Incestuous Tales of the Quarantine 2 Quarantined with His Hot Mom
- 2 years ago
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Quarantine Glory Hole free porn video
I’m not getting my security deposit back.
Still, it would be easy enough to fix, assuming I’m not evicted immediately for taking off my door and turning it into a transparent glory hole. Of course, they set out the form letter to the complex, telling residents they would be flexible in these times.
But this probably wasn’t what they meant.
It wasn’t the best neighborhood, honestly the owner wasn’t as regular about chucking out tenants who didn’t pay at the first of each month even in the best of times. Basic maintenance was bad enough that I had a bit of a side business going doing jobs around neighbors apartments, usually just for the odd six pack or in return for another favor.
Okay, make your woodworking jokes, I’ve heard them all, but I’d gotten good enough that I’ve been able to augment my living pretty well with different sex furniture I’d sold on at Etsy. Sawhorses, St. Andrew’s crosses, Queens chairs, whatever can be made, I do it.
Usually in heels and a dress.
Not the most comfortable outfit I’ll grant you, and hey there are times when I am not above wearing a cute pair of overalls, or sweats and a T-shirt. It’s not “sensible” but neither was transitioning, and my femininity was too hard-earned to hide underneath a practical outfit. Besides, I got off on the surprise, bewildered men seeing this beautiful woman waltz into their apartment and help them patch over those punch drunk holes from late last night.
To me, it was just something instilled in me since childhood. The ability to fix and make almost anything was as effortless as doodling, as though the blueprints could just be conjured up into my mind.
Growing up, the more I had started to show who I really was, the girl hiding and trying to claw her way up through the stranger’s skin I wore when presenting as a man, the more my dad made sure that I doubled down on my Mr. Fix-It skills, pushing me at the time into what I thought was a punishment. He forced me to be around these strong and masculine men, with beer guts and baseball caps talking sports and bullshit, telling crass jokes and wondering why the women didn’t seem to want them so much.
Though honestly, I liked them a lot. But I never really let a lot of them back when I was still pretending, protecting myself against an outrage that never came, working myself into knots about what ifs and bewailing being an arm’s length.
I just assumed the things that started appearing in my life, the makeup, the clothing, the websites and magazines; they could never share a space with the masculine.
Because masculinity is so fragile.
It’s really like a special little flower, trampled and mushed underneath the smallest high heel shoe, smothered by a frilly pair of panties, or the touch of eyeshadow. Even just the admiration of other masculinity sends some trembling, clutching at their phobias. So many things come to make the defining attributes of manhood, whereas a woman…
I should be able to tell myself at this point that I can really call myself that. I feel like I look in the mirror, just not every day. Even naked now, there is so much that I love. Only sometimes, beneath the budded breasts and long almond colored hair, I can only see Jack underneath Jackie, in my chin, or my ears.
Even though no one else could notice, I can tell, remembering what it was like.
And I can wonder how hard it is for other people. For someone who wasn’t born with wide hips, a small nearly hairless frame, and a soft feminine face. For those who can’t quite make their body reflect what they always saw inside, who have to work at it harder than me, for less in return. I know that I’m lucky, but still, even for the luckiest transgendered girl, things are just so tremendously hard at times.
But they’re getting better.
Or at least they were before we all got locked into our apartments.
And the worst irony, I’d spent so much time fixing myself only to feel finished only months before this bullshit started. And yes I know that’s the wrong thinking word for what transitioning meant to me, but still, it’s what it felt like. The days were roller coasters, the hormones slingshotting me back-and-forth between extremes.
And it’s not like the depression, the anger, the hate were just imaginary.
They poured out from other people, from old friends and uncaring strangers who looked at the person between male and female like a zoo animal, gawking and gaping as though they had purchased admission.
Then there was the indifference, the people that did not want to comment, that rightly or wrongly made me feel as though they didn’t care what all of this meant to me, what I was giving up and accepting.
There were a thousand little things going on each day. Big confrontations with bigots, sure, but other, smaller indignities, embarrassing enough to express except online with other people who had gone through the same thing. And so I kept going, starting my own business because I had so many bills, so much debt, and so few places that wanted to hire me. Living in this rathole because my family didn’t really want to see me, scared to talk to people, because of their reaction, because of mine. I shut people out, assuming the worst.
And things got better.
Clichéd enough to say, something that got repeated on a loop so much that I didn’t even believe it, but slowly some of the pain stopped.
No, that’s not quite right.
It faded into the background, becoming a sort of white noise that pushed me into doing something protective. I started taking care of myself more. I got used to my new body, and beamed with pride when I ordered my first B cup bra.
Yes, vain as it may sound but so much of it was tied to my appearance. But then again, maybe those makeovers in movie montages have some merit. I started talking to people again, remembering how I had learned to get along with the coarse and dirty workmen as a kid, finding that people responded to a pretty girl with a smile and a crude joke, relishing in the slow transformation into that bad ass bitch with a sense of humor.
The girl that can fix your shelf and build a sex swing.
I was cool. Just because I kept practicing all of those things that kept me from being so as a kid. I passed, all the time. Which made for awkward conversations whenever I decided to come out to a new friend. Sometimes people flat out refused to believe me.
Once I was asked into the men’s room at the bar to prove it. And yes, I could have exploded, part of me wanted to melt when he gasped, but then we laughed and had a few drinks.
So yes, I kept my penis, and yes people ask, and yes I politely answer. I get it, not everyone wants to be asked about their genitals in public, some barely want to acknowledge their existence. That’s okay too. But one of the things I learned from my own reactions was an early inability to distinguish between insensitive interest and actual hate.
Here’s my helpful hint, if they are still talking to you, they may not be that bad.
Look, I’m not apologizing for anyone. All it takes is one bigot to ruin your day. But I grew up in rural Texas. Sometimes the best way to advocate for yourself is through the example of your character. I remember helping a friend’s dad on his lawn, trying to put down patches of grass in hundreds of squares to make the dirt grow again. It didn’t actually work, but I stayed at it until sundown, working harder than my friend.
His dad told him one time that he didn’t care if I was funny. I was alright because I worked on his lawn.
It’s kind of an attitude I’ve adopted, the patient desire to make the world a better place by opening myself up a little, even if it means sharing things that I certainly shouldn’t. Not because I have to, not because it’s the right thing to do, but just because it makes me feel like I’m helping the next girl who has to explain why her body isn’t right.
Because she might not be as strong.
Because I wasn’t always.
And most, because most of the people I’ve met have surprised me by being better than I ever anticipated.
I had just started dating again, nothing serious, nothing more than oral and a few terrible first dates when the virus cooped us up. If anything, sales of sex stuff skyrocketed, I was doing okay, luckier than most, but so lonely. I hardly slept with anyone during the years of transition, unable to even look at myself in the mirror let alone show myself to someone else.
But now and then I would snap, letting it all out in a single evening.
When I first hit 18, there was an adult bookstore near the border that had a back room with glory holes and a small theater, little more than a leather couch and a projector. I was the only queer kid in my town, and while I didn’t have it as bad as some, dating was difficult. I would wait until I was so horny that I would do almost anything in the back room of the bookstore.
I didn’t have to care what a stranger thought of my body and how it was changing, even if each experience left me wanting more...
I first went when I first turned 18, a place that I always saw from the highway when visiting relatives in Oklahoma. It had been easy enough for the clerk to talk me into buying a ticket into the back room along with my dildo.
I sucked my first cock that night, not waiting when it popped through the hole in my booth, not caring about my health or the risk. I swallowed his cum greedily, then I stuck myself through the glory hole, letting the other man return the favor.
Ashamed, I hadn’t returned for several months, but then a pattern room emerged. I would swear off the store for a few weeks then break, until once I sucked and fucked every guy in the place, wearing only girls underwear and a terrible Halloween wig.
It became a pattern. Every time I would get a little more elaborate, crossdressing better and better until I came to terms with what I was really doing, and stopped what I had started to consider self-destructive behavior.
I was clean, healthier now than I’d ever been before, but I still looked back on those days with a wild sort of lust, wishing that I was back there being shared by whoever came through the door.
Maybe it was because that compared to a few scattered hookups, those raw and vivid memories of being covered in cum seemed so erotic. I remember my bottom and jaw aching, feeling so content and complete for those few seconds before the shame set in and caused me to quickly exit in a different set of clothes.
Looking back, I wish I had savored each second, even recorded it. But then, I saw myself in the now, projecting this body onto the strange I had been.
So I played with the idea of doing it all again, walking into a seedy place like that looking like a knockout, watching all of them line up to use my holes.
And that’s where I got the idea.
Porn stores are not exactly essential businesses, though I guess if you’re asking people to forgo any sort of sexual interaction, it’s certainly debatable. I thought about safety, though I certainly wouldn’t state that anything that I did in the name of caution came directly from the CDC guidelines on designing a quarantined glory hole.
More like I ad-libbed what I wanted, ordering several thick plastic sheets online, hanging in overlapping layers before cutting out the hole. The door was off its hinges, placed in the corner of my cramped living room, replaced by this nearly airtight jerry-rigged barrier.
But still, it should suffice. I even attached a rectangular cover, so that I could lift it whenever he put on a condom. Of course, I never even thought about him ripping down the thing, not until it was too late to back out of anything.
I placed out ad after ad on different websites, getting flagged and taken down, hearing rejections and excuses on tinder and every other app I tried. I started talking to one guy, hoping by the big, black cock on his profile pictures that he was for real, sharing my address too quickly and hoping not to be murdered.
Outside the barrier, I placed a container of Purell and a box of condoms. I just left the door unlocked, the plastic sheet blocking off my room too difficult to quickly reattach. Before I did, I stopped to look one last time in the mirror.
God I looked hot in the skimpy black dress, nearly all of my silky smooth thighs visible, my breasts pouring out of the fabric. I made a few adjustments, mostly just to feel my own body, almost like pinching it to make sure I was real.
One last time, I checked to make sure it was secure.
Still it was so exciting, waiting by my door, staring out as the footsteps approached. I touched myself through my panties, my small little clitty getting excited at every stranger’s approach. I knelt, putting a dirty video on my laptop, touching myself and pretending I was in the back room of a dirty adult theater, getting ready to suck.
I sat down on my biggest butt plug up, toying with myself, keeping my pussy on the edge as I waited for him to barge in and take me. It was like that watched pot, never boiling until I forgot about the possibility of anyone actually taking me up on my insane contraption.
The knock jolted me out of my stupor.
I thought he would leave, typing frantically in the app.
And then the doorknob slowly turned…
I knew enough about myself that there was no turning back. I was too turned on to make rational decisions. Thankfully, he was as advertised, a perfectly shaved head, a stylized goatee, and a frame that reminded me of everything I admired about masculine men.
I’d explained my creation, and still the puzzlement went over his dark eyes as he scanned the room, not really seeing me. I waited for his reaction, wondering if I was pretty enough, still feeling like that crossdressing trap trying to pass.
He moved closer, the scene like one of those seedy plastic dividers between a man and a stripper, with me pretending to be the nearly naked model. I bent over, I knew my cleavage looked great with his angle, but I wanted him to see more.
I pulled out one of my tits from the cup of my bra, letting it spill over my dress. It was a little uncomfortable, but after years of using contours and fake cups, I loved having enough of a chest to pour out of whatever I was wearing.
I turned around and pulled up my dress, showing my round little bubble butt, spreading myself wide. I didn’t show my penis, not that there was much to see. I was barely four inches hard and while I enjoyed the pleasure that it brought, it was never the major focus of attention. Wrong as it sounds, in hook-ups like this, having a stranger like my appearance enough to overlook my genitals was an intrical part of the arousal.
More than anything else, it had been missing, making me feel like a woman.
I stripped down to only my underwear, dropping to my hands and knees, obvious as I waited for him to rub the lotion on his hands, unwrapping a condom. He pulled himself from his shorts, stroking a massive dick that never seemed to stop swelling, leaving me anticipating, licking my lips.
“Are you ready girl?”
I nodded, like him barely able to speak.
And his cock came through, still shielded by the plastic between us. He was huge, big and black with a vein that showed through even the rubber.The hole had been cut perfectly, his dick pressing through to my side of the shield, mostly hard, waiting for me…
I had a moment’s hesitation, the risk still seeming real even as it ran parallel with the knowledge that it was already too late. It had been three months since my last date, three months of coronavirus, and here sex was, waiting right in front of me.
The stranger stared at me through the plastic wall I had created, waiting for me to grab and suck him. My fingers closed around the shaft, my head leaning down, breasts actually bouncing as I closed my lips around his head.
I hated the taste of rubber, wishing I could tear the condom from his cock as I tried to take the whole thing down my throat in one desperate lunge that shook against the plastic wall. Thankfully I had secured it tight, with enough give that as he pushed his hips forward, trying to make me take those last couple of inches, the barrier remained intact even as his balls banged against the tarp from the other side. We both went faster, a little more careful around the separation, and he let me take my time a little bit more as I used to deep-throating almost every inch of hiscock.
I never could quite take it all the way, I was too out of practice, although I remembered plenty of times when I felt like I had swallowed something at least the same size if not bigger. Then again there was something so erotic about being taken to the limit, about having his fat, wide mushroomed head pushed down in my throat, tickling my tonsils and then still wanting more. Though he didn’t say it, every powerful thrust demanded that I open wide and take every inch that he had, as though the real pleasure from his penis lay at the base.
The see-through film separated his pubic hair from my mouth, but that and a couple of centimeters of air was the only thing that stopped me from completely taking him into my mouth. I bobbed into a familiar pattern, this wasn’t like the tender, slow, loving blow jobs the girl gives to her husband, those inexpert touches and inexperience strokes. He was fucking my face rough, finding a steady rhythm, using my mouth as a policy.
And I cannot blame him. I’m sure with the condom separating us the sensations weren’t exactly the same, and yet I wanted to take him all the same. As he slammed into me I thought only of what it would feel like to have his skin against mine, wondering with that most wicked of lustful ideas what had really been the difference between risking my own health in the back room and in this moment right here and now.
Other people…
I compromised this much, but at least I was doing something to protect people from getting sick who weren’t involved in my sex life. But this alone wasn’t enough to satisfy my cravings, sucking without that warm feeling of cum pouring down my throat and out of my lips, or clinging to my eyelashes and noses in white smears and droplets, and sucking proved only to flame the kindling of lust.
He knew I was trans, I’d shared more than enough pictures. But he had been explicit about not wanting to see my penis. Truthfully, I didn’t want most men to see it either, finding the feeling of a thong being slowly slid across one cheek sexier than anything.
And that he was straight, that I was so hot that he didn’t care about my gender, God it turned me on. It was everything I dreamed about, everything I’ve been working for…
“I want you to fuck me,” I spoke up from his cock.
“Oh yeah baby go ahead and bend that ass over.”
I stood up before turning, his hands reaching up against the plastic barrier trying to touch my breasts through the wall. But I didn’t test the durability of my creation. I wanted him now, inside of my hole, using me until he finished.
I turned around, using one hand to guide them into my hole, gasping as he pushed through the tight little ring. It had been so long since I’d taken anything that big, and though I had a few toys and plugs that were reasonably sized, there was something so different about someone else controlling the action.
At first, each inch was a struggle, until he seemed to reach a point past what I could take. I cried out, trying to control myself, to calm myself into relaxing as my hole seemed stretched to its limit. Even with the barrier, he thrust at his own pace, and I tried to steady myself with my hands, bent over like I was touching my toes as he drove into me.
He pulled back, and then out and that was the worst, the burning feeling of empty soreness spreading until he stuck it back in. The pangs began from the root and then somehow stopped, transitioned into something else. He pushed back and forth, sliding up and down, only it no longer hurt. I could feel my penis flopping back-and-forth in my panties, soft and flaccid as it usually was when I took myself at first up my ass. In these moments the nerve endings inside of my body proved more powerful, more potent, driving me back against him in a wild frenzy of pent-up need.
Like the blow job, this wasn’t anything delicate or nuanced. He found his rhythm, doing exactly what he needed to bring himself to the edge, keeping at the same pace. There was something so erotic about that, so sexy about being used just to fulfill a primal need. I let out several moans, my hand involuntarily going in between my legs like a girl masturbating above her panties. The tarp slapped between us, the noise of my ass smacking against it echoing against the wall as the stranger flexed inside my tight little hole.
“Oh God, I’m such a slut.”
“Take it. Take that big black daddy cock…”
“Oh yes, I’m so wet, I’m leaking all over the place, please fill me with your cum!”
He could never quite fit it all the way to the hilt, always wanting more, increasing his speed as he reached towards his own end.
And that was the hardest part, how roughly he took me before slamming into me in one final thrust. I moaned, shaking, my clitty hard and leaking as I got used. It was almost like the old days, and my mind drifted downwards to other dark ideas, wanting to post my address online and letting groups of men come in and use me like this, one after the other.
Reeling as he slowed, starting to cum inside of me, I came up with the craziest idea of all, wanting to cut a hole in the wall and hanging a topless picture of myself so that strangers could know what I looked like as I sucked and fucked anyone who walked by my apartment.
I wanted them all to fuck me just like him, hard and quick, filling their condoms inside of me and leaving me craving the taste.It would be my compromise, the way that I stopped myself from letting go in a sudden self-destructive moment of sluttiness.
Because as much as I wanted more, I let this moment be enough.
I could feel his rhythm slowing as he let loose the last few spurts, his breathing becoming ragged and heavy as he finished twitching inside of me.
I closed my eyes, rubbing my now hard clit against my panties, wondering if I would be able to shoot myself before he finished. I clenched, bearing down on him as he stopped moving inside of me, finished spraying his cum inside the condom.
I was so close, rubbing myself frantically as he stayed impaled inside of me, wanting to cum with the feeling of another man taking me. I was nearly there, begging and mostly gibberish as he pulled himself free, returning to his side of the barrier and slapping the condom on the plastic sheeting.
I turned around, my hand still outside of my panties, not wanting to show him my sex as I rubbed my breasts against the carpet, writhing as I neared my own orgasm. I could see the condom sliding down, cum dripping down in white droplets as he stood there watching me for a second, his dick dangling down so close and yet so far away, the tip of it beaded with a few white droplets.
I licked my lips.
I humped my hand against the floor one more time, writhing as I sprayed into my panties a load that felt as though it had been building up since before the beginning of the pandemic.
Soaked, the front of my thong looks like I had wet myself, but instead of being embarrassed, I smiled.
Because as I stood up, waiting to see if there would even be an awkward attempt at goodbye, I realized that I really did look like a girl.
And I imagined that it was his cum leaking down into my panties.
Ofelia
- 14.07.2022
- 43
- 0
- Category:
- Trans
