Young Indy Jones the Gift of Wet Pussies
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Christmas In Indy, Cont. free porn video
Adam pulled into a shallow parking lot in front of a solitary commercial
building uncomfortably close to the street. The wind almost slammed the
Escalade's large door into Kelly's face as she tried to open it, as a
merry prelude to wrecking havoc with her hair and dress.
She hurried inside ahead of her brother's and mom, hoping to salvage at
least some of the time she had spent styling her hair. Consequently, she
burst into the photo studio in something of a rush;, only to run almost
headlong into her father and a tall young man with a large, professional-
grade camera hanging from his shoulder.
Kelly stared at the photographer for a full second before she blurted,
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?"
Bradley Moore's eyes crawled over Kelly's figure before he answered,
"It's my studio. Where else would I be?"
That arrogant, condescending, worthless piece of shit. He HAD to know
that he would be taking my picture today. Why didn't he say anything?
Kelly glared at him in obvious anger, so obvious that even her Dad
recognized that something was wrong.
"Do you two know each other?"
While the evil, smartass side of her brain ached to say, "Yes Daddy, I
fucked his brains out,"; righteous anger overlaid with fear wiped out
Kelly's ability to appreciate irony.
Bradley replied, "I went to Ellison, Mr. Johnson," diplomatically
neglecting to add, "with Jason."
"Your mother didn't tell me."
Her Dad deliberately looked back and forth between Kelly and Bradley,
clearly trying to defuse an uncomfortable situation. Meanwhile, Adam
walked in the door, saw Bradley, Kelly and his Dad; and abruptly stopped,
almost causing Pete and their Mom to run into him from behind.
Her Dad's eyes locked onto Kelly, and he finally said, "Bradley's mother
is part of my prayer group. She told me that he owned a photography
studio."
Of course Dad would use this damn studio. How many times has he told us,
"Always do favors for your friends and acquaintances; you never know when
you need one back."
Kelly felt her face go slack with resignation. "Fine, let's take some
pictures."
I hope to God that Mom didn't pick up that there's more to it than me
freaking out over running into someone who knew Jason.
Kelly purposefully strode toward Bradley's "living room" set, clearly
intended for family portraits. Her Mom and Dad sat down on a small
loveseat in front, while Pete and Kelly flanked Adam right behind them.
Bradley looked through his camera sight, then straitened up and grinned.
"Ummm...Kelly...maybe you'd like to brush your hair?"
Bradley produced a large hand mirror from a small cabinet right next to
his camera setup and brought it to Kelly. Reaching down to the floor for
her purse, she pulled out a wide-toothed brush and went to work on her
hair. Adam and Pete stared at her proficiency.
I can do girl-stuff! Get over it!
Bradley clicked away as Kelly steamed. He seemed to enjoy looking at her
through his camera lense, as if she were somehow in his power. Just when
she thought it could not get any worse, Bradley asked her Mom, "Would you
like an individual portrait of Kelly?"
Like hell I'm going to play fashion model for that creep.
Then Kelly noticed the hopeful glance her mother shot a in her direction.
Suddenly, Kelly realized that her mother did not have a single picture of
her. If I let drooling idiots stop me from doing normal things with my
family, why did I bother coming home in the first place?
Bradley, her brothers, her Dad; none of them were really the problem.
Even a year-and-a-half after surgery, Kelly's own feminity still
embarassed her.
That's me, Kelly the transsexual mysogynist.
Forcing herself to smile, Kelly nodded her approval. "Sounds good to me."
A slow smile spread across Bradley's face as he extended his hand to
Kelly, "Follow me."
She ignored the hand, but walked gracefully to his side, her heels
clacking on his wood floor. As she drew close to him, Bradley whispered,
"I was going to call..."
She hissed, "Save it! Do your job."
He shrugged, then continued to lead her toward a tall stool in front of a
pale blue portrait backdrop. Bradley carefully positioned her on the
stool, so she would look over her right shoulder toward the camera. He
fussed with the ends of her hair, pushing the right side of her hair
behind her shoulder and making sure the left side hung attractively.
Returning to his camera, he looked through the sight once more. Not
satisfied, he adjusted a nearby lamp until the light source bathed Kelly
exactly the way he wanted. Finally, he said, "Smile!", and pressed the
shutter.
Frowning at the digital thumbnail he had just taken, he muttered, "Too
stiff".
He seemed just about ready to tell her to "loosen up" or some other kind
of photographic drivel, when Kelly glared him into silence. He seemed at
a loss how the proceed, until he said, "Let's try it without the stool."
Kelly rose as he stood up from behind his tripod set-up and rapidly
darted to her right. Kelly wondered if he intended to aim a fan at her
hair and start playing some atrocious pop-music when she heard the
mechanized whir of a camera firing off consecutive shots in rapid
succession.
Instinctively, she turned toward the sound, only to see Bradley aiming
his portable camera at her and exclaiming, "Perfect!"
He srode confidently toward her, turning his camera around to proudly
display the thumbnail of the photo he had just taken. His sense of
victory screamed from his posture as he loomed over her, even in her 3-
inch heels.
She wanted to yell at him, scream at him, think of a comment so cutting
that she would demolish the obvious satisfaction he took from completing
the job. But her normally active mind failed her.
What does he think he won? I wish I knew.
Does it really matter?
* * *
Kelly looked at her body as she peeled out of her "little black dress",
thinking about her encounter with Brad. Clad only in a black lace bra-
and-panty set, she could not help but take inventory of her "assets".
You're a beautiful girl. Really. Why isn't that enough?
During the long hours that Kelly had stared in the mirror before her
transition, she had believed that achieving a perfectly feminine
appearance would win her the happiness she craved. Now her nose was no
longer too big, dark stubble no longer infested her chin, and deep blue
eyes shone forth from a delicate, surgically-constructed face. Her
velvet-smooth hands no longer pulsed with ugly veins from Jason's brutal
weight-lifting regimen; and still, it was not enough.
You're just as dumb as Jason.
Kelly turned over the palm of her right hand, and felt the calluses at
the base of her fingers with her thumb. No matter how diligently she
filed at them with an emery board, she could not eradicate these scars
from Jason's combat with rough barbells. She remembered the bleeding
hands and feral screams with which Jason willed hundreds of pounds into
the air, fueled by hope and self-hatred.
Am I any different?
Kelly desperately hoped so, because the last time she had felt this lost
she had ended up with a gun in her mouth.
* * *
Kelly lay curled up in her bed, hopelessly waiting for the 25mg dose of
prozac she had taken to clear the depressed fog from her head. However,
instead of relief, she could FEEL the front of her brain pour chemical
misery throughout her soul.
She knew, KNEW, that she should not feel so bad. All that had happened
was that she had met the guy that had used her as a sexual experiment, It
was his problem, not hers.
Then why am I hiding in my bed hugging a pillow to my chest?
Kelly's mind drifted back to the first job she had as a woman. NO NO NO
NO, she silently screamed at herself. But, her abused brain whirled,
trapped in a loop. She could not stop the terrible memory.
* * *
Kelly defiantly stalked into Wrigley Field Bar and Grill to apply for a
waitress job. Just yesterday, her therapist had denied her surgery letter
because she had spent the last year holed up in her Fort Wayne apartment,
deliberately avoiding social interaction while she slowly reshaped her
body and mind.
She had never worked in a restaurant, didn't know crap about baseball;
and, more importantly, had never worked a day in her life as a girl. She
was quite simply, utterly terrified.
The young manager that interviewed her, however, seemed less concerned
with her experience than he did with Kelly's surgically-reconstructed
chest. At least, he had spent far more time looking at Kelly's just-
healed boobs than he did her application. Apparently, her surgeon's work
passed muster, because he hired her on the spot.
She needed a job. But, why she had walked into the malestrom of alcohol,
sports and sex that swirled in the Wrigley, she never could figure out.
Maybe she wanted to prove something to herself. Maybe she wa ted to jump
into the "deep end" of feminity. Or, maybe she just wanted someone to pay
her to act cute. No matter what her reason, she had been completely
unprepared by the year she had spent reading "Elle" and sucking down teen
reruns on SoapNet.
In many ways it was the best year of her life.
God, did she learn. Oh, boy did she learn. She learned what it was like
for guys to be the "other" sex. She learned what "being cute" on an
everyday basis meant. She learned to walk weeks on end on a sprained
ankle and how carrying a trays of food could make her arms hurt in a way
that 400lb bench-presser Jason could never have imagined.
Her work uniform consisted of a button-up replica Cubs jersey (cut for a
boy), short short cutoffs, and a smile. As her new work-friend Jesse put
it, "Big hair and big boobs... equal big tips!" Of course, long, golden-
tan legs didn't hurt either.
Depite Jesse's motto, Kelly learned that earning big tips had a lot more
to do with attitude than raw looks. Oh they helped, make no mistake; but
that first month, when Kelly had been so lost, so out-of-place: her co-
workers had assumed she had come from a tiny, bible-belt community lost
in farm counrty. Kelly never bothered to correct them, only grateful that
her co-workers had created a rational explanation for her awkwardness.
Kelly watched the other waitresses flirt and chat with regulars, watched
them accept heavy arms hung casually across their shoulders or around
their waist, calling them "sweetie" or "hon" or "darling".
Eventually, she learned how to do it herself.
Monkey see, monkey do.
Drunk men called her "tease", "bitch", "cunt", "whore" and "slut" because
she failed to swoon at slurred, obnoxious sallies. She learned to ignore
it all. The stark reality, however, was a far cry from her childish
fantasies of casually manipulating men with her feminine whiles.
She lost fifteen pounds while she worked at Wrigley, dropping from a too-
angular 138 to a soft 123. Rather than the better treatment she expected,
instead the customers seemed even more rude and obnoxious the better she
looked. Of course, her tips did get bigger.
Despite it all, she came to like some of the regulars. For every rude fat
guy, there was a cute, charming one. She even started thinking a few of
them were "hot". And then there was Evan.
Evan, who made completely average physical stats (5'10, 180lbs. Brown
hair, brown eyes) completely un-boring. Evan, who with easy confidence
stripped away all but her last, desperate "you're a customer" defense.
Evan, who made her desperately wish the future would hurry up and become
reality so she could find out what she had been missing her whole life.
Evan.
She trudged (and waitresses do little else but "trudge") through summer,
fall and winter until she finally quit, just before boarding a plane for
Thailand.
To Kelly, flying half-way across the world to change her sex felt
metaphorically correct. In fact, Thailand did not feel strange enough.
She would have felt far more satisfaction had Thailand been located in
the Southern Hemishere, because winter would have been summer; or if the
sun rose in the west, or had the sky glowed burnt orange instead of baby
blue.
No matter. Despite the prosaic luxury of her Bangkok hotel suite, Kelly
would be "one of the girls" for the rest of her life.
Kelly returned to Wrigley on a glorious spring day five weeks later. She
wore a pale yellow camisole top and a flirty white skirt, with a
cacophony of bangles encasing her left wrist. As she had hoped, Evan was
perched in his favorite stool: right in front of a 50-inch plasma tuned
to a Cubs spring training game.
They have to be picking it up from MLB.com.
Oh God, who freak'n cares?
Evan's hungry eyes roved over her multiple times before he smugly
reminded her, "I'm not your customer anymore."
She unconsciously leaned back, looking up at him with gleaming eyes, and
delicately swished the floor in front of her with one lightly enameled
big toe.
Finally, she smiled and said, "I know."
He draped his arm around her in response, gently caressing her bare
shoulder with his possesive right hand.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
"Sure. A Blue Hawaiian, please."
Because it matches my eyes.
I'm so twisted.
Despite her self-condemnation, her drink choice DID have another purpose
besides pure vanity. Part of her hoped that if she held a big blue glass
against her face that he would look at her big blue eyes rather than the
necklace that rested just above her cleavage.
Kelly wasn't an idiot. She knew exactly where this was headed. She was,
however, the girl. All she had to do was to slip onto a barstool, cross
her legs, and wait for him to make his play.
Unless he completely botches it, the only real question is if I can stop
myself from screaming "YES!" when he asks.
To Kelly's utter annoyance, Evan seemed perfectly content to watch the
game. She fluffed her hair, pressed the inner half of her calf against
her knee to make her curvy legs bulge, and even loudly sucked at the
dregs of her Blue Hawaiian with her straw.
Nothing worked.
Why couldn't Abner Doubleday have drowned in a pond before he had a
chance to invent baseball?
Evening turned into night. Bar patrons wandered out the door. Working
friends and acquaintances stopped to say "Hi". All she could really do
was to keep smiling.
Finally, he asked, "Would you like to go to Tiffin's for some pie?"
It took all of Kelly's willpower to answer with a demure, "I'd love to."
Kelly grabbed her purse from the bar and headed for the door, before Evan
could find something else to distract him. She also wanted to make sure
he got a good long look at how perfectly her skirt framed her butt. She
lightly grabbed his left wrist and pulled him along behind as she
confidently strode toward. Just as they reached the door, Kelly turned
and gave a cheery wave to her disposable friends, and walked into the
cold night.
Twenty minutes later, Kelly sat across from Evan with a large piece of
peach pie between them. The way she played with her fork with the tip of
her tongue should have been criminal, but Evan was hardly in any mood to
complain. Abruptly, he carelessly tossed a twenty on the table, waved at
the waitress, and pulled Kelly out the door.
His insistant kiss pressed Kelly's back against the passegner door of his
cobalt blue Lexus. The hard bulge that throbbed against her belly made
his intentions perfectly clear.
She whispered, "My place," and he immediaely released her and stomped
around the front of his car to pull open the driver's door.
Sir Galahand, he is not!
But, she intended no malice. In his rush, Evan had neglected to open the
passenger door for her; but the oversight only made her giggle. His
failure seem more due to anxiety than a lack of chivalry.
The too-long drive home and the giddy walk to her apartment were really
nothing more than a pleasant blur, and her next strong memory was nearly
losing her virginity in her foyer. She wrestled free just in time, and
then turned and slowly led him to her bedroom, gracefully shedding her
clothes on the way.
Beat that, Hansel and Gretel!
She was completely naked by the time she turned around to him inside her
bedroom, backlit by the neon glow that shone from her acquarium. She
didn't have a single momment to burn the scene into her memory before he
hurled her onto the bed, only starting to pull at his clothes after he
had her completely pinned beneath him.
Once he finally pulled free of his clothes, Kelly happily spread her
legs. And....
Oh God, that HURTS!
Unfortuantely, her fresh-out-of-the-factory vagina wasnn't producing
lubrication quite up to spec. Evan seemed completely oblivious to her
distress, simpmly kept pumping into her. Surprising, he finally found a
happy place where Kelly began to feel far more pleasure than pain.
And then it happened.
Jason's deep voice screamed "OHHHHHHH" as Kelly came close to her first
non-self induced orgasm.
His every muscle turned to hardened steel as he pulled out of her in a
flash. A rough hand grabbed her by the throat as he pressed his face
nose-to-nose with her and snarled, "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!?"
Kelly's paniced, roving eyes searched the ceiling for nonexistant
answers.
"I...I...I..." she stammered, until his open palm slammed into her
headboard in rage, rattling the porcelin unicorn collection on her
nightstand.
"TELL ME!"
"I'm...I'm...I'm..."
"WHAT!"
Kelly pitched her voice as little and as high as she could, "...a
transsexual."
He sat up in her bed, dazed and confused. His muscular chest rippled with
uncertain spasms until he finally decided how he should react, while she
softly sobbed in the bed. Gently, it seemed, he pulled her up from her
warm mattress and she stook naked before him.
He screamed, "YOU FUCKING FREAK!", and smashed his hard right fist
directly into her nose.
His fists crashed into her in a whirlwind of hate, demolishing the face
that Kelly had spent more than $40,000 to create. Even after she had
curled into a defensive ball at his feet, he kicked and stomped at her
until she could feel no more.
An indetermate time later, she woke to find herself lying nose-first in a
pool of her own blood. The faint bubbling of her acquarium filled her
otherwise silent apartment. In the dim light, Kelly saw white shards at
the edge of her vision. Her suddenly throbbing mouth told her that Evan
must have knocked out one her her teeth.
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, not even bothering to
make any pretense at not crying. Belately, she realized a tangled hank of
hair clung to her face, pasted there by dried blood. Dimly, she recalled
Evan grabbing her by the hair and slamming the back of her head into the
bedroom wall.
She groaned, then managed to crawl to the bathroom on her hands and
knees, her still-bubbling nose trailing blood on the parquet floor of her
bedroom. Kelly slithered over the side of her bathtub, and lay flat on
her back on the cold, white porcelin.
She felt between her legs with a plaintive, battered hand. The acrid
scent of scemen on her finger told her that Evan had cummed insider her
before he beat her into pulp.
Guess I'm not a virgin anymore.
She turned the cold water tap with one, perfectly manicured foot, hoping
to forestall some of the bruises that Kelly knew had to be blossoming
under her abused skin. She shivered in the tub, as she watched the water
slowly turn a sickly pinkish brown as the dried blood that caked her body
slowly dissolved.
She tolderated the cold as long as she could, until she finally popped
the drain. Numb with both cold and emotional overload, she turned on her
side as the tub emptied. Curled in fetal position, she fell into
desperately-necessary oblivion.
* * *
Kelly lay in her bed, her mouth stuffed with her pillow to muffle the
grief that she could not let herself feel two years ago. The front of her
brain throbbed worse than before, and she wondered if the damned prozac
would give her even a little bit of help.
Evan, Brandon, Bradley. Three times isn't an accident, it's the beginning
of a pattern. You can't keep sleeping with guys the first time you meet
them. You'll either end up walking streetcorners or in a morgue.
Why do I keep doing this to myself?
* * *
Geraldine
- 03.10.2020
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