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Secondary Education Tyla Flowers [email protected] I am riding on the back of Matt Frawley's motorcycle. I press myself against him, and my breasts tingle as they tease his bulky, sweat stained back. We careen around curves on the Angeles Crest Highway, and we exit down a winding road into the National Forest. We roll to a halt in a gravel parking lot strewn with remnants of bikers' parties. Matt hides the bike in a stand of oaks. He puts his arm around my waist, and steers me toward a trail head. My heart is pounding, my muscles weak, I cannot climb the embankment, so he hoists me on his back and carries me up, like a fireman, and then eases me to my feet. I kiss his sweaty neck, and say thanks. He takes my hand, and we hike down to a place where a smooth flat rock shelters beneath the trees. He hands me his sleeping bag and makes a gesture, and I roll it out o make a rustic bed on the rock, while he pisses in the bushes. We undress, and I kneel on the sweaty sleeping bag, dank and sticky from our past trysts, and redolent with the odors of his other conquests. He stands before me and I hold his soft, but massive cock in my hands. I squint up at him, silhouetted in the filtered sun, and smile at him adoringly, like a supplicant to a Greek god. From afar, I hear a voice call my name. "Mr. Flowers, what is it about this Fibonacci sequence that you find so amusing?" I look at the white board. I peruse the bewildering equation, and then notice my livid teacher. Mr. Knudsen is an Iraqi war veteran whose scarred face and amputated arm match his fearsome bad ass Marine attitude. I dread detention with Knudsen, plus a walk home in the dark was risky for a skinny Goth like me. I remember a show I had seen on the Discovery Channel TV a couple of months before, and decide to improvise. "I was thinking about how the Fibonacci sequence is alive in nature." Knudsen's glare softens. "Give me an example." "Take the ancestry of bees. If the egg is laid by the queen and is not fertilized, it hatches a male. But if the egg is fertilized by a male, it hatches a female. It makes a Fibonacci sequence if you trace back the ancestry of a male bee. He had 1 female parent." Knudsen nods and marked one on the board. "That female had 2 parents, a male and a female." Knudsen nods again and writes, plus 2. "The grandmother bee had two parents, a male and a female, and the grandfather bee had one female parent." Knudsen grins broadly and marks the board with a big "plus three". "Those two females, the great grandmother bees, each had two parents, and the male had one." Knudsen marks the board with a plus 5. His empty sleeve flaps as he flourishes his approval. "Mr. Flowers is exactly right. The bee generations make a Fibonacci sequence. Mr. Flowers, that's excellent. You've earned...". His accolade was interrupted by snickering from the back row. "OK, Frawley, get your butt down here and tell the class your insight on Mr. Flowers' example." The idyll of my recent fantasy rises. "We were just wondering how many bees it takes to make a little faggot like Tyler Flowers..." My ears burn and my eyes blur as the cackle of my classmates' laughter subsides. Mr. Knudsen walks toward Frawley. "You're lucky I am missing this arm or I'd take your head off. So instead, I am just going to recommend a suspension to be served at school, but from all athletic activities, for a week." The class lets out a collective groan. Matt Frawley is the catcher on Fairfax High's baseball team, and we are in the playoff based in no small part based on his hitting streak. I would now be the cynosure of my classmate's hatred, as well as their scorn. "No, don't do that, please. It's not true, I'm not gay, and so I'm not offended." Knudsen looks at me, surprised. "You're not, I mean, you're not offended?" "Well, I mean I am offended but I don't feel insulted. Because I'm not gay, and so I don't care if people think it, or say it." The truth is, I'm transsexual, but I am not going to try to explain that difference to a class that can't get its collective head around Fibonacci sequences. And, although my feelings are a little hurt, even more so I am flattered that Matt has noticed me. "OK, then, Mr. Frawley, Mr. Flowers isn't gay, so he isn't insulted. So apologize and shake hands, and I let it go with detention this week, to be served before school so you can go to your precious practice." I practically faint as Matt Frawley touches me for the first time, even if it is only my hand. I squeeze back against his firm grip, and smile and look into his dusky, grey blue eyes. I look for a spark, but there is only perfunctory glance. Is he disgusted to touch the hand of one he believes to be gay? Or that the cripple Knudsen has stared him down. I gave Matt what I hoped was a manly shake, and he says, barely audibly, "Sorry about that." "No worries." I give his hand a final shake and squeeze before he takes it away, turns around, and returns to his seat. There is a brief riffle of comment, Knudsen bangs his pointer against the table. "All right, then, can we get back to the Fibonacci sequence?" Knudsen resumed squeaking his marker across the Whiteboard. My classmates studiously ignore me when I clamber onto the bus. I take an empty seat next to a powdery smelling old lady. She smiles at me. "Good afternoon, dear," and offers me a lemon life saver. I take it and thank her and we ride along up Fairfax and cross town on Santa Monica Boulevard sucking, thinking about Matt's cock. I have wanted to be a girl for as long as I can remember, but only in the past year have I wanted to be a sexual woman. My own long delayed puberty had come, and my male hormones are rising, and colliding with my female psyche. But I had conquered them with science. I will become a woman, and be desired, conquered and loved by the boys who now scorned and ridiculed me. I look inward at my self, and see a goddess striving to be born. The grandma next to me nudges me. "You are a happy child." I smile and say "I will be. Some day." She pats my hand and mutters in Tagalog. The storefronts become more battered, the street corners more graffitied and trash-strewn, and the languages shift from English, to Korean, to Thai and Spanish as the bus bumps across the variegated Hollywood landscape. My Fairfax High classmates gradually thin out and are replaced by off duty day laborers and domestics. I am home, in a no man's land east of the 101 Freeway. The corner hooker is busy, so no one greets me. I open the door cautiously, but home is dark and quiet. Mom is at her welfare to work gig, a nurse's aid in Irwindale. I wonder if she'll come home, or sleep in her car. Or maybe she has found a new boyfriend. The fridge is still empty except for the dregs of a carton of milk, three days past use by date. I pour the crumbly remnants of the Trix into a bowl, sniff the milk, and pour it. There is barely enough to wet the cereal. I eat as I flip through the mail. There is a letter for me, from my dad, from his new home, the California City Prison. "Dear Son, I hope you make me prouder of the Flowers name than I made my daddy. I am in for life now, the appeals court denied my three strikes appeal. My lawyers tell me I don't have a chance the Supreme Court. It's terrible bad luck to get life for writing bad checks but they don't care and I am paying for the sins of my youth. Stealing is wrong and I hope my bad example sets you straight and you do right. Come visit me here but don't bring that whore your mother or don't you come at all. Love, your Father." I rephrased his salutation. "Love my father?" I shook away the thought, and the flood of memories of his cruel and arbitrary punishments, the rages, the beatings. Had my mom strayed? Yes, but he'd had too. Had I provoked him? I had played with dolls, and preferred girl playmates to boys. He had drowned my puppy. We were free of him. My mother was free to abandon me, and sleep her way through the hospital where she worked as a menial and to try to free herself from the addictions he had visited upon her. And I was free, to pursue my dream of becoming my father's daughter. Mother never throws anything away. The cabinet beneath her sink is time capsule of the downward spiral of my family, of past cosmetic trends and birth control technology. Now, it was my make up kit, and pharmacopoeia. In the past three months I've already consumed half used packages of Ortho Novum and Demulen. I again spelunk into the cabinet's lower depths, and recover a half-used package of Diane 35. I read the ingredients, 2mg cyproterone acetate and 0.035mg ethinylestradiol. I dissolve one under my tongue, savoring its bitter flavor, and fill her stained tub with hot water. I take off my stained Adidas and anklet socks, strip off my burgundy corduroy pants and my baggy oxford, and slide out of my hated jockey shorts. My body remains slender and graceful, like a young boy. My pubes are fledged with a thin tuft of down, which I pluck assiduously as I bathe. Someday, it will all be gone. But already, I hear myself called a faggot and cocksucker in the locker room. But I am nearing the end of the school year, and I vow that before the end of summer and I will check out of Fairfax. When I return, just in time for graduation, I will stun them with my transformation. But in for now, every day is a battle to survive. I have to In Knudsen's class, Matt's epithets hurt. In the locker room, they could lead to a beating. Or, in my fantasies, and exquisite, day long gang bang. I have been improvising my hormone replacement therapy from Dr. Mom's medicine chest for three months. I notice my nipples are swollen, I press them, and they tingle a message of pain, and possibility. I dip into the water, and let it lap over my cock. I arch my back, my nipples break the surface. I tuck my cock behind me. The undulating water magnifies my breasts. I am, for an instant, a beautiful woman. I gasp at the revelation. I arise from the tub. I grab a threadbare towel and gently pat myself dry, and the chilly evening air erects my nipples. The Diane 35 seems stronger than the Ortho Novum and Demulen. I am almost woozy with its rush. I crave it, so I crush another and swirl the bitter crumbs in my mouth. I moisturize, and then I put on my mom's robe, a once prized, but now tattered and stained blue silk kimono decorated with a Chinese dragon. My hair is fine, straight, and light brown. At school I let wear it in a non-descript goth middle part. My skin is frappuchino, my lips are mocha. I avoid the sun and wear SPF 45 every day, even in the rain, so my skin doesn't turn ruddy and puffy like my Caucasian dad. At least, I reflected, incarceration might save him from melanoma. My eyes are brown, like my Hmong mother. She is a caramel colored, hour glass-bodied tribal whose family airlifted to Fresno after we lost the Vietnam War. My dad was a vet who never outgrew the trauma, the drugs or the women he had experienced in Nam. He had tried to prolong it with marriage, but it had been a nightmare of periodic incarceration, drugs, and abuse. My mom told me that she had been glad when prison separated them for good. But Phuoc had not lost her taste for bad boys, or her exotic and provocative good looks. Ten boyfriends later, she is still looking for the best fuck, the best car, and the best highs. And she doesn't have any trouble finding them. I hope that her estrogen would give me curves that approximate hers. Her tits, she always says, are her best attribute. Some day, I hope so will mine. I study my face. For the past few months, I have been fighting off a welter of tiny blackheads, but none are visible tonight. My skin is smooth and soft. The Diane-35 is quelling my acne. I study the basket of discarded, half-used cosmetics. I apply eye cream and pat on concealer. I spread liquid powder across my cheek. The blemishes disappear. My skin looks clear and vibrant, a perfect golden canvas for the magic of cosmetics. I spread copper shadow on my eyelids, and highlight them with gold, accented with a trace of dark brown liner. I brushed a thin patina of mascara on my upper lids, and stud myself. My eyes are perfect, seductive and inviting, like an Us magazine celebrity's. I am Angelina. But my brow is my fathers, my cheeks are too narrow. I want my mother's open and willing face. I spread a thin smear of dusky rose blush from the top of my cheekbones to my ear, and blend it until I can barely see it. The shadows disappear, and my face is wide and round, like my mother's. I spritz myself with a with her cologne. I gloss my lips and blow dry and feather my hair until it sweeps past the curve of my neck and settles over my shoulders. I make exceptions to the 10 commandments, and to my father's advice, and, on occasion, I steal. Last week, I stole black panties and a matching lacy 32A bra from Victoria's secret at Santa Monica and Highland, and a size 2 party dress from Ross on Sunset. I tuck my cock between my legs, affix it to my ass with first aid tape, and slip on the panties. Their low slung profile accentuates the slight curve of my hips. The panties have a slight bulge, like a girl's mons. I fasten the bra clasp and turn it around. The slight padding of the bra makes it look like I have pubescent boobs. I slip into the dress, wriggle my slender shoulders threw its spaghetti straps, put on a pair of my mom's gold faux-Manolo sandals, and toss my head. I add dangly silver earrings and necklace, and a bracelet. I want to take my picture, to remember this forever. For the first time, I really look like a teenaged girl, ready to party, ready to be fucked; to be fucked by Matt Frawley, and then fucked by all those cruel boys in the locker room. I let that fantasy linger as I walk around the apartment, practicing walking in 5 inch heals. The straps dig into my ankle and the soles of my feet are soon killing me, but when I check the full length mirror on my mom's closet door I see that it's worth every bit of my pain. The elevation of my heels elongates my calves and makes my legs worth of a pop star diva. I turn and pose, throw my head back and pout. I look great. I am happy for the first time that I can remember. The second Diane tablet hits with a rush, and I feel week and dizzy. I laugh to myself that two at a time is too much of a good thing. I fantasize about Matt and his friend Eric pumping at my mouth and ass in unison. The emotional rush weakens me even more, and I stagger to the living room and recline on the couch. The room spins. I turn on the TV, American Idol rerun. Simon is savaging a young female contestant. Randy demurs. Paula offers a conciliatory rejoinder. I am too tired to follow their banter. The second hit of Diane-35 has made me drowsy. I slip into sleep. I am on American Idol, a contestant. Simon is heartless. He orders me to walk across the stage, and I stumble. My heel has broken, now I limp on uneven heels, and he laughs. Randy and Paula join in his cackling laughter. Then, I am naked. I fall to my knees, and crawl, and the crowd responds to Simon's exhortations, "Lady-boy, lady-boy, lady-boy." I awake with a pounding heart and flushed face from this nightmare. The room is dark, and on the television, House is pontificating. Then, the television flicks off. "Who's there?" My heart is pounding even harder. "Who cares?" I cannot place the unsettlingly familiar voice. "I do." "Who are you? I didn't know Tyler like hot girls like you." I am flattered, but nervous. "Thanks, but who's dishing the props, and what are you doing here?" The mysterious voice draws nearer. "You should check your voicemail before you get comfortable." In the fading light of the oncoming dusk, I recognize my mom's boyfriend's son, Cesar Robles. He's 18, a couple years older than I am. He's got a tattoo of the devil on his ripped bicep. He shaves his head. I think he might be in a gang. I had met Cesar at mom's company picnic in Griffith Park a few weeks ago. Cesar had wanted nothing to do with a skinny little kid like me then. He'd mumbled a few words and shambled off to join a pick up basketball game with some of my toughest classmates. My mom had given me a look, like I should follow, but I had just rolled my eyes. When I looked up from my book I had them pointing in my direction and laughing. I'm the smallest boy in the junior class at Fairfax High, only 5'5", and just over a hundred pounds. I hate sports, but the brutality of that game had kind of turned me on. But I was too afraid of mockery, injury or embarrassment to play. Mockery and cruelty were all that my classmates had learned. In my Biology II class, I am learning the basics of human endocrinology. And now, I am performing a magnificent experiment. For the rest of that day, Cesar never said another word to me, as if he were embarrassed to be associated with me. But now that he is alone with me, and I am vulnerable, he is extremely interested. Cesar pulls up a chair next to the couch and leans over me, close enough for me to feel his breath. "Your mom left you a message on the machine, I got kicked out of my mom's place, they gave me a key, and I'm staying here for a while. I think we are going to have fun being roommates." He flips on the light, flicks out his phone, holds it high and says "Smile." I hear a slight snick, and he holds the new image. "See what I mean, you look kinda hot." I study the image. I look pretty, but very recognizably as Tyler Flowers in drag. "What are you going to do with that picture?" "Blackmail you with it, of course." "I don't have any money. We're even poorer than you are." "You'll have to work it off then." "I'm only fifteen, too young to work. I can't even get a permit until next fall." "But you're not too young to suck my cock, bitch." He pushes back his chair, stands, grabs a handful of my hair, and yanks me to a sitting position. My neck twists. "Ouch, you don't have to be so rough." I look up at him. His eyes are pitiless and hard. He unbuttons his jeans, and pulls down his fly. His baggy jeans slide to the floor, followed by his underwear. He reaches for his cock, which is already becoming tumescent, and waves it back and forth, brushing my lips and nose. I close my eyes, and say, "I'm scared." "Don't tell me you've never sucked cock before! You're a virgin?" I nod, and sob. "You shouldn't get yourself girlied up like that if you don't want to be treated like a little girl. Girls suck cock. Don't they?" "I don't know." "I do. You're going to suck my cock or I'm going to send this pic of you to my homies at your school. They'll be really interested in you then. So it's either them, or me." "I don't know how." I've fantasized about sucking Matt Frawley's dick every night all year, but all I ever did was play with my own cock and ass. I look into my fantasies, trying to remember how. "You'll learn. You're the nerd who gets all A's. You can ace this pop quiz on cock-sucking right now." He brushes his cock across my lips. His cock is uncut, 8 inches, and his ball are hidden in a thicket of black pubes. I pucker my lips and squint my eyes, trying to take myself far away from this waking nightmare. I imagine that it's Matt standing over me, so I don't see Cesar's hand swinging toward me. My head jerks, my cheek burns, my eyes blur, I topple over, and then pull myself upright. I start crying. Through my tears, I see his other hand is poised to strike me. "Don't hit me, please." But he smacks my other cheek with such force he knocks me off the couch to the floor. "Now suck me now or I'll beat the shit out of you and fuck your ass." His cock is fully erect now. I open my lips. And flick my tongue at the tip. The cock shudders, and pushes into my mouth. His foreskin peels back, and caught on my lips, suffuses my mouth with a mossy stew of stale penile emissions, piss and sloughed skin. His cock head penetrates to the back of my throat, and I gag, and chomp slightly on the shaft. He groans, pulls out, and shouts "Don't fucking bite, you fucking slut." I close my eyes from the blow that I know will follow. He smashes my ear, banging the earring into my neck. My ears are ringing. I dig my face into the couch, I hear his footsteps, the banging of drawers from the bathroom, the rattle of piss in the toilet, a loud fart, and cower, sobbing, waiting for him to return. "Let's see what the little girl looks like naked." He throws the party dress over my shoulders, pulls it over my head and throws it on the floor. He unhooks my bra and pulls it off, and then my panties. "Jesus, don't you even have a cock?" "I tuck it back." He has a tube of Neosporin, and squeezes some on his fingers. He reaches under my ass, finds my rectum, and rubs it on the rim, circling it a few times, and then jabs in his index finger. A crackling pain rips up my centerline and down to my toes. "I can't find anything except this ass." I couldn't feel it either. Fear, and the Diane 35 had shrunken my penis to almost nothing. He strokes my nipples. They are visibly inflamed and engorged, on fire with sensation. I have been taking hormones for a couple of months, and now the double dose Diane 35 is pulsing through me, and my nipples are on fire. He pinches first the left, and then the right, and then sucks it so hard that when he disengages his lips smack. My nerves crackle. Pain and pleasure zings from my breasts to my ass. I wriggle beneath Cesar's grasp. "Mmm, just like eleven year old girl tits. Tyler, are turning into a girl, I mean, are you a trannie?" I am ashamed, and afraid, and I shake my head. He raises his fist again. "You lying bitch, I think you're a trannie. How does a guy get tits like these if he's not going trannie." I nod my head. "OK, I'm experimenting with hormones. I like the way they feel, and how they are changing my body." "Well, if you want to be a girl, then you must want to get fucked." I want to save myself for Matt. I shake my head. "I'm scared. I'm not ready." "Guys know when a bitch it ready, and I think you want it. When I guy says go, real girls just go with it. You're the girl, so get down and go." He sits astride my chest and rises to his knees. "First, I'm skull fuck your face. No more teeth or I'll smack, one smack for every nick on my dick." Before I can answer he sticks his cock in my mouth, and slides it in and out, faster and faster. I hold onto his ass cheeks. They are firm and strong, as I imagine Matt's. I pretend that Cesar's cock is Matt's, and let my lips surround and cling to his cock as it enters and exits my mouth. I arch my palate and elongate my tongue as his penis slides in and out, and match his lunges with a slight bobbing of my head. "That's better, that's a good little cock sucker." He held his phone high. "Look at me while you suck it, bitch." I open my eyes, and he says "Smile for the camera." The camera snicks again, and he shows me the image: Me, looking up with a frightened gaze, an anonymous cock half buried in my mouth. "OK, suck me off and then shut up about it to your mom, or that picture gets posted all over your school." A slick of salty cum spreads seeps from his cock. It reminds me of the dirty ocean water around the storm drain near the Santa Monica Pier. But it is boy cum, and it somehow sooths a hunger, and makes me want more. I bob, and press harder against his buttocks. I feel as if I am in control. He stops, and pulls out. "I don't want to cum this way. I want to fuck your ass." He is almost ready to pop, and I want to save myself for Matt. Or at least someone cuter than Cesar. "No, I want you in my mouth. I promise, I will suck you and swallow." "Not this time. He slides back and throws my legs over his shoulders. My mom's heels flails above me. He cups my baby breast, and quashes my futile wriggling. He flattens me with a thrust of his thick forearm and to my panting, gasping rib cage. He levers himself up and guides his cock to search out my hole. My Matt fantasy ends, as apprehension again engulfs me. They drum into us in Human Development a visceral fear of HIV, and I vibrate with anxiety. I calm myself and ask, "Shouldn't we be using condoms?" "Why bother? I know you're safe. You're a virgin." "What about me?" "You'll just have to trust me. Anyhow, you're the first dude I've ever fucked." He finds my hole and presses against it. His cockhead dances around my tight anus, unable to enter. The pressure is pleasant, and trills of sensation roil through me. I feel much as when I have penetrated myself with small objects and my fingers. I smile, and Cesar notices. "Oh, you like it there?" "That feels alright. Be gentle, OK?" "Oh, sure." He squeezes Neosporin on his cock and rubs it in, then wipes the residue on my butt cheeks. He touches his middle finger to the center of my ass, and swiftly shoves it in. I wince, but as he circles it around first once, and then again, it begins to feel good. I work hard to control my breathing, to relax my muscles. His index finger presses against my sphincter and joins its neighbor, they wriggle and spread. My ass send shivers through me. My nipples are hard. My penis, swaddled between my legs and encased in surgical tape, strains to erect. He leans forward and sticks his fingers between my lips. "Lick them clean." I suck first one, and then the other. The Neosporin is harsh and rank. "Now for my cock." He slaps it twice against my ass, and then targets it on the center. I close my eyes and dream that Matt is atop me. I expel every draught of oxygen from my lungs, and slowly inhale as I savor again the pleasant pressure of his cock on the exterior of my ass. He presses his body upward, and then drops and thrusts with all of his strength and weight. He enters me with a seemingly audible pop. Cesar's cock bursts through my sphincters. I am consumed by a searing bolt of fire he ascends my colon in a single, brutal thrust. He pulls back, and I gasp for breath, unable to speak. He knocks the breath from me with his next thrust, and the agony redoubles. I thrash my head and with my feeble arms try to push the beast back, but he pins my wrists behind my head with one hand pulls my ankle even higher with the other as he thrusts again, deeper than before. His pelvic bone bangs into my ass cheeks. His cock is buried deep inside me, and the fire has spread from my colon deep into my belly. When I take my first breath, the flame spread to my lungs. I expel it with a shriek. "Oh yeah, that's a tight ass. I like that tight ass." He drums ten short strokes inside me to punctuate his sentiment. I moan with each blow, but the fire is subsiding to hot, glowing coals. I open my eyes. The camera phone is aloft again, and snaps another picture. He examines it and shows me, a surprised smile graces my now slightly face, a partly withdrawn cock is entering my legs. "That one's really good, isn't it. My homies are going to love that shot." He swung my leg over his head and mounts me from behind. "Oh that ass feels even tighter like that." His cock drills deep and retracts. He withdraws so recklessly that his cock exits my ass with a painful pop. He reenters me instantly, and burrows so deep that I think it will run me through, and exit my navel. His relentless thrusts stir lubricity from within me. I am wet inside, and the wetness smoothes his strokes. I am warm. My face is flushed, I cease struggling, and meet his surges with rises, and pull back as he withdraws. "That's it, baby. That's how to fuck back on your daddy's dick." I look back, and force my self to smile alluringly. "Keep doing that thing, and I could learn to like this." He pulls me over on my side. The cock finds new curves of my colon to breach and each one brings a wave of pain, followed by a surge of pleasure. I look over my shoulder, smile, grab his butt, and press him against me. "Now you love it, am I right?" I nod, and he reaches between my legs. "Where's your cock?" "I tucked it behind. It's beneath that surgical tape." He fumbles, finds the ridge of the tape, and rips it. I gasp as tufts of my few silky pubes rip off with it. He rolls my cock between his forefinger and thumb. His thrusts modulate as he explores. "It's hardly more than a clit." "I know. It's so small, and I am so hairless, it's so embarrassing in the locker room. They all look at me like I'm a freak." "I know what they mean. You are a bit freaky." I shake my head, and pout. "In a sexy way though. My B-ball homies thought you were a hot maricone." "I'm not a gay." "I didn't say that. I am not sure what you are." He gropes further. "Where are your balls?" "I take female hormones. That shrinks them." "Hormones, no balls and baby boobs. I think you ought to be a girl." Now he rocks gently inside me. I am oozing warmth from within. I turn my head and smile. "I am a girl inside. Do I look like a girl to you now?" "Yeah, like a hot twelve year old. I wouldn't fuck you if you looked like a dude." "Thanks." "For fucking you?" I giggle. "No, I meant for the compliment." "And do you like getting fucked by me?" I look back, and bat my lashes. "I like it now. You were way too rough at the beginning." "I had to train you. And I like to do it rough." I push back firmly against him. "I think I could handle it rougher now. Especially if you put on a condom." "I don't have any." "My mom keeps them in the drawer on the left side of her bed. If you promise to put one on, I'll suck you again, and you can do whatever you want for the rest of the night." "Whatever I want, whenever I want it?" "With condoms, yes." Cesar reluctantly pulls out and staggers to the bedroom. He returns with a glittering gold wrapper. He had selected a Trojan Maxxum. "These are probably what my dad uses when he fucks your mom." "I think they are too high on crack to have sex much." "They won't miss this one then." I circle my arms around his thighs and pull him toward me. His cock is soft, so I take the tip inside my mouth and swirl my tongue around the helmet-like head. It is tangy, with the fluids that had oozed from my battered colon. It has a slight musty flavor. "That's it, baby, clean your poop out of my pipes." I nod and give him and adoring upward glance. His cock wasn't foul tasting as I had expected. My ass juice tastes like mushrooms, but I know the colon seethes with fungi and bacteria, and the thought of sucking it regularly intolerable. I resolve to insist on condoms for ass play in the future, for aesthetic as well as safety reasons. "Mmm, that cock looks ready to me. How do you want me?" "Just keep going, I think I want to pop in your face this time." I give him a vigorous blow job. It's not hard. Just relax your palate, and breathe between the strokes. Breathe, it's like throat yoga, and easier than getting fucked. I was looking forward to a warm blast of cum in my throat, and when he yanked out, a spray of the last shots on my lips, cheeks and boobs. But Cesar pulls out and said, "I want to fuck you, down doggy." I roll on the condom. It's bigger than he needs, and I worry that it might leak. I roll onto my tummy and thrust my ass up. I reach between my legs and guide his cock to my ass. I push back against him, and he thrusts forward. It still hurts when he ploughs past my sphincters, but he pauses and gives me a chance to breathe, and adjust to the invasion. I look over my shoulder and smile. "Thanks, that's better that way." I reward him for his kindness by thrusting backwards against him and impaling myself to his hilt. I am woozy with the effort and overcome with the sensation, but the lubricant and smooth surface of the condom make it more bearable. He grabs my shoulders and massages them. The tension he releases with this touch energizes me, and I feel myself wanting to be fucked harder, and I tell him. "Harder, harder, more, more, harder, harder, deeper, more." He responds, aargh, ahahaa, oooo, you goddamn fucking, whore," and flails me furiously. And all I can do is demand "more, more, more," until his heaving and bucking reach a crescendo and he roars incoherently as comes, and I feel him shiver and shake inside a final time. He collapses on top of me. I can hardly breathe, but I can't move. His dick is slowly slipping out of my ass. I push it out with my sphincters, and the too large rubber slips off and spills his load onto my thigh. "Cesar, get up, the condom's going to leak on the couch." He grunts and rolls off of me, and staggers to the bathroom. I hear his piss hissing in the toilet. The shower knobs squeaks on, the plumbing rattles to life and I hear the shower's rattle on the curtain. His clothes and mine are strewn around the couch. I stack his in a neat pile, and notice that he has left his cell phone on the floor. I can erase his blackmail pictures. But if I do, he will know. He will be angry, will rape me again, with even greater brutality, and take new pictures. The pictures make put me at his mercy. I am his sex slave. He says that I should trust him. Lacking a better alternative, I decide that I will.