a lighter out and a cigarette for himself and the lighter had flamed up.

“Yes, thanks,” I said. I had a lit cigarette now and I couldn’t take it into the café, so I was stuck standing there, smoking it. He apparently was too. This was a typical setup for a pickup, and it had picked me up before. It was my birthday and my other option was going to be loneliness on my birthday. I’d done casual tricks off the street before. This wasn’t something I normally wouldn’t do. Our heads had come close together and his hand had cupped mine when he lit me up. I had to admit that he really hit me up. He smelled nice. Some form of wood-smoke scent. An off-putting smell off the man wasn’t what was going to make me walk away.

He was one big bruiser—black, towering, heavy, but in a muscular way, not fat. He was handsome as the devil—bald, but with a close-cropped, groomed mustache and beard. He had a good partial smile that promised a very good full smile. And what was it I’d heard about bald-headed men? That they were a man and a half elsewhere? My immediate instinct was to make him want to smile.

I was having mixed feelings. One part of me wanted him to move on—I found his size and that he was black a bit intimidating and there was a hint of the bad boy about him. But another part of me didn’t want him to leave. It was my birthday. I craved contact, someone to talk to. Truth be told, it was my birthday. I wanted to be fucked—and by a guy who stayed around to do it a second time, a guy who appreciated the change I had made.

But we didn’t talk—not at first; not out there in front of the café while we smoked. Trapped by the need to get the cigarettes smoked but not able to take them into the café and neither of us apparently ready to move on, we stood there, not talking, both of us looking up and down the deserted street as if we were just waiting to flag a cab, both of us very much aware that we should either say something or move on.

At last he cleared his voice and said, “I saw your act—at Suzy’s.”

“Did you?” I said, knowing that I wasn’t giving him the smile he might have wanted for revealing that. There it was, then. But, shit, it was my birthday and he was a handsome devil. He was bald and I couldn’t stop thinking about what they said about bald-headed men. I wondered how much of a devil he was. There was one thing him saying that told me that relieved the tension. He knew the lay of my land now. No, there were two things. He was a man who patronized trans strip shows.

“Were you going to go into this café?” he asked.

“Yes. I usually stop here after the club closes,” I answered.

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

I didn’t respond immediately. I didn’t want to leave the impression I was needy or anything. But I think we both knew I’d say “yes”. Neither one of us was backing off. “Sure, why not?” Yeah, why not. It was my birthday. Nobody else was throwing me a party.

We both ditched our cigarettes. They’d done their part in this little drama. We crushed them out with our shoes—mine stiletto heels—and he held the door of the café open for me to enter in front of him. He reached up and brushed a beefy black finger across a nipple puckering out in my T-shirt as I passed, maybe thinking I’d take that as just accidental. I didn’t. I wore my T-shirts so that the nipples would show for this precise tease value. Not many guys were forward enough to touch them at this stage of the dance, though. So, maybe I should have taken it as accidental. At the time, I didn’t.

“I’m Jamal,” he said as we moved toward a table in the shadows of a corner.

“Frankie,” I answered.

There wasn’t much talk at the table, as we sat close together and sipped the coffee. It wasn’t talk that had brought us here.

“What do you do—besides dancing at Suzy’s?” he asked. I knew he was asking if I was a whore-for-pay or maybe gave it away for free. He probably thought that a lot of small, T-girls like me couldn’t wait to get it from a big black bull like him. And I didn’t have to guess if he knew I was a transformed T-girl. He’d said up front that he’d seen my act at Suzy’s. I had to admit that he aroused me in that curiosity way, the curiosity of just how big he was, how well it would work with my new lady bits—how big an orgasm he could give me, how big an orgasm could I work out of him. Whether the legend of a bald-headed man was indicative or myth.

“I repair computers,” I said, probably not giving him the response he was after. I didn’t mention the piano, which was the real, by choice, “what do I do,” but I didn’t want to open up to him, to be vulnerable to him in that way. He didn’t look like a music aficionado. I already was vulnerable to him sexually, and I wasn’t totally wild about that. “And you. What do you do?”

“I guess you could say I’m a fixer. I work in security and cleanup,” he answered. I waited for him to explain that, but when he didn’t, I decided he wasn’t going to open up more to me either. I felt the isolation of that. No talk. He wasn’t here for talk. And then there it was—the curiosity that had caused him to follow me in the first place. I felt the hand on my knee under the table.

“You OK?” he asked. We both knew it wasn’t a general question about my health. He was asking if I was OK with him putting his hands on me—intimately. He was opening up a proposition. If I went with it, we would fuck. There’d be no unpleasant surprises if we fucked. He’d seen me—all of me—on stage at Suzy’s and he’d let me know he had.

It was decision time. Thank him for the coffee and get up and leave or carry through with this. It was my birthday and I was sorry for myself and the prospect of being alone on my birthday.

“Sure,” I answered. I opened the stance of my legs and slouched down a bit toward the front of the chair. He leaned in; I leaned in; and we kissed.

It was late. We were the only customers in the café. We were sitting in the shadows. The counterman had gone into the back of the store.

The hand moved up, under the hem of my loose silk shorts. His eyes searched mine for signs of resistance, rejection. I didn’t move a hand down to stop him. He already knew I had a snatch rather than a dick and balls. There would be no surprise there. Our eyes locked onto each other’s and I didn’t set mine to the “discouraging” mode. He stroked my inner thighs lightly, and I relaxed any tension there might have been in my legs, letting them part more, giving him separation to move the hand higher.

He was after the feel of the cunt. We both knew that. We maintained eye contact as he stroked higher, him looking for any evidence of resistance but also looking for a moment of collapse and surrender from me. He caught my shudder, relaxing into the chair, and my pelvis rolling up slightly to give his hand full access.

“Easy, there, sweetie,” he murmured, and a gave him a little moan. Shit, he was good at this.

His fingers reached and explored me under the table, unabashedly taking full privilege of exploration. He gently rubbed the folds, finding the vestigial penis at the top of the slit where a clit would be on a natural woman, listening to me gasp and move ever so slightly on his fingers. He was breathing heavily, unable to control his curiosity. He was certainly giving me the impression that mine was the first T-girl cunt he’d fingered but, cocky bastard, that there would be no holding back in doing so.

I was breathing heavily too. His fingers spread the labia and a finger slid into me. I gasped again, but I held position. Yes, I’m a lady now, I purred in my mind. Make me your lady, you big brute. Put it in me. I made this for you.

“You feeling good for a bit of partying tonight, sweetie?”

I gasped, his middle finger up the hilt inside me, and pressing—up and down—gently, coaxing me to move with him. Involuntarily, I had, rocking gently on the finger. I’d been thinking about having sex with him, and here, we already were having sex. He continued to hold me under his control with the strength of the possession of my eyes by his.

“It’s my birthday,” I whispered, as if that was the only reason I would let him do this.

“You don’t want to be alone on your birthday, do you?” he asked.

“No.” He entered with another finger and used the two of them to start stretching my channel open.

To my questioning look, he said, “I have a birthday present for you. You’ll need to be well open to fully enjoy it. You should enjoy your birthday presents, though.”

“Your dick is a gift to the world?” I asked. His fingers continued working on spreading my snatch open under the table, and I gasped again. I broke our eye gaze and looked around the café in slight panic. We were still the only customers and were sitting in the shadows. The waiter hadn’t come back to check on us. It occurred to me that Jamal had whispered something to the waiter when he left and might have slipped him some cash.

Was the black brute going to fuck me here on the table? If so, would I resist? No, I knew I wouldn’t.

“Yes. You’ll have to be wide open for me.” The spreading with the fingers continued. I looked around in slight panic, knowing that, at the slightest hint someone—even someone out on the street—could see or figure out what he was doing, I had an excuse to pull away. But I didn’t want to pull away and I didn’t see anyone paying any attention to us. I wasn’t anyone’s idea of a virgin. My legs felt like rubber. He continued to have his way with me below the surface of the table.

But then he was pushing the café table between us to the side and I saw what he’d been doing with his other hand. He’d released his cock and, in full erection, he’d been working it up with the other hand. It all went quickly after that. He leaned forward, slipped my shorts and panties down and off my legs, encircled my waist with a beefy arm, and brought me into his lap, sliding down on his hard cock. He had opened me well. The penetration was swift and deep. With a heavy grown, I took him inside, flinging my arms around his neck. One of his beefy hands went to my lower spine, using it to pull and release, which I helped by pressing my toes into the floor on either side of his chair and moving with the thickness of his slides. His other hand gripped the back of my neck, pressing my face into his chest.

“Oh, baby, baby, it’s so good,” he murmured as he fucked me.

I said nothing—just moaned at how big and deep inside me he was. I didn’t have to wait for it very long. He tensed and jerked and released. Tensed and jerked and released.

We held, both breathing heavily, still fused as one, when I noticed motion up at the counter. The waiter had come back to take in the climax. I saw him give a big grin and they disappear again into the back.

* * * *

“That was great for me, sweetie. It was good for you too.”

Nice of him to tell me what I thought of it. But, yes, it did hit the spot. So, I didn’t disagree with him or call him on his arrogance.

“I want more, I have a trailer not more than four blocks from here,” he said.

“Yes. But be nice to me. It’s my birthday. You gotta be nice to me.” Make me your lady.

“Oh, I will, baby. I will. I just want . . . it’s just so different, and I want—”

“I understand, sugar,” I said. No relationship, no strings. It was just curiosity. I did understand. It was the way things were now. One night and done. Satisfying for us both.

I felt the loss of him as he withdrew his hand and stood up from the table.

* * * *

He was as big there as I thought he’d be—at least eight and half thick inches, jet black, a purple cap. I hadn’t gotten a good look at it when he’d put it in me in the café. He drew in his breath when I pulled the foreskin back with my ruby-red-polished long fingernails, took the cap gently between my teeth, and flicked my tongue over the piss slit. I could feel him trembling, standing there, the big brute my captive for this moment, his trousers and briefs off, in front of a picture window in the side of his trailer. His chocolate body was magnificent, covered in tattoos, primeval. I was melting.

I was kneeling before him. He reached down, pulled the T-shirt over my head, and his hands went to cupping and squeezing my melon-sized breasts as I gave him head, reveling in the size and blackness of him—of it—and knowing already how it would fit, fill, stretch the new me.

I pulled my mouth off him and moved his erection to between my breasts, giving him a titty fuck, my ruby-red fingernails gripping the root of his shaft, as he panted and leaned down and took my mouth in his. Coming out of the kiss, he whispered, “I wondered . . . I do guys . . . all of the time. But a trans . . . I wondered . . .”

“I understand,” I said. “Fuck me. Fuck me like a woman. It’s fine. It will work.”

I, in turn, trembled when, hovering over me and coaxing me to look down the line of my body, he slowly and deliberately inserted two fingers into my cunt and spread it open and, after giving me time to savor what he was doing and what he was about to do, he put the bulb of his cock in position between the two stretching fingers and pressed inside, slowly burying himself nearly to the hilt as I moaned the invasion of him.

“Oh, baby, baby,” he murmured in the pleasure of possessing a trans-girl’s cunt.

After a brief moment of savoring the sheathing—deeper than he’d done in the café—he tentatively began to move—in and out, in and out—picking up speed and vigor as he realized that it, indeed, would work with full penetration. I relaxed, clutched his buttocks to me and murmured, “Yes, yes, yes.” He fucked me. It was fine. It worked. I stretched for him; he filled me.

It had happened as it would between any other two lovers—a man and a woman, two men, two women, there was little difference. The bed was right there and he nudged me onto it, on my back, and went down on his knees between my thighs. His face was buried in my snatch, his fingers and tongue and teeth discovering, worshipping, working my lady bits, and his hands reaching up and squeezing and kneading my tits as he ate me out, discovering the mysteries of a trans-girl, assuaging his curiosity and answering his questions.

He held me to the bed with one hand grasping my throat, pressing my head, my hair down now and streaming around my head, to the mattress. With the other hand he was holding his cock to my snatch, playing in the folds with the cockhead, teasing the vestigial penis at the top of the slit. I grasped his wrists and panted, arching my back, trying to impale myself on his shaft.

Get on with it, I screamed in my mind.

“It will take it,” I cried out. “It’s the same as any woman’s. Fuck me!”

And then, following his languid routine of spreading me with his fingers and positioning his cock between them, he was inside me, doing what was natural. And I could stand up to the size of him. Thrust, thrust, thrust. I was being fucked by a big, black bull.

Happy birthday to me.

He stretched and filled me. I brought the soles of my feet up to the edge of the bed and leveraged off them to raise my pelvis, to lean into the fuck, and go with the thrusts. He filled, consumed, possessed me.

This was what this was all about, why I had done this, why I had to do this.

He could only take so much curiosity, though. He was accustomed to something else to build and release. Before he shot off, he turned me on the bed, one hand palming my belly and the other cupping and squeezing my breasts. He changed holes, fucking me now in the ass. What he was used to.

That was OK with me. I rolled my hips up to give him maximum access to my ass. This was what I had been used to as well—before. And he’d fucked me in my lady bits. He’d filled and stretched and worked me. He’d hit the top of the channel, rubbing and working what the doctors had given me there to allow me to orgasm too. And orgasm I had as he fucked me—again and again.

This was for him, to give him the familiarity of what he needed to get off. He fucked me in the ass until he tensed and jerked and came, tensed and jerked and came.

I lay there, on the bed afterward, turned onto my back, propped up on an elbow, playing with the folds of my new cunt with the fingers of the other hand, watching Jamal, standing at his picture window, leaning into the glass, and smoking a cigarette. I wanted his attention to go back to my snatch. I so wanted him to say that that was tremendous—that transforming myself to be used in both holes by big black bulls like him was the best ever sex he’d ever had. But he just stood there, looking at me.

Was he going to come back, when he had fully recovered, and fuck me again? Did he want to come in my cunt this time?

I got my feet under me on the edge of the bed again and pushed my pelvis up. “Come do me again, sugar,” I murmured. “Fuck me in my cunt again.”

I wanted him to want to fuck me in the cunt. I needed him to want to fuck me in the cunt. I needed him to cum in my cunt. I’d made the change, the difficult, expensive change, because I believed it would make a difference. I had grown so tired of men who wanted to do me there to assuage their curiosity, found that once was enough, and next time went back to the ass entry.

I spread my thighs wide and, supported myself on one elbow, moved the other hand to between my legs, fully exposing the fine work of the surgeons, spreading the folds with my fingers, showing both the outer and inner labia, teasing the big black stud to shove it in again and fuck me hard.

He looked at me. I could see he was trying to form something to say. I understood that it was hard. But I wanted him to want me for what I had become. He stubbed his cigarette out on the ledge of the window, picked up a condom packet, split it, and removed and smoothed on the rubber. He was going to fuck me again, but in what hole? Was his curiosity spent about my new cunt? Had I gone through all that just to satisfy a man’s momentary curiosity?

I wanted him to be fucking a woman. I wanted the thought of every man fucking me since the change that I was there to be a woman for a man.

He was about to speak when he started to keel over onto the floor. The image preceded the sounds of the shots by a nanosecond. One second he was standing at the window, smoking, still in his T-shirt but pantless, his gigantic sheathed cock in erection, giving every indication he was going to fuck me again, and then he was sliding to the floor, leaving a shattered window, with two distinct holes in it, and blood splattered across it.

There was a moment of silence before a woman’s face appeared beyond the shattered window of the trailer and she started to scream.

* * * *

“Don’t worry. We know it wasn’t you. The shots came from the outside. A witness puts you inside the trailer right after the shooting.” He was polite enough not to mention that the witness had seen me naked and probably never had seen a fully transformed T-girl naked before in her life.

That didn’t stop my trembling, but it did stop my stomach from doing flip-flops. I had managed to get my shorts and T-shirt back on and was sitting in a chair at the other end of the trailer, facing away from the shattered picture window and the people in white space suits working over the body. A detective—or at least someone who had identified himself as a detective—Jim Someoneorother—was standing over me, cellphone in hand. He was maybe thirty-five or forty years old. Blond. A looker and in very fit shape. Yes, I checked all men out as sex partner potential, even in circumstances like this.

“No, it wasn’t me,” I said. What else that had been going on here in the trailer, though, that certainly was me, and these cops knew it. Jamal was lying over there half naked with a rubber on his shaft. A witness had seen me naked in the trailer while she was still screaming.

Just then another guy in a suit sauntered up and said, “Jamal Andrews. The vic’s name. This is his trailer. He’s a gun for the Desilva family that owns the Crown Casino. There’s a range war going on between the Desilvas and the Crawleys.”

“Thanks, Ted,” Detective Someoneorother said and then turned back to me. “You aren’t part of the Crawley family, are you, Mr. Watson? Or is it Ms.?”

“No, I’m not. Ms., please.”

“’Cause if you were, we’d find that out pretty quickly.”

“No, I don’t know any Crawleys or any of that other family either.”

“Sure, I believe you. So, how do you know this Jamal Andrews, Frank . . . Ms. Watson? Or should I call you Francis?”

I wanted to say he should continue to call me Ms. Watson, but he was a looker and was in complete control—not that I minded a man who controlled. “People call me Frankie,” I answered, giving him a tentative smile and looking to see if he shrank away from me even slightly. He didn’t.

“I don’t know him, not really. I didn’t know his last name. First time I’ve seen him was tonight—uh, early this morning.” It was after 4:00 in the morning now—my birthday still. Happy birthday to me. This would be one I’d remember. “We met at a coffee shop over on West Hacienda. He wanted to show me his trailer.”

“Ah, I understand, the detective said.” And I knew from the way he said it—but more interested than judgmental—that he did understand. I latched onto the “interested” angle and that made me more interested too. He could tell what—who—I was and didn’t seem to be withdrawing from that. And he was a looker.

“And when was this . . . when was it you met up with Mr. Andrews at the coffee house?”

“About 2:00 a.m.”

“What were you doing out on the street at 2:00 a.m.?”

Are you asking if I’m a hooker? If maybe I set this guy up? That’s what I wanted to answer with, but I didn’t. “I was returning from work. I live over on West Reno. The coffee shop is half way between my work and my apartment. I left work after 1:30.”

“And where do you work?”

“Suzy’s, on West Hacienda.”

He gave me a sharp look. “Suzy’s, the trans club?”

He gave me a hard look of recognition, pulling me up into his memory banks now. If he’d had any question about it before, he certainly didn’t have any now.

“Yes. I’m a stripper there at night. I work at a computer repair shop in the day.” No use lying to these cops. They’d found me with my pants down—well, with the dead guy’s pants down and a screaming lady being able to place me in the trailer when he got shot.

“I understand,” he said. And I knew, from the look he gave me, that he did.

“You know Suzy’s?” I asked.

“Yes, I know Suzy’s,” he answered. His eyes looking into mine holding steady. I gave him another look. He was looking any better to me. But, what the hell, we were at a murder scene. I decided that didn’t bother me if it didn’t bother him.

“I know Suzy’s very well,” he said. “I thought I’d seen you somewhere before Just hadn’t placed you yet.”

Yeah, on stage, at Suzy’s, I thought. That was telling on us both, and if he wanted to build on the idea of hooking up, this gave him all the opportunity he needed. He did. His hands gripped my knees and I felt him pushing my thighs apart. Master to slave, just like that.

Everyone else was on the other side of the trailer and couldn’t look through him to see where his hands were or what he was doing with them. In my world, this maneuver—gripping a girl’s knees and spreading her legs—was a signal of sexual control. I nearly barfed up my cookies at that. In my world, that was part of sex play, the dominant parting the submissive’s legs. He looked down at my crotch, which didn’t change my feeling about what he was signaling one bit.

He wouldn’t see a bulge down there. A camel toe more likely.

“Address and then I think we can let you go, although we’ll be in contact with you again. We’ll keep this as discreet as we can. Discreet is good for all involved,” he added, giving me an assessing look. “Discreet good with you too?” I didn’t think he required an answer to that, so I didn’t give him one.

So, he did understand. “The address at Suzy’s?” I asked.

“No. At your apartment.”

I gave him the address. “I live alone,” I said.

“I understand,” he answered. He stood from his crouch in front of me, turned, close to me, brushing the back of his hand against one of my nipples as he passed me, just like Jamal had done at the café—just, I was sure, for the same reason Jamal had done it. I shuddered for him just as I had for Jamal. Before he moved away from me, I brushed his basket with the back of my hand, and it was his turn to give a little shudder. As he walked back to where they were working at the picture window, I looked at his ass and wondered if he was as hung as Jamal had been.

I didn’t think I’d seen the last of Detective Jim Someoneorother.

* * * *

Sunday morning, late, but I was up, barefoot and in athletic shorts and a loose T, when I heard the knock on the door. It was Detective Jim Whatshisname. I wasn’t really all that surprised.

“Can I come in?” he asked. “I have a few follow-up questions from yesterday.”

“Sunday? Do you cops have to work on Sundays too?” I asked, as I stood aside and let him enter my living-dining combination room, with the kitchenette on the far wall. He took a look around as he entered.

“No one else is here,” I said.

“Nice place,” he said. “You keep it neat.”

He passed close to me, and I turned toward him so that he’d brush against one of my breasts as he’d done the previous day. He was in slacks and a polo shirt. No suit today. I let my gaze drop to his crotch and made sure he saw that I did.

“You have to work on Sunday’s?” I repeated.

“Well, there are times when every day is a work day,” he said, stopping his check of the apartment.

“You don’t get play days?”

“Yes, I make sure I get play days too.”

“And you have some very interesting play interests?”

“Very.”

“And today is a workday?” I asked. God, he was looking good to me. I must have been panting a bit and looking like I needed it, because there wasn’t any seduction going on here. Time wasn’t taken for that. We obviously had had a meeting of the minds the previous day. I looked down again and saw that he clearly was hard in his slacks. I could follow the line of the shaft. His eyes followed mine and he gave a little laugh.

“No, today’s not really a work day,” he said.

“And you’re not here about work . . . or about yesterday.”

“Not about what happened yesterday, no. But because of yesterday. I’m hoping today is a play day.”

“What about what happened yesterday? What about me? You don’t think I’m involved in the shooting now, do you?”

“No, you’re clear of that. I’m here because of you . . . where you said you worked . . . how you responded to me. Because I’ve never done it with a trans before, although, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’ve taken looks. Because of curiosity, I guess. But I’m saying too much here, aren’t I?” Despite what he was saying, he had reached out and was touching—rubbing—one of my nipples through the T-shirt. “These are really nice. Natural like.”

“Paid big bucks for them, sweetie. And, no, I understand. You’re not saying too much.” I backed up to my dining table, and pulled my T-shirt over my head, arching my back and jutting my very nicely sculpted breasts out toward him.

“Fuck those are beautiful,” he hissed. “Just a handful, but silky smooth and firm. Those . . .” His hands were all over them, weighing and squeezing. I jutted them out toward him.

“Tits, yes,” I said. “They’re my second-best feature. Cost a fortune.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t really . . .”

“I understand,” I said, but then he melded his body to mine and I pulled the polo shirt over his head, baring both of our torsos. His body was beautiful, muscular, perfectly cut. One of his hands palmed the small of my back, holding me into him. His mouth went to my breasts. He began sucking on a nipple. His free hand slid down under the waistband of my shorts and he was satisfying his curiosity, his fingers exploring and working me in the snatch, tracing the ridges of the folds and then penetrating, separating with his fingers. I rocked against his hand and moaned for him. He knelt down and pulled my shorts and silk jock down and off my legs. His fingers were replaced with his exploring tongue and teeth, working every aspect of my new cunt. I was naked within his control.

“I was hoping—” he murmured.

“So was I—that you’d come for me.” I leaned back onto the table, my fists pressed to the surface. “You gonna fuck me right here on the table, baby?” I murmured.

“Yes, if you let me.” He stood, fumbled around in his slacks and came up with the condom packet. “This,” he said. “This is your yes. Open it and sheath me. That’s your yes.”

I did it, reaching down with my hands while maintaining eye contact with him and pulling the rubber onto his cock.

He turned me, bending me over, looking down at the surface of the table. I gave a gasp as he entered me strongly, in the cunt, two of his fingers engaged in stretching me open—followed by the shaft itself, penetrating between them. He wasn’t wasting any time. I guess I wasn’t surprised. This was Vegas and he was a cop. They took what they wanted in this town, when they wanted it. He held there for a moment when the two of us were fused as one, him inside me, me shimmering and my legs going to rubber, and he panting, breathing heavily, his hands gripping my hips, holding me in place as he continued to harden—inside me. I raised an arm, gripping the back of his neck, holding his head to me, his face buried in my throat.

“This OK, baby?” he asked.

“A little late to be asking that, sweetie,” I answered. “If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be this easy for you.”

“So nice, just so natural,” he whispered.

“Oh, baby, baby,” I murmured, every nerve fiber focused on that shaft throbbing in my cunt, “Do me good, baby.” I gasped as, grunting, he started to move inside, in and out, fucking me, doing me good. Now, this was a birthday present.

He fucked me there on the dining table, both of us naked, me bent over the table, but my torso raised a bit because he was cupping and kneading my breasts. He got a good grip under both tits, jutted them out, with his index fingers rubbing the nipples, and gave them a good working over while he fucked me. I rocked my buttocks against him, taking him deep, and reached down with one of my hands, fingering the root of the shaft that was moving in and out of me, filling me, stretching me, owning me.

I was his woman and he was my man—if it only could be for that moment.

He fucked me from behind, taking me in long, deep thrusts, his cock working the nub at the top of the pouch, causing me to shimmer and writhe and come for him. I didn’t have to tell him that I could manage anything a woman could. He didn’t treat me as tentatively and carefully as Jamal had to begin with. He fucked me in the cunt. He fucked me like I was a woman and he made me explode for him. He came for me too—in the cunt.

Happy belated birthday to me.

He stayed inside me, still working my breasts with his hands after he shot his load, both of us panting, working on calming down.

“I don’t really . . . I have a wife . . . and kids.”

“I understand,” I answered. “No problem.”

“We can’t . . . after this.”

“I understand.” I didn’t, though, not completely. I wanted more—and often. And he was so good at it that I could take it from him regularly. But I recognized what this had been—a curiosity fuck, one time only. But we were still in that one time. He was still hard inside me—or hardening again.

“Is there . . . do you have a bedroom . . . a bed . . . in this apartment?”

“Through the door over there.”

He picked me up in his arms like I was his precious baby and carried me into the bedroom in his arms.

* * * *

It was the next Friday night and I was leaving Suzy’s after my closing act. I hadn’t seen Detective Jim again. I’d been questioned again, but it was by some other Detective Whatshisname, who said the case had been transferred to him. I wasn’t surprised. Jim had warned me. I understood.

“Night, Frankie,” Tom said as I came up beside the box office.

“Night, Tom,” I answered.

He smiled. “Say, I have two tickets for a piano concert at the Bellagio on Wednesday afternoon. The French-Canadian, Louis Lourtie.”

“Shit, I love him,” I answered. And I did love his piano playing. And I loved watching him play. He was a sexy man.

“I wondered if you’d like to go with me.”

“Go with you? A date?” I had never considered Tom as datable, but I gave him another look now. He certainly looked datable.

“No, not a date, just sharing interest in music. Just the concert. Nothing afterward . . . unless, of course, you were interested in something afterward.”

“I’d love to go, Tom. It’s great we share that interest.” His look told me that our shared interests might go beyond music, and, suddenly, that was just fine. A possible relationship, something built on a shared interest other than sex . . . and curiosity.

“And, well, we don’t really have to . . .”

“I understand,” I said, showing him an assuring smile. And I did understand, but I also knew that it would be just fine with me if we did do more than a concert.