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Beefy Buns By Cal Y. Pygia It's hard to get good help. Probably, that's true in any business, but it's especially difficult to find decent employees in the fast food racket. Believe me; I've tried. I manage the local Beefy Buns franchise--burgers, fries, and shakes is our mainstay, but the menu also features fish and chicken. Recently, the company added salads and tacos. I guess, before long, they'll include pizza and roast beef sandwiches, too. The district manager, Mr. Moore, says the corporate goal is to feature food from all our competitors' menus. Other than a paycheck and free meals, we don't offer employees much in the way of incentives to work for us. No life, medical, dental, or eye insurance. Few raises. Almost no opportunity for advancement. Who wouldn't want to work for us, right? So you can see why it's hard to find good help. For the most part, Beefy Buns' applicants are bottom of the barrel. Mona Lee is an exception. In every way. She's a real find. And sexy, too. She started in May, and she's become indispensable. I gave her three raises and made her the day shift manager. Most days, our schedules overlap from noon, when I come on duty, to two o'clock in the afternoon, when she leaves, mostly so I can get an eyeful of her rack and booty. Mona's built. She's tall for a girl--or for a woman, I should say--and slender--willowy--with blonde hair to her shoulders; big, blue eyes; a tiny, cute-as-a-button nose; full, sensuous lips; a delicate chin; high, full, round breasts; a concave tummy; killer legs; and an ass that gets me hard every time I see it sashaying around behind the counter-- especially after I got a glimpse of her panties while she was cleaning off the top of the meat locker one afternoon last month (which is exactly what I'd hoped to see when I asked her to clean it). The sight of her on the ladder, the mini-skirt portion of her uniform showing off her smooth, shapely legs and the hot-pink thong panties that exposed as much as they concealed of her gorgeous ass is burned into my memory forever, thank God. I'm an ass man. Having chanced to see her beautiful buttocks once, I was obsessed with the desire--the need--to view them again, and I devised one ploy after another by which I might satisfy my craving to view her splendid bottom another time. "Mona," I directed her one afternoon, "take the step ladder--the tall one--outside, and wash the windows. They're filthy." She gave me an odd look. "Carlos just washed them two days ago." "He did a terrible job. They're grimy." She shrugged, but her expression showed me that she thought I was daft, for, in truth, the windows were clean enough. "I'll need help getting the ladder outdoors," she said. "It's cumbersome and heavy. Someone needs to keep the ladder steady, too, while I'm using it." I rolled my eyes, as if her comments were asinine. In a long-suffering tone, complete with a put-upon expression, I relied, "I'll assist you." Indeed, my providing just such "assistance" had been my purpose, all along, in assigning her the window-cleaning task. "But you're busy," Mona protested. "Shouldn't you assign Carlos to give me a hand?" "Carlos is better use to me in cleaning the restrooms," I answered, "unless you'd prefer to switch tasks with him." I knew she wouldn't. Everyone dislikes cleaning the toilets and urinals, but Mona, above all, detests this chore. "No, no," she demurred. "I'd rather wash the windows." "Let's get to it, then," I said. Outside, the day was unusually bright, and the sunlight sparkled on the windows, which, as Mona had reminded me, Carlos had just cleaned two days ago. He'd done an excellent job. The windows were spotless, except for the dried dribble of a pigeon's droppings. I pointed out the white trail, a disgusted tone in my voice as I told Mona, "Carlos has done his usual half-assed job." "The pigeon could have relieved itself after Carlos washed the windows," Mona observed. "'Could have' are the operative words," I replied. I wasted no more time in helping Mona to set up the stepladder. I was desperate to see her splendid ass again, and I was hoping that she was wearing a thong, as she had been the first time I'd glimpsed her derriere while she'd been cleaning the top of the meat locker. "Go on up," I told her, once the ladder was in place. "I'll hold the ladder for you." "Aren't you going up?" she asked. "I'm afraid of heights." "But I've seen you on the ladder before." "The fear came on recently." She gave me a doubtful look. "I'm wearing heels." "Okay, I'll get Carlos to swap with you. He can wash the windows, and you can finish cleaning the toilets." "No," Mona said. "I'll just take of my shoes." Why stop with the heels? I asked her silently. In a moment, she'd removed her shoes. Her feet, clad only in her stockings, looked cute and dainty. "Hold the ladder," Mona said. I gripped it. "Go ahead." I watched her as she ascended, taking one hesitant step up the rungs of the ladder after another, climbing toward the huge, blinking neon sign that shouted the name of the burger franchise, Beefy Buns, to a world of hungry human carnivores. I counted her steps: one (what pretty feet!), two (and shapely calves!), three (the hollows of her knees were sensuous depressions!), four (the backs of her flexing thighs, smooth but firm, were enticing!), five-- "Boss?" I turned to see Carlos standing in the doorway. "What is it?" I demanded, a little too sharply. "Why aren't you cleaning the restrooms?" "I finished," he explained. "Mr. Moore is here; he sent me to fetch you." "Fetch," I thought, was most likely the exact word that Mr. Moore, the bastard, had employed. The district manager was an arrogant, condescending son-of-a-bitch. I glanced up the ladder. The bottom hem of Mona's mini-skirt showed the very tops of her sleek, creamy thighs, but not yet her ass cheeks. Another step or two surely would have disclosed those smooth, alabaster orbs and, perhaps, the thin strip of satin that ran between them to connect with the waistband of her panties. "Come down," I told her, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. "We'll finish this later." Mr. Moore had come to check our sales figures, which weren't as impressive as either the restaurant's owners, Fern and Fernando Marcus, or the corporate chain's headquarters would like. Of course, like everything else that any of these parties perceived as being wrong with operations was concerned, it was my fault, personally, that the public seemed to be spurning the local Beefy Buns. For the thousandth time, I pointed out to Mr. Moore that the opening of a McDonald's and a Burger King within six blocks of Beefy Buns were more likely causes of the decline in our sales. "Contributing causes, perhaps," Mr. Moore said. We'd repaired to my "office," a room not much larger than a broom closet, occupied by a desk and a file cabinet. Mr. Moore sat behind my desk; I stood in the open doorway. Outside, it would be easy for the employees to hear everything that Mr. Moore or I said, which, I knew, sooner or later, would be humiliating. Mr. Moore had come to "motivate" me, and he knew only one technique--mortification. "Prior to their opening, sales were huge," I pointed out to my superior, although, I knew, a recitation of facts would serve no purpose. "And they can be again, Brad" he replied. "What are you doing to beef up sales?" He always liked to use the term "beef up" in relation to improving Beefy Buns' burger sales. In his own way, Mr. Moore had a sense of humor, albeit a sophomoric one. As he well knew, there was precious little--nothing, in fact--that I could do to promote sales. The corporation handled all promotions and advertising. I had to think of something, though; Mr. Moore was waiting for my answer. "Uh," I thought of Mona on the stepladder, a step or two away from revealing the glory of her magnificent ass to me. "I'm going to have employees stand on the sidewalk, near the street, and wave a Beefy Buns sign showing a picture of a huge, succulent Beefy Buns Beefy Burger, with fries, that reads, 'Whet your appetite.'" This was the dumbest thing I'd ever said in response to one of Mr. Moore's interrogations, and I fully expected him to lambaste me for it. At my desk, he'd tented his fingers. Now, he flexed his thumbs as he chewed over my suggestion in his mind. I waited, reminding myself not to wince when he let me have it. Instead, after a lengthy silence, he announced, "I like it!" I was astonished. "You do?" He nodded enthusiastically. "Put the skinny blonde on it," he directed. She's not "skinny," I wanted to tell him; she's "willowy." "You got it," I said. For once, the bastard hadn't chastised me before my employees. Nevertheless, when he navigated his bulk out of my office and through the exit, crossed the parking lot, and lowered himself into his Lexus, no doubt putting a tremendous strain on its shock absorbers, I was glad to see him go. I went to the counter, where Mona had assumed her station at the cash register again and was waiting on customers. I asked Sandra Smith, a pimply-face redhead with way too many freckles and unintentionally comical, oversize spectacles with thick lenses, to spell Mona. "Come with me," I told the latter. "Back to the ladder?" she asked. "Yes." I had no intention of putting Mona--or anyone else--to work in the manner I'd suggested to Mr. Moore. I was shorthanded already, and there was no way I was going to station an employee--and especially not one as good looking and sexy as Mona--on the sidewalk when he or she could be better employed in the kitchen. As we were on our way out of the restaurant, I received a call on my cell phone. It was Mr. Moore, with a parting shot. "Get somebody to clean up the parking lot," he commanded. "It's littered with Beefy Buns wrappers!" "Yes, sir," I replied, adding, in my mind, bastard! The ladder was still in place, right where we'd left it. "Go on up," I told Mona. "I'll hold the ladder." She kicked off her shoes again. "Make sure you do," she said. "I don't want to fall." "You're not going to fall," I assured her. In my mind, though, I saw her do just that, and, gallantly, I caught her in my arms and set her safely on the ground. My reward was a kiss of her soft, smooth lips. She ascended the ladder again, displaying more and more of her shapely legs as she climbed higher and higher, her mini-skirt threatening to betray her with every step she took. My cell phone chimed. I'd ignore it, I thought. The phone was insistent. What if were Mr. Moore again? I asked myself. He'd be pissed if I didn't answer. Hell, he might even return to the restaurant. I removed the phone from my pocket and glanced at the number on its illuminated display. It was Mr. Moore, all right. "Hello?" "What are you doing with that damned ladder?" he thundered in my ear. Obviously, upon leaving the parking lot, he'd parked somewhere nearby and was spying on me, the bastard! "I thought I told you to get that parking lot cleaned up! And why isn't the girl on the sidewalk with the sign?" "I thought we'd better finish the windows before--" "I can see why your location's in trouble, Brad," Mr. Moore cut in. "You don't know how to set priorities--and you don't follow instructions. Besides, those windows are already clean. It looks as if someone washed them only a day or two ago." The son-of-a-bitch was detail-oriented and observant; I had to give him that. "Yes, sir," I told him. I'd better do as he said, I thought. After all, he was my boss and, obviously, he was watching me. "Come down," I called up the ladder, reluctantly, as I saw how perilously close the bottom hem of Mona's mini-skirt had come, a second time, to revealing her splendid ass. "Again?" she complained. "Mr. Moore just called. He wants us to pick up the litter in the parking lot and to do something else." She descended the ladder and donned her heels again, looking lovelier than ever. She was obviously glad to have her dainty feet back on terra firma. "What else does he want us to do, besides picking up the litter?" she asked. I told her. "No," she said. "I won't do it." "Yes, you will." "No, I won't," Mona insisted, "not even if it costs me my job." "It might," I warned her. "Mr. Moore's parked somewhere nearby, and he's watching us." She gave me a look that suggested I'd gone insane. "What?" I repeated myself. "He's watching, and he expects to see you waving a sign on the street corner, advertising Beefy Buns' Beefy Burger." "I'm not a whore," she declared, her eyes flashing, "and I'm not standing on any street corner." "No one said you're a whore," I protested. "I'm not doing it," she said, determination, like steel, in her refusal. "But Mr. Moore's watching." "He's not the only one who's been watching me, is he?" she asked frostily. "What do you mean?" "You think I'm blind as well as blonde?" she demanded. "I've seen you ogling me, staring at my tits and ass." In any other context, her use of such words would have been exciting. Somehow, as we stood in the littered parking lot, next to the step ladder positioned along the back wall of Beefy Buns, Mr. Moore maybe still watching us from a distance, these terms--and the implicit charge of sexual harassment behind them--made me nervous. Sexual harassment? Was that really where she was going with this? I wondered. "What do you mean?" I managed to blurt, affecting innocence. I even managed to sound confused and wounded, as if the thought of looking at her breasts and buttocks had never crossed my mind. "You don't think I know why you had me clean the top of the meat locker?" she demanded. "You think I'm too dumb to know why you wanted me to clean the same windows Carlos just cleaned two days ago? You think I'm unaware of your studying my ass from behind your desk as I wait on customers behind the counter?" "I don't know what you mean," I told her. "Then, let me make it clear for you," she said. "You're a voyeur." "I'm nothing of the kind! That's the most preposterous--" "You've subjected me to sexual harassment since I started working her," Mona contended, "and it stops here and now." "I've never--" "I have witnesses who will collaborate my allegations." "Witnesses? Who?" "You'll know their identities soon enough, if I have to go to court to get you to treat me like a human being instead of a piece of meat." "Court?" I cried. "There's no need to go to court. Mona, really--" "And I'm not walking the street with a Burger Buns sign." The district manager might still be parked nearby, waiting to see Mona with the sign, I thought. On the other hand, he might have continued his journey by now. He might be well on his way to humiliating the manager of the next Beefy Buns on his route. "But what will I tell Mr. Moore?" "Tell him I may have to work cheap, but I'm not a two-bit whore." Thankfully, I never received another call from him. He must have been content to resume his rounds after telling me how to run my restaurant. Later, a few minutes before my shift ended, Mona appeared in my office doorway. "I need some help in the meat locker," she informed me, her voice as frosty as the interior of the freezer to which she'd just alluded. Her gaze was cold, too. If I wasn't careful, she'd be running the place, I thought, and I'd be taking orders from her. "What's wrong?" I asked brusquely. "Nothing's wrong," she assured me. "I just need a hand." "Can't Carlos or Sandra or someone else--?" "No. I need you." I sighed. "All right." Standing, I left my office, crossed the kitchen, and made my way, behind Mona, to the meat locker, making a concerted effort not to watch her swaying bottom. What had prompted this impromptu meeting? I wondered. Had Mona decided to charge me with sexual harassment, after all? Mona opened the heavy metal door, and I followed her into the meat locker. The term, in our case, was a bit of a misnomer, for the walk-in freezer didn't contain hanging sides of beef or other openly displayed frozen animal carcasses. There was plenty of raw hamburger, pre-packaged chicken, and frozen fish, all conveniently sliced and diced in advance, of course, but, like the frozen French fries, the meat was packaged inside pristine white containers--cardboard boxes, plastic tubs, and cartons, and these items were neatly stacked on rows of sturdy metal shelves. Despite the aromatic scents that permeated the kitchen, the meat locker displayed little evidence that this was a place dedicated to the wholesale serving of slaughtered animals. "I don't really need help," Mona told me. Her nipples were rigid from the cold, and stood out beneath the thin fabric of her Beefy Buns blouse. After noticing them, I averted my eyes. I didn't need to give her any more evidence of my "sexual harassment" of her. "Then why are we here?" "I wanted to show you something," she said. We'd walked to the rear of the meat locker, stepping behind the end of one of the rows of package-laden shelves. She'd stood aside so that I could precede her, and, now, I realized, she quite literally had my back to the wall. "What?" I asked, a little nervously. She slid the zipper at the side of her mini-skirt down, in one, fluid motion. Grasping the sides of the garment's elastic waistband, she tugged the skirt down her hips, revealing the lavender silk of her panties. "Mona!" I cried. "What the hell are you doing?" She chuckled at my protest. "Don't sound so outraged. You've been wanting to see me naked for months now, ever since the day you first laid eyes on me." She lowered her panties, and my eyes widened. I stared at her groin, my mouth gaping. "What the hell?" In place of the cleft of the female sex I expected to see, Mona had revealed a small, circumcised cock, which dangled before a pair of balls high inside the tight pouch of their scrotum. The cold temperature of the meat locker, no doubt, had caused her genitals to contract, just as my own organs had done, but there was no mistaking their masculinity, their virility: Mona, despite appearances to the contrary, wasn't a she; she was a he--or a he-she, I guess--a shemale. She grinned at me as my eyes traveled back and forth between her firm, high, round breasts and their stiff-standing nipples and the cute cock and balls dangling, like ornaments, below her downy pubes. Cute? Had I characterized her genitals as cute? How the hell could I think a cock and a pair of balls could be "cute"? What was I, a faggot? "Are you still interested in me?" Mona asked. "Are you still as anxious to see me naked, now that you know my little secret?" It's not that little, I wanted to tell her, but I remained silent, not knowing, really, what to say. My mind raced, as I tried to figure out her purpose. She'd accused me of sexually harassing her; yet, here she stood, exposing herself to me. Was she gathering ammunition for a lawsuit? Would she say I'd been the one to pull her skirt and panties down in the meat locker, claiming, maybe, that I'd attempted to rape her? Was she merely turning the tables on me, playing the predator instead of the prey, to give me a taste, as it were, of my own medicine? Or had she set me up as someone who'd harassed her sexually so she could harass me the same way, with impunity? If I said anything about this incident, she could deny it ever happened--or say I'd assaulted her--but if, on the other hand, I didn't object, she'd have seduced me and gained a companion, a sex partner, a boyfriend, or whatever it was she might be seeking. Pirouetting, she showed me the loveliness of her creamy, smooth backside. In my imagination, I held her full, round buttocks in my hands, squeezed the smooth-soft cushions of her ass-cheeks in my flexing fingers, making deep indentations in her tanned flesh, and parted the mounds to examine the tight, puckered anus hidden within the deep cleavage between those glorious orbs. Despite the cold temperature, my cock twitched, stiffening and swelling inside the trousers of my Beefy Buns uniform. "Well, what about it?" she prompted me. "Do you like what you see?" I gulped, understanding the homosexual significance of my reply. "Yes." "Is my ass to your liking?" "It's beautiful." "How about my boobs?" she demanded, turning to face me again as she lifted her blouse and bra at the same time, showing me her round, smooth breasts, capped with rigid, pink nipples that were surrounded by puffy areolas. "Gorgeous," I said, my breath a frosty plume in the frigid air. One of her hands jiggled her genitals. "What about these? Do you like them, too?" I gulped again. My cock was rigid. The front of my trousers protruded like a tent. She could see I wasn't lying as I said, "They're fabulous." She studied me for a moment. She gazed at my jutting penis. She looked into my eyes, into my soul. Then, she gave my own cock and balls a playful squeeze through my slacks before pulling her panties and skirt back up and her bra and blouse back down. She reached into the pocket in her mini-skirt and produced a folded slip of paper, handing it to me. I opened it. "That's my cell phone number. Call me," she invited. I said I would. She walked past the rows of shelves, back to the door, and exited the meat locker. As soon as my dick had returned to its normal, flaccid condition, I did likewise, looking at the clock beside my office door. It was 2:00 PM, which meant the end of Mona's shift. She'd be going home, but I still had at least six hours--and more like ten--to go-- unless I went home early. I went to Beth Johnson, the chief cook, who occasionally acted as a shift manager. "Something's come up," I said, thinking of my recent erection. "Can you handle the late shift?" I knew Beth could use the overtime; like most of my employees, she's chronically short of money. "Sure, Brad." "Thanks." Fifteen minutes after she'd left, Mona was talking to me on her cell phone. "I'm on my way," I told her, breathless with excitement. I'd verified her address in the employee files before leaving Beefy Buns in Beth's capable hands so I could put myself in Mona's even more capable hands and, I hoped, her expert mouth and adept ass. She giggled. "I didn't expect you to come over quite so soon." "Oh. If it's too soon, I can--" "No, no, it's fine. Do you need directions?" "North on Tenth Street to Sycamore, left on Sycamore to Elm, and right on Elm to your apartment, right?" "It sounds like you've been here before." "Just the neighborhood." "You were stalking me?" "Never. I just wanted to see where my dream girl lives." She wasn't recording my call, I hoped. She seemed genuinely interested in me, maybe because she saw that, her cock and balls notwithstanding, I was genuinely interested in her. Of course, it was possible, too, that she was still building a sexual harassment case against me, most recently as a stalker. "Talk to you later," she said, disconnecting. I glanced into the bright heavens. Let her like me, rather than her setting me up, I pleaded to the universe. The sky, cloudless and azure, was non-committal. Mona's apartment wasn't in the best part of town. Situated on the ground floor, in a line of identical units that, with three other rows, formed a square, consisting of two stories fronted by either a sidewalk or a balcony walkway, her residence, like all the others, faced a littered, weed-choked lawn in which a small swimming pool accompanied by a dilapidated building containing toilets and showers was the focal point. There was an attempt at landscaping, but the shrubs were sunburned and the flowers were wilted and dying. The parking lot, I'd noticed upon entering the premises, was full of older vehicles in various states of disrepair, including Mona's ramshackle Dodge Dart. Depressing just to visit, Mona's apartment complex, Desert Acres, should be called Deserted Acres, I thought. Although, as late as this afternoon, I'd cared about Mona only as a beautiful bitch with a beautiful booty, suddenly I wanted to take her away from this squalid environment. Her looks alone made her deserving of surroundings far more glamorous and luxurious than these. It seemed, somehow, grossly inappropriate for someone as lovely as she to live in such a hellhole. Angels, I told myself, belong in heavenly surroundings. I rang her doorbell and waited. After a minute, when she still hadn't answered the door, I rang again. Still, there was no answer. I rapped sharply at her door. "Hello, Brad," she said, as she answered the door. My eyes widened, and I smiled. She was wearing only a flimsy baby blue top, through which I could see the outlines of both her erect nipples and their swollen areolas as well as the round mounds of her fabulous breasts, and a pair of pink satin thongs, the front of which showed the bulge of her male genitals and, as I would see in a moment, the back of which revealed the full, firm cheeks of her compact derriere. Remembering my manners, I responded to her greeting. "Hello, Mona." "Won't you come in?" she asked, her tone imparting a double meaning to both the words "come" and "in." She sure had a way with words, I thought, as my penis stirred. "I'd love to," I said, my smile broadening into a grin. "Can I get you something?" "Just you." "I like a man who knows what he wants." She took my hand and lead me across her living room to the couch. Like the rest of the furniture in her sparsely equipped abode, it had seen better days. However, it was comfortable enough. I sat, and she sat next to me, so close our arms and hips and thighs touched. I put my arm around Mona's shoulders, and my employee leaned her head against my chest. The heat of her body against mine, the softness of her fine blonde hair against my five o'clock shadow, the slightness of her lithe, slender frame, and the sweet scent of her perfume made my cock stiffen and swell further. Noting my condition, Mona quipped, "We match." The bulge inside her panties had become a smaller version of my own erection. I laughed. With one hand, she rubbed her own cock and balls through the sheer fabric of her panties; with the other, she stroked my genitals through my jeans. "They want out, poor things," she remarked. "Let's set them free." She stood, lowering her panties. Stepping out of the satin thongs, she discarded them. Then, she removed her top and stood over me, completely- -astonishingly--nude, her cock pointed toward my face. She reached down to me, and I took her hands in mine, standing as she urged me forward, onto my feet. Following her lead, I also disrobed. She encircled my waist with her arms, holding me close to her, her breasts against my chest, her cock and balls against my genitals. The contrast of my hard-defined body and her soft curves was extremely erotic, as was the press of her sex organs against my own identical set of male accoutrements. We kissed, our lips pressing firmly against one another, our tongues sliding into the soft, warm, wet caverns of our respective mouths to explore the interiors of these oral cavities. As we kissed, I clutched Mona's ass cheeks in my hands, squeezing the firm- soft orbs again and again, first lightly, and then more ardently, more tightly. If we'd done nothing more than to kiss while I squeezed Mona's buttocks, I'd have been pleased, if not fully satisfied, but Mona hadn't invited me to her place simply to kiss while I copped a feel. She had much more in mind than such innocent pastimes. Mona drew her head back, separating her face from mine, and I saw the sparkle of her bright blue eyes, agleam with mischief. Her soft, smooth lips still wet with my saliva and her own, she smiled at me. Taking my hand in hers, she said, in a throaty whisper, "Let's go into the bedroom." She led the way, and I saw that her boudoir was no better furnished than her living room had been. She had a dresser that had seen better days; a cheap bedside table and lamp, the latter of which was topped with a torn shade; and a double bed that, spread with a comforter that was worn, if not exactly threadbare, sagged a bit in the middle. When we sat down on the mattress, the springs creaked and the bedstead groaned. If she was embarrassed by her Spartan furnishings, she kept her chagrin to herself. Despite several salary increases, she couldn't afford much in the way of furniture and d?cor, I supposed, when she worked as a shift manager for a fast food restaurant and had to devote a sizeable amount of her paltry pay to buying outfits, makeup, and jewelry; to paying to have her nails and her hair done; and to purchasing the many other accessories and accoutrements of femininity of which men have only the faintest inkling. "Lie back," she suggested, "and let me enjoy you." I didn't need a second invitation. I stretched out on my back, my head upon her downy-soft pillow, and my legs spread. My cock stood upright, stiff and swollen, looking both comical and absurd. She rose, knelt at the side of the bed, as if she were a little girl about to say her prayers, and bowed low, bending forward at the waist, to let her open mouth descend around my erect penis. Her lips closed upon my stiff- standing member, and her head bobbed up and down, in a slow, steady rhythm, as if in time to some soft, slow piano concerto that only she could hear. Her hair spilled over my groin, a shower of blonde fire, obscuring the sight of her face--of her furrowed brow, her intense gaze, her flaring nostrils, her rounded lips--but only for a moment. She brushed her tresses aside, knowing, either from experience, intuition, or reason, that a man likes to watch a woman as she performs this intimate act, accepting his manhood as completely as she would nectar and ambrosia offered to her by a divinity of Mount Olympus. Her frown of concentration; her concave cheeks; her sliding lips; her bobbing head; the slurping sounds and grunts she made; the drool of her saliva down the column of my cock; the brush of her velvet-soft lips around the shaft of my dick; the occasional nudge of her chin against my groin or thigh; her ardent dedication to the task at hand; the floral aroma of her perfume; the swarm of sensations in my loins, my, cock, and my balls; the increase of blood flow to my genitals; the gasps of her breath and mine; the pounding of my heart--these and a host of other observations, emotions, and sensations conspired to catapult me into a state of bliss that would seize me as resolutely and as finally as the grip of death or the rapture of a saint, and I felt my thighs quake as something--perhaps my very soul--seemed to pull itself out, through my prick. I gasped, holding my breath and closing my eyes tightly as my spirit seemed to uncoil within me. Abruptly, realizing that orgasm was imminent for me, Mona stopped, her mouth closed around my cock, holding my prick within her motionless, warm, wet embrace until the paroxysms subsided and my prick no longer lurched and trembled between her lips. When she withdrew, her rose-pink lips glistened with the dew of her saliva and, perhaps, a drop or two of my Cowper's fluid, or pre-cum. She smiled at me. "Wow! That was close!" "If you hadn't stopped, I'd have come for sure," I told her. "Why did you quit?" Her smile broadened. "I want you to shoot your load up my ass," she said, her dignified, ladylike tone contrasting sharply with the vulgarity of her expression. I smiled back at her as I rose, letting her into the bed. She positioned herself on her elbows and knees, legs spread wide, to provide easy access to the tiny, puckered anus between her satin-smooth buttocks, and I took my place, on my knees, behind her, the jostling mattress dipping and rolling beneath us. Although smaller than a woman's ass, Mona's bottom was fuller than a man's backside and every bit as smooth, soft, and inviting as any female's derriere. Just the sight of the round, sleek orbs and the small, tight opening that led into her innermost depths brought my cock fully erect again and made my balls ache. There was nothing more tempting, I thought, than a pair of lovely buttocks; although mere muscle and fat overlaid with skin, they seemed not only to invite, but also to demand, to be both penetrated and fucked. I had every intention of obeying their silent command. It would be a true joy to shove my cock through Mona's tight anal opening and deep into her bowels. Taking my cock in hand, I guided the massive organ between the silk- smooth cheeks of Mona's magnificent derriere. It was heavenly to feel the smooth, cushioned flesh slide past both sides of my prick as I introduced my organ into her cleavage, the already parted globes spreading further to admit my hard, swollen manhood. My penis met the stout resistance of her anal sphincter. Gripping my member more firmly, I pointed the tip of my prick into the dimple between Mona's ass cheeks and pressed forward, resolutely, with my hips. My glans pushed through the opening, followed by an inch of my rigid cock. I continued to push, forcing another inch of my stiff prick through her asshole, and another, and another, until I had buried my erection inside her impaled buttocks to the very root, and my balls were crushed between my pubes and her perineum and scrotum. It felt wonderful to have conquered her ass, to have invaded the sanctuary of her rectum, and to have usurped from her the last vestiges of her own autonomy, making her fully and completely a woman. Her head hanging, Mona moaned as, reaching forward and below her, I cupped her breasts in my hands, squeezing them hard, as if they were melons, while I ground my pubes against her bare, cock-skewered ass. Then, as I withdrew, drawing my erection back through her speared anus until only the glans remained within the tight ring of muscle, I released one of her tits and gripped her genitals, squeezing both her diminutive cock and balls repeatedly. Mona squirmed, and I slapped her ass. Immediately, she stilled herself. Inwardly, I chuckled. At just nineteen, Mona was little more than a girl, although she'd frightened me badly enough only a few hours ago, accusing me of sexually harassing her at work to the point that I was afraid she might be setting me up for a lawsuit. A sudden pang of doubt and fear stabbed me as I realized that, even now, she might be doing just such a thing. She could claim that I'd raped her. No, I told myself. It was obvious that she was enjoying herself; it was evident that she liked to have a cock in her mouth or up her ass, to be used and dominated. She might act the self-assured, no-nonsense, ball-busting bitch at work, but she was glad enough to be on the receiving end of a man's cock at home, where a person's true character was most evident. I had no intention of disappointing her. As a manager--and a man--I knew well how to take charge, and I did so now. I slammed my hard cock full force into her bouncing buns, shoving the thick column all the way inside her rectum until my groin collided with her buttocks, flattening them beneath me, and my balls ground hard against her perineum and scrotum. Again, Mona moaned. Her whimper excited me, and I pulled out, all the way out, this time, my cock sliding free of her gaping asshole. The sight of her round anus, stretched to many times its normal size, and the knowledge that it was I--and my thick, hard cock--that was responsible for this transformation of her asshole into a cunt--was erotic in the extreme. No female, not even a genetic female, is truly a woman until she's been fucked by a man, and Mona was no exception. In fucking her in her beautiful transsexual ass, I would be making of her a true and complete woman. My prick slipped easily back through her wide-stretched, circular opening and plunged deep into her bowels. After ramming it home, I withdrew, again letting my bloated cock slide all the way out of her tunnel of love. It was fun to see my prick slide effortlessly all the way into her ass or to pull all the way out, and, several times, I repeated this action, watching my organ vanish and reappear as I worked it in and out and back and forth within her entrails, my toil punctuated by Mona's moans and groans, whimpers, gasps, and cries. Reaching beneath her, I found her genitals again, and was surprised to find her erect. Her small cock had stiffened so that it ran parallel to her lower belly, pointing upward, and her balls, small in the contracted pouch of her silk-smooth scrotum, had risen to rest below the base of her blood-engorged cock. I chuckled at the thought that, ready as she might be to play the man and to penetrate a cunt or an asshole, there was no partner for her by which she might accomplish such a feat, and her cock, erect or not, must remain idle and redundant while mine filled her again and again. Despite her male equipment, she was, and would always be, a she and, as such, the receptacle, rather than the instrument, of invasion and occupation, the conquered rather than the conqueror. Nevertheless, now that she was hard, there was no sense, I told myself, in letting a perfectly good, if smallish, erection go to waste, and seizing her little penis between my thumb on one side and my index and middle fingers on the other side, I pumped the flesh of her cock back and forth upon the slender, straining shaft, eliciting more moans and gasps from the beautiful shemale whose ass I was riding fast and hard. I slammed my meat home again, crushing her sleek, soft-firm buttocks before my driving pubes and feeling the circle of her anus all along my plummeting member. My hips buffeted her bottom, and I ground my groin hard against her impaled buttocks before wrenching my cock back through her asshole, the sphincter of her ass dragging against my retreating prick, as if seeking to resist its departure just as, following my initial penetration of her ass, the sphincter had seemed to resist my organ's invasion. Back and forth, with greater and greater passion, force, and speed, I worked my cock inside Mona's anal opening, ramming and jamming, lunging and plunging, stabbing and jabbing her buttocks, her asshole, and her rectum with my thick, hard manhood while, her frame shaking, her breasts bouncing, her buttocks flattening and recoiling, and her cock and balls joggling, the mattress beneath our bucking bodies dipping and rocking, I fucked Mona with all the strength, energy, stamina, and brutality that my lust-enflamed soul could muster--which was considerable. The more she bounced and flounced, the harder I thrust and lunged, and the more Mona moaned and groaned. She began to toss her impaled buttocks back, to meet my assault, and her ass and my groin, her perineum and scrotum and my balls, colliding again and again, made the loud slapping sounds of flesh smacking flesh. In my mind, I compared--or, perhaps I should say, I contrasted--her asshole as it had looked prior to my assault, tiny and tight, with how it looked now that I had ravished it, gaping wide open, and the mental images of her anus relit my dying lust, renewed my will, and gave me the strength to prolong my attack. I rammed my cock into her impaled bottom with as much savage fury as I'd used in the delivery of any previous stroke, and my effort was rewarded with a cry from Mona, followed by a tremulous whimper. I rammed my cock through her anus, into her bowels, withdrew the rigid fleshly pole; and drove it home again, with greater force, as if, with my penis, I meant to disembowel the ass it fucked. Of course, Mona was up to the challenge of having me jam my cock into her ass and wrench it free so that I might plunge into her bowels again- -and again---and again--and, although it seemed impossible that her little anus, even stretched to many times it normal size, could tolerate my continued assault, she weathered the attack until the moment that orgasm seized me, my belly heaved, my legs quaked and shuddered, my cock convulsed, lurching frantically within the depths of her bowels, and, my breath coming in quick, hot gasps and my heart pounding like machine-gun fire, my thick viscid semen spewed into the chamber of her lower intestine, spraying the walls of her rectum with repeated volleys and jets until, the reservoir of my seed spent at last, my penis softened, dwindling, and withdrew from Mona's round, wide-stretched anus, trailing white fluid down the cleavage between her buttocks, over her perineum, and down the back side of her scrotum. Normally, after a fuck, I discourage conversation, but Mona wanted to talk, and, after such sex as she had provided, how could I refuse to indulge her? Besides, I had a question of my own, to which, now that we'd been intimate, I thought she might answer truthfully. "Do you love me?" she asked. "I'm fond of you." "You don't, then?" "I care about you, intensely and immensely." "That's enough, I suppose." "May I ask you a question?" "Shoot. Oops. I guess you already shot your load, come to think of it." I smiled at her play on words. Then, I was serious again as I asked my question. "Earlier today, in the meat locker, when you showed me your package, were you gathering ammunition for a sexual harassment lawsuit; were you merely turning the tables on me, playing the predator instead of the prey, to give me a taste of my own medicine; or were you setting me up as someone who'd harassed you sexually so you could harass me the same way, but with impunity?" The tip of her moist, pink tongue protruded between her lips as she considered my question, a little-girl look that I found extremely sexy. After a while, she said, "Honestly, I don't know. I had mixed feelings about you then, and I had mixed motives." "What do you mean?" She gave me an arch look, as she explained, "A lot of times, you're just an asshole, but you're actually kind of cute when you're not being revolting." I smiled. "I'll never be an asshole again--not to you, at least--if you'll move in with me," I promised. She chuckled, opening her arms to the meagerly furnished room. "So you can take me away from all this?" I wasn't smiling when I answered her question. I was serious. I was earnest. "Yes." She considered my proposal. "With one condition," she said. "Name it." "You don't make me climb any more ladders or clean any more toilets and urinals at work." "I'll do better than that. You can quit working altogether if you want. I'll take care of you, Mona." She smiled, caressing my semen-smeared cock. "You really are kind of cute when you're not being revolting." I gave her genitals a friendly squeeze. "You, too." We kissed. We caressed. We made love. The next day, Mona and I became not only lovers, but roommates as well, and she said goodbye to Beefy Buns forever.