Secondary Education
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Secondary Education free porn video
Secondary Education
Tyla Flowers
[email protected]
Is This Nirvana?
Chapter 11
I awaken with a shudder. A fractured ray of sunlight pierces the crack
between a pair threadbare quilts which have been hung as an makeshift
curtain. From outside I hear the clamor of banda piped through the
tinny speakers of a catering truck. A hot breeze wafts a rancid flume
of stale cooking oil, jalapeno and stewed pork. I feel nauseous, and
choke back a heave.
I have mind-splitting headache, cotton mouth and my lower back is sore
and tight. My throat is parched and hoarse, as though I have I screamed
too loud, for too long. I don't recognize the water stained ceiling
above me, or the dingy sarape that covers me. I have no idea where I
am, or how I got here.
I lift up my head and push up on my elbows. Two molten balls of liquid
metal explode against my chest and force me back to the mattress. I lie
still, waiting for the sputtering caldrons to cool. I squint through
crusted-closed eyes. The sarape is gathered into a ridge that blocks the
room beyond. I push it back, and stare at two large, bruised globes of
flesh, forced together in a sweat-stained sports bra.
I scrape a crust of yesterday's eyeliner and sleepy dust from my lashes,
blink my bleary vision clear and focus on the strange mounds ascending
from my chest like a pair of newly formed volcanoes. Am I still
dreaming? I lift my hands and touch them. Hot lava roils inside me,
and I am blind again from a scalding wave of pain. I behold a pair big,
round tits on my chest.
They feel hot and gravid, ready to erupt.
I think back at stealthy hours I have spent surfing the internet to
research the types of implants, the methods of implantation, and the
insurmountable barriers of cost and recovery time. I have calculated
how many tricks I will have to turn to get $6700 that the best surgeons
charge for the boobs I want: 400 cc High Profile Textured Round
Silicone.
How many nights have I dreamed of a sugardaddy who sends to a posh
clinic on Canon Drive? In my fantasy, my benefactor pays for the
procedure, the pleasant spa where I will recover, and sends flower,
candy and love notes. I imagine myself walking down Rodeo, swaying in
my Jimmy Choos, anatomically perfect, elegant, and graceful boobs
lurching a bit with every step, like Halle Berry's.
I compare my dream with reality, and jagged fragments of memory return.
Roberto told me he would do something special for me, that I would be
cut and pumped. I realize that I have Mara boobs, and I am a captive in
one of their safe houses. I am locked in a hot, smelly room, in a bad
part of town, languishing on a lumpy cot.
My dreams are fulfilled as a ghetto nightmare. My new boobs are round
and fat, like the eye catching blobs of a Mexican streetwalker. Have I
been pumped, injected with a toxic brew of industrial oils? Or are they
used implants that some Mara soldier carved from the corpse of a dead
whore and stuffed under my skin?
I jostle them, and when they jiggle, they send a clarion warning of
pain. They are so heavy, and so tender, that I cannot lift my torso up
from the mattress. But I have to pee. If I don't get up, I will wet the
bed. The prospect of smelly, sodden sheets impels me to move. I steady
my new boobs with my hands and try to roll onto my side and out of bed.
As my legs scissor against one another, another rapier slashes through
my groin, recalling the horrible morning when some boys at Fairfax
caught me peeing sitting down on the toilet, and took turns kicking and
stomping my groin until I passed out. I almost faint again.
I roll painfully back onto the bed, and cautiously explore my anatomy.
I grope over the smooth skin of my abdomen and graze around. My groin
is clad in elastic underwear, which encases my privates. I poke my hand
underneath into a tuft of bloody gauze, searching out the source of the
radiating pain. I find the tip of my cock, and walk my fingertips back
toward my ass. When I touch my scrotum, I yelp. It's swollen and the
gauze is soggy with blood and slick with ointment.
At the centerline, of my scrotum, I encounter a fringe of spiky
filaments, the tied off ends of a line of short line of sutures. I
finger them gingerly, and spread my fingers to probe the swollen flesh
of my scrotum. Black holes of pain swallow my consciousness. From the
abyss I deduce the meaning of the strange new landscape between my legs.
My balls are gone. I am castrated.
The ceiling stains pulsate and swirl, like the changing boundaries and
rules of my startling new reality. My new tits and the castration site
throb with each anxious pulse beat. My most exotic and dangerous
fantasies have been fulfilled. I am big-boobed and ball-less.
Since I was about 9 have been fantasizing about implants and castration
and a sex change operations, but I have been scared to go full time. I
like playing with hormones and getting used as a sex toy by bad boys,
but until this morning, I could bind my little B-Cups, put on baggie
sweats and sneakers, and pass as a slightly effeminate boy. I could go
places as Tyler the morning after Tyla, dressed up like a whore, had
given blowjobs or gotten fucked by ten guys she had picked up on the
streets. I was comfortable with my ladyboy whoring because I knew I
could stop if I decided to be a boy. Most of the effects of hormones are
reversible. Six months after you stop taking estrogen and anti
androgens, the boobies are gone, the balls grow back and start spewing
testosterone, and you can be a bad boy yourself. And the trannie's
life is such a pain in the ass, pun intended, that I sometimes
considered going back.
Now, my last exit from a total transition is foreclosed. No more can I
slip back into being Tyler and masquerade as a boy. If my dad ever gets
out of prison, or my mom survives her most recent junkie binge, they
will have to accept me as Tyla, their busty and beautiful daughter. My
cousins in Fresno will have to lust over me as a girl, and my step
brothers somewhere in Cambodia will have accept or reject me as a
sister. I can never go back to being Tyler.
I got shoved through the door to full time transsexuality by the Mara.
Roberto drugged, cut and pumped me. I am his bitch now. I stifle back
a sob of regret, and try to calm myself. I tried to escape them, but I
am just as powerless to resist the Mara as I was to resist my own urges.
To be a big breasted trannie bottom whore was my dream, my karma, and
now I have gotten it.
I cradle my boobs in one hand and my wounded scrotum in the other and
arise. As I do, I discover more incisions in my arm pits, radiating
agony with every movement of my arms. Bloodstained bandages are taped
there. When I try to lift my arms to inspect them, my boobs smolder
intensely. I have to hold my arms like a robot when I walk.
There are a couple of bottles of water and a collection of pill bottles
on a shabby linoleum table, and a scribbled note: "Take one of each for
pain and to prevent infection. Apply ointment and new bandages to your
surgical sites. No shower." I gingerly let go of my groin, and breasts.
As they droop they seem to explode, and I carefully swallow two of the
Percocet, a Diane-35 and an Amoxicillin and stagger to the bathroom.
The door is off its hinges, the toilet seat is loose and filthy, and the
toilet paper is soggy from sitting in a puddle beside the stool. I pee,
and the cut behind my cock sizzles with pain. The sink is broken, and I
wipe my hands with a nearly empty bottle of Purel. I peel off the gauze
between my legs. Contact with the air intensifies the post-surgical
pain. The bandage is a smeary collage of orange Betadine and blood. I
swipe a fresh line of ointment on my incision, smear more on fresh
gauze, and pull up the elastic panties to press the bandage firmly into
my slaughtered groin. There's nothing I can do with the armpits. I
can't reach them I gingerly stagger back to my bed.
I look around my little prison, and pull open the improvised curtains.
Flies flit against the tattered screen. Outside, a trash strewn street
lined with battered stucco bungalows. I am deep within the Mara's realm.
I notice a hummock under the sheets on the other cot. I walk over and
pull the sheets aside. It's Patty. Her face is pallid, and her brow is
damp and cool. She does not respond to my stroke. I shake her, and her
head lolls to the side.
I recall the lessons of first aid. "Patty, wake up, can you hear me?"
I forget for a moment about my own infirmity, and shake her shoulders.
Her bulging breasts, half again their previous size, sway. Her eyes
roll back in her head, and she lets out a little gasp. But she doesn't
respond. I listen for her breath. It is inaudible, and makes only
light tickle of my cheek. I see my purse, and grapple for my phone. My
boobs and pits are screaming warnings to me, but I am panicking. My
phone doesn't work. The battery is dead. So is Patty's.
I lean out the window and cry out in broken Spanish toward the catering
truck, "Hola, Necesito un medico. Mi amiga est? enferma. Mi amiga
est? muriendo." I need a doctor, my friend is sick, my friend is dying.
The day laborers gathered at the catering truck look up, hoot sexual
innuendoes in my direction, and laugh. I beckon them to come up, but
they shake their heads and look away. They probably know better than to
trespass in Mara's house.
I turn to Patty, and try to remember the lessons from the first aid
videos we watched in Human Development class at Fairfax. Was it two
breaths, followed by ten chest pumps, or the opposite? I tilt back her
head, and mash my lips against hers. They are still warm, but dry and
unresponsive. I breathe in deeply, my breasts heave agonizingly as I
inhale and exhale into her chest. Once, twice, and then I plant my palm
in the narrow valley between Patty's double D boobs and compress her rib
cage. My boobs shudder and ripple ten times, my arm pits piston, and my
scrotum wobbles, sending lightening strikes of pain all over me. I
catch my breath, inhale, seal my lips on hers, and exhale again.
After a dozen cycles, I am bathed in sweat and faint with exertion and
pain. Patty's eyes flutter, and she murmurs "p?relo," stop it, but I
continue for five more cycles until her eyes open.
"Gracias," she whispers. I bring her a bottle of water and an
antibiotic. She swallows it, sets the bottle down, and drifts away.
Her hand releases the bottle and it tips. I take a mouthful and squirt
it into her mouth, but it dribbles down her chin and into the crevice
between her hugely inflated breasts.
I watch her breathing for a few minutes. It's shallow but steady. I am
aching and exhausted. I lie down. The Percocet takes the edge off of
my pain and my anxiety over Patty's perilous condition, and I rest my
eyes. The banda music fades, the ceiling stains billow and swirl, and
the room spins away beneath me.
I feel hands probing my boobs. I push them away, trying to protect
them. But other hands force mine away, and pin them to the bed. I open
my eyes and peer through groggy, unfocussed eyes on a small group that
has gathered over me.
"I am the medico," The man nearest me speaks through a surgical mask. He
has silvery, curly hair and eyebrows. He pulls down my bra. I notice a
tremor in his touch.
I try again to push his hands away. "That hurts. Help Patty, the girl
on the other bed." Other hands again arrest mine. I look over. It's
Roberto.
"Patty doesn't need help from anyone but God."
I turn my head toward her cot. It's empty.
"You killed her? And now you propose to care of me?" I am angry at the
doctor for his incompetence, angry at Roberto for forcing us to undergo
dangerous surgery in primitive conditions, and at myself for abandoning
my effort to resuscitate her.
The doctor forces my hands to my sides. "Someone else did her
procedure, and injected her with liquid silicone. It's dangerous, and
she had an embolism. You have sealed implants. I implanted them
through your arm pits, just like they do on Canon Drive. I was the best
cosmetic surgeon in Tijuana. You will do well. These look good." He
replaces my bra, pulls at my panties and peels back the bandages from
between my legs.
"You have to change this more often." He brandishes the bandage,
crusted with blood and puss.
"The pills made me sleepy. There was no one to help."
"Your helper was the one who needed help." Roberto pointed toward
Patty's vacant cot. "I'll send someone tomorrow."
"No showers until tomorrow, and then, cover the site and don't get it
wet. But, it's healing well enough; I'll take the stitch out." He
snipped at me and I felt a sting as the suture parted. It oozed blood
for a few seconds and he covered it with fresh gauze.
"New bandages every four hours for the rest of today, eight hours
tomorrow. And don't lift your arms over your head, not even to wash
your hair, for three more days. No physical activity for a week. He
thumped Roberto on the chest.
"That includes sex."
"Is cock sucking sex?"
The doctor laughs. "Ask the Bill Clinton. Or better yet, ask Hillary."
The Mara all laugh. Even they get that joke.
"We have to get rid of the other one's body. Take good care of the
TChica. She's the only one we have left." Roberto and the Mara leave.
The doctor and I are alone. He locks the door. The doors of the Maras'
Escalade slam, and they roar away. The doctor hovers over me.
"Do you have any feelings in your balls and in your breasts?"
"Yeah, like a coyote is chewing my scrotum. My boobs feel like a couple
of hot bowling balls sewed under my skin. But that's actually an
improvement over yesterday."
"You must sit up in bed at least part of the time."
I sit up, and gasp as the bowling balls strain against their taut sacks.
I flinch, and howl.
"Your pain management will improve over time, but this won't." He
gestures a slanted line across my chest, and then points to my left
boob. "This one shifted. It's too low."
My face flushes with anxiety as he holds a mirror for me to observe. My
left breast is an inch lower than the right, and canted more to the
outside. My efforts to help Patty had not only failed, they had
dislodged my breast. I looked like a freak, not a sexy woman.
"Oh, my god. What can I do?"
"For the moment, put your bra back on. We'll deal with that later, but
like yours, my services have a price."
"I have nothing to offer."
"Ah, but you are wrong. You can offer me your own services." He pulls
open his belt, unzips and exposes his cock. It's small and withered,
his ball sack has shriveled, and his pubes have gone gray. I look up at
him. His eyes are closed, and his face is alight with a greedy smile.
I lean forward and sniff his cock.
"I didn't say smell it. I said suck me, you little T-slut."
I get off the cot and bend on my knees in front of him. I flick him
teasingly with my tongue, kiss his tip, swipe my tongue beneath his
foreskin, and gather a cheesy mouthful of smegma. I wipe it from the
tip of my tongue and smear it on his flabby butt, but he doesn't seem to
notice or care, for I have taken his still soft member into my mouth and
I am massaging it to life, puckering my cheeks, and inviting it into the
hollow of my glottis. He springs to life, and begins rocking from to
heel, in rhythm with my motions. My rocking makes my tits swing
painfully and my groin feels wet and raw from the movement of my torso
as I blow him.
"Did you know I fucked you once before?"
I shake my head, and look up at him through watery eyes.
"It was before your surgery. We were alone, and you were asleep, so I
fucked your cute little ass. Even unconscious, you were a good little
cum bucket."
I am angry at this admission. I could tell Roberto, but maybe he
wouldn't care. Maybe a surreptitious fuck was part of the surgical fee
the Mara negotiated. I know they think of me as a pretty little fuck
hole for them to cum in or sell. That's what a trannie is. We are she
male freaks, chicks with dicks. No one really cares about us after they
pop inside us. They pay to cum, and pay so we will go when they have
finished. If they want more, they pay again, and we gladly take the
money as the only acknowledge we will ever receive, or expect to
receive, of our beauty and value. That's why trannies make ideal perfect
whores. We only want to be fucked and paid. Being showered with money
and semen reaffirms our aspirations to feminine beauty. I suck and get
fucked, therefore I am.
I suppress my anger and stay in character. As he hardens, I open my
throat to him, and when he pulls back, I pucker my lips around his
cock's corona and lure him back inside me.
He is grunting and moaning, "My slut goddess, my angel whore, you little
slab of Asian street meat, ay, yay, aiii."
He pulls back, jerks himself, and a stringy strand of semen gushes
forth. I close my eyes as it hits my cheek, my eye lids, and my nose,
and then he rubs the glans on my cheek.
"Squeeze my cajones."
I grip one of his balls in each hand and compress them. My chest is
showered with the ropey remnants of his load.
He grimaces. "That was very good. Now wipe yourself off, you little
cum slut." I rise, emotionally and physically exhausted and wracked
with pain. As I stagger to the toilet he playfully smacks my butt.
"Next time I'll take some more of that."
I wash my face with cold water squeeze Purel onto the remnants of the
soggy toilet paper. The cum is dripping into the seam where the tight
sports bra meets my stretched breast skin. I wipe under the fabric, and
wish desperately that I could use the grimy shower. But to do so would
risk a devastating infection.
I smile ingratiatingly at the medico, who has pulled up his pants and is
waiting by my bed. "That was yummy. You have a big load for a, um..,
for a doctor."
"That's barely half of the load I shot up your ass, my little T-whore."
"Don't doctors worry about safe sex? It's not like you are the only one
whose been there, you know."
"The taker takes most of the risk, in my opinion. In any case, I take
PCR/DNA tests regularly. I will take a blood sample for you, as I now
wish also to test you."
He jabs my forearm expertly and draws a sample of my blood. He takes
out another syringe, fills it with a fluid from a vial.
"You are going to need this. What I have to do next is going to hurt a
little."
He pricks the needle in my arm and injects me. The rush is
instantaneous. The filthy room takes on a warm glow, the sleazy medico
seem like an old friend, and the battling regions of pain, anxiety and
anger that have afflicted me melt into warm, liquid Nirvana.
"I feel wonderful. What did you give me?"
"Ah, so you have never had heroin before. Like you, the drug is a
dangerous but attractive mistress."
"Now I know what my mom's drug habit is all about. I've never felt
better." He places both hands beneath my left boob and presses down with
all of his weight. I feel like my chest is collapsing, and my breath
escapes in a anguished shriek. But instead of reverberating and
returning, and inducing panic or shock, the pain and anxiety quickly
recede.
"Is that it?"
"No, I want to bind you more tightly." He wraps my boobs in a tight
elastic bandage.
"Don't take this off for two days. And afterwards, wear the bra for a
week. After that, you should be perfect."
"Will you come back and give me more medicine?"
"I would love to make you my junkie sex slave, but I think Roberto would
object. My job is done here."
"That wasn't so bad. Thank you."
He leans over and kisses me, and I kiss him back.
"What's your name, doctor"
"Call me Rodrigo." He bows. Until we meet again."
I had been in agony for an instant, but the drug annihilated my
suffering. But as my junkie mother's chaotic life has proved, you can't
remove pain from life with a drug. You can only defer the reckoning.
I am alone again. The door is locked. I am still a prisoner in harsh
solitary confinement. I look in the refrigerator at the six pack of out
dated yoghurt, the moldy bread, the grease spotted bag of leftovers from
El Pollo Loco. I want to get the taste of cum from my mouth. I eat a
few spoonfuls of strawberry yoghurt.
I am the Mara's captive trans hooker now, but they have given me the
means to become free.
The great thing about drugs is that for moment you can see beyond your
immediate, shitty circumstances. The heroine is easing the pain and
anxiety of the present and lets me look into my future, when the doors
are open and the Mara are gone. I imagine myself as I will be when my
bandages come off. I will be a young, pretty, slender Asian with 36 D
breasts. Surely I can find all of the work I can take at $300 per
session. There are about 10 million guys in driving distance. If one
out of one hundred of them likes Asian bottom trannies, I've got clients
to last a lifetime. The Mara will put me back on the street, but a
street needn't be just a stroll. It can be an escape.
I almost escaped the Mara with Antoine. I can find someone else who
will help me, now that I have become more beautiful. I will bleach
platinum streaks and dye a few strands strawberry. I will get new hoop
earrings that will dangle to my neck. I will make all of the other
trannies jealous, and will be able to get the best dates with the
richest guys.
I will get a Macbook with broadband wireless, so I can have an ad on
Eros, my own website with sexy pictures of me for sale, I will make
dates with my I-phone, and receive them at an apartment so close to
Peanuts that the guys will be able to walk there with me. And when we
have finished I can walk back and find another, and another, until my
purse is stuffed with money and my mouth and ass are so stuffed with
cock that they are exhausted. I will have a bank account, mutual funds,
health insurance, a Camry, a king size bed with mirror beside it on the
wall.
Now the heroine subsides and pain begins to throb.
The tissue surrounding the implant that Dr. Rodrigo shifted is on fire.
I want more drugs, but one of the Mara has stolen the rest of the
Percocet. There is nothing I can do to make it go away. I suppress my
sobs because it hurts too much to cry. I can never cry again.
Fear returns. Who will come through the door next? Will I hook up with
a crazy who hates trannies, or hates himself for wanting trannies, who
will kill me? Will I get infected with HIV? If I ever even get a sex
change operation, will anyone decent want a fake girl like I will be?
How will I survive when I can't hook anymore because I'm not young and
hot? Will I ever get a real job, a real home, a real boyfriend? Will I
ever have a real family instead of a couple of junkie criminals who
disappear most of the time?
My life is too precarious for me to allow myself these emotions. I am
so weak and vulnerable, so alone and lonely, that I can show no fear or
hesitation. Patty could have been my friend, but she has left me. I
try to imagine what life could be like if I had a real friend. It's
impossible to be friends with GGs or guys. And the lives of other T-
Girls are just as dangerous as my own.
Now, I am alone with Patty's ghost. I cry over her passing, my failure
to save her, and our lost future. She tells me it's OK, that she got in
life to become what she most wanted, and left life happy. She thanks me
for resuscitating her and forgives me for not keeping watch over her
instead of sleeping. She promises that she will keep watch over me
forever, that she will be my angel and guide me to freedom in this
lifetime and into the Kingdom of Heaven.
Now, I know she is on a path of rebirth into this world of the Mara, the
world of cruel, violent men. She was too attached to that world, and to
me, to leave it behind and follow the light. I cry, because I know
that I am like her. I too am enamored of my feminine beauty and
sensuality to escape rebirth. When it is my time, I will not be able to
follow the light. I will endure another cycle of rebirth, perhaps one
even more trouble filled than this one.
TBC
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Bess
- 25.02.2021
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