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Museum Piece "Jay, this is Amanda, your roomie from college." Stunned to hear this voice from my past, I didn't respond. "You're wondering why I'm calling?" Actually, I was wondering a lot more than that. Mute, I nodded. Then, prompted by the feel of the cell phone in my hand, I said, "Yes." "I'm in town. I thought you might like to get together, for a burger or a beer or something." * * * We ordered both, a burger and a beer, with French fries, at the local Hamburger Mary's, where we were seated at an umbrella table, amid others of identical design. The tables were white and round, with tile inlaid, in mosaics, on their tops, and the huge umbrellas were in festive, tropical colors. Each mosaic was different. Ours showed a small island on the edge of a beach, palm trees in silhouette before a sun that sank into a golden sea. Beds of flowers scented the air. I'd ordered an all-beef patty; Amanda had requested a vegetarian burger. "Nice place," she said. We'd been out of school for five years now, but, at twenty-seven years old, Amanda looked much the same as she'd looked at eighteen, when I'd first met her. I told her as much. "You look great, too," she said. "I don't," I demurred. "You do." She was nude, on her back, and, outside our dorm room, the light was fading. I gazed upon her, my eye-- "So, I read that you're the curator of the local museum," Amanda said. The dormitory room vanished, and the restaurant patio returned, bright, festive, and redolent with the fragrance of many and various flowers. "Where did you read that?" I asked. "Online," Amanda replied. "The university's web site's 'Alumni News.'" I blushed, remembering having sent the update to the alumni association, a year or so ago, after my promotion, but Amanda had misread the report. I corrected her. "Assistant curator of the Clark County Heritage Museum. There are several other museums in town." She smiled. "Congratulations." "And you?" I asked. "What have you been up to since we graduated, Amanda?" She broke eye contact, looked down, sipped her beer, and shrugged her shoulders. "Not much." I chuckled. Amanda was still the modest, endearingly self-effacing chick she'd been at State, even after her art had been exhibited at the Metropolitan Gallery. "You must have done something," I suggested, my tone a gentle rebuke of her diffidence. --my eye traveled over the swells of her breasts, over her concave tummy, along her firm, sleek thighs, and she moaned, turning-- "Amanda! What's wrong?" A tear coursed down her cheek. She lifted her stein, drinking deeply of the dark amber contents. Her hand shook. Beer sloshed from the heavy glass, spilling onto the mosaic sunset. "I'm sorry, Jay," she said. She rose. "I'd better go." I placed my hand upon hers. "Wait. If you're going, I'm going with you." I tossed a twenty dollar bill onto the table, and we left the garden patio, our half-eaten meals forgotten. * * * At my apartment, I poured Amanda another glass of wine. She hadn't sipped the first goblet, and she didn't sip this one, either. She gulped it, her dainty hand trembling as she tilted the glass back, tossing down its contents. "Talk to me, Mandy," I said, referring to her by the name I'd used to address her back in our college days, when I'd started my freshman year at State thinking that a dude named Adam was going to be my dormitory roommate. He had, too--until, three months into the semester, when Adam began transforming into Amanda, or Mandy. At first, I hadn't known what to think or how to feel. Maybe, I'd thought, I should ask for a new roomie, explaining things if need be, but, by then, Adam--or Mandy--and I had become friends as well as roommates. "I don't know where to start," she sniffed. --her eyes met mine, and she smiled, her full, lips, pink and soft as rose petals, framing her even, white teeth in a pretty bow, and I felt my cock stir, twitch, swell, and stiffen, and I-- "May I?" she asked. She held out the goblet. "What?" I asked, my reverie interrupted by her question. The dorm room had disappeared again, as had Amanda, lying nude, upon her tummy, in her bed, her perfect, firm, round ass rising in a pair of splendid, creamy-smooth mounds as she turned, slightly, facing me, and smiled. Instead, my apartment was back, and Mandy was fully dressed, wearing a green top, a black leather mini-skirt, heels, and a bracelet. She'd tossed her clutch purse upon the couch as we'd entered my living room and had taken a seat next to one another. After our arrival, she'd begun to cry, and I'd repaired t the kitchen for a bottle of burgundy with which to fortify our souls. "Have another glass, please?" "Do you think you should?" I asked. "You've already drunk a whole bottle of the stuff--and two glasses from the second fifth. Aren't you afraid you might get tipsy?" She laughed, but the sound was miserable and harsh, not musical. "I want to get tipsy," she replied, "and I'd appreciate it if you'd help me accomplish that goal, dear Jay." I shrugged, refilling her glass. "Take it easy, Mandy," I cautioned her. She swallowed the contents of her goblet in a single gulp. "More, please." I obliged. Setting the bottle on the coffee table, beside the other, empty container, I said, "Help yourself." She poured. "Doan mine if I dew." Her speech was thick, and words were slurred. "You going to tell me what's wrong?" "I doan know where to start." "How about after graduation?" I suggested. "You had that show at the Metropolitan Gallery. Great reviews, too. I thought, 'Damn! Mandy just graduated and, already, she's set.' What happened?" She set her glass on the coffee table. This time, she didn't refill it. Instead, she settled back against the cushions, sighed heavily, and, looking through me, as if she were all alone, she said, "Nothing happened, Jay. Nothing at all." "Why not?" "Nobody liked my work." I reminded her of the reviews. "Everybody loved it." "They liked the sculptures I exhibited at the Metro," she admitted, "but nothing else, nothing since." "Why is that?" She shrugged. "I guess I changed my theme, my style." I remembered her statues. They were exquisitely beautiful, but haunting. "Poignant" was one of the words that the local critic had used in his review. "Honest" was another. I reminded her of the reviewer's characterization of her work. "At firss, yes," Mandy said, "but layder, not so much." "What did you do differently?" I enquired. "How did your style change? What new themes did you sculpt? More importantly, why did you change? You had it made, girl! The critics loved your work." She laughed. The sound was harsh and grating. "I had an affair," she said, "wiff that pompous-ass art professor, Gerald Hamburg--or Gerald Humbug, I should say. He convinced me to change my style, my themes; he said they were too--" she search for the word that the professor had used--"sanguine.' As a transsexual, or 'a chick wiff a dick,' as he put it--he put it to me a lot, too, let me tell you!" She laughed again, making a guttural sound that ended in a shriek. "As a chick wiff a dick, he said, my girls--my statues--should be anything but sanguine; they should be 'hesitant,' he said, 'uncertain,' he said, 'full of despair,' he said." She looked at me, as if she were seeing me for the first time. "Jay!" she cried. She chuckled. "I shoulda tol' him he wuz full o' shit! That's whut I shoulda tol' him!" "So you changed your style, your themes--" "I changed everything, Jay, everything." I looked at the cylindrical bulge in her crotch. "Not everything," I corrected her. "No," she agreed, smiling slightly. "He wanted me to be castrated, too, have my cock and balls cut off and replaced with a cunt, but, at that, I drew the line. I'm all woman, but a woman with man parts where they count. I wouldn't have it any other way for him or anyone else. A girl has to draw the line somewhere." "I'm glad you stayed true to yourself in that department, at least," I told her. Like Mandy, I'd always thought that a transsexual was way sexier with a feminine face, breasts, and buttocks, but with a handsome cock and balls to go with these more feminine assets. "The critics didn't like the changes to your artwork?' "They hated them! They hated me!" She leaned forward, reaching for the bottle of wine, and knocked it over. The contents poured, a red spill, like blood, across the table and onto the carpet. "I'm sorry, Jay!" she gushed. "I'm soooo, soooo sorry." She giggled. Looking at me impishly, she winked. "I'm soooo soooo soused!" I took her hand, helped her to her feet, and started across the living room with her. "Where we goan, Jay Jay?" "My room," I told her. "The bedroom." She licked my ear. Her saliva was thick and warm. "You want me to suck yore cock, Jay?" She laughed. "Juss like ol' times, huh, Jay? Sure, hunny, Mandy's happy to do whut she can to bring you a little bit o' joy, a little bit o' relief." "You're going to bed," I told her. "You need to sleep it off. We'll talk tomorrow, when you're sober." \"Okay, hunny," she said, "but, you know whut? I'd rather suck yore dick." I'd rather she sucked my dick, too, but she wasn't in any condition to do so. If she tried, the motion of her head, bobbing up and down as she slurped my eight-inch prick, would probably make her sick and she'd most likely puke all over my bed, herself, and me. "You need help undressing?" I asked her. "You gonna take 'vantage of me, Jay?" she asked, smiling lewdly. "You gonna fuck yore ol' roomie up her ass while she's drunk outta her mine?" I helped her take off her clothes, except for her bra and panties, got her into bed, and pulled the sheet and blanket over her. A minute or two later, she was sound asleep. I climbed into bed next to her and watched Amanda breathe. Her face, relaxed, was as beautiful as ever, and her body was as flawless and lovely as the day I first laid eyes upon it, after Adam had outed himself--to me, at least--as Amanda, and, on a long night similar, in some ways, to this one, over a couple of bottles of wine, she'd poured out her heart to me, her one and only friend, about the trials and tribulations of being a transsexual in a judgmental, hateful world of sexually intimidated conformists, and we'd become, that night, more than just friends. We'd become lovers. I'd asked her to be my girlfriend, but she'd declined. "You don't need the hassle," she'd said. "It's no hassle," I'd assured her. "I love you." She'd grinned at my naivet?. "I love you, too, but the two of us against the world isn't enough, not when there are so many bigots and sexists and transphobic assholes out there." We'd made love, tender, wonderful, beautiful love, and we'd remained lovers, throughout our college careers, before, upon graduating, we'd gone our separate ways. We'd coupled countless times, but, at Amanda's insistence, we'd never officially become a couple. Poor Mandy, I thought, leaning over her and kissing her softly upon the cheek. Her eyelashes fluttered. "I love you, Mandy," I told her, hoping she'd come not for a visit but forever. * * * In the morning, Amanda was awake when I woke. We sat together, side by side, our backs against the headboard. I'd worn my usual "pajamas" to bed--T-shirt and briefs--and she was still wearing only her bra and panties--and, I must say, she looked as beautiful as ever, even with her hair tousled and a bit of a bulge in her panties. Bleary-eyed, I stared at her. "Sleep well?" She smiled. "Thanks to you." "I think the wine might have helped, too." "Thanks for that, too." She averted her gaze. "If it hadn't been for you, I'd have had to sleep in the street last night." I frowned. I knew that Amanda had suffered some financial setbacks, but I hadn't realized that it had come to this.. "You're totally broke?" She tried to smile. "Totally. I spent the very last of my money on the bus ticket here, hoping you'd let me spend the night--and a few weeks, long enough for me to get a job somewhere." "What about Professor Hamburg?" "That bastard? He kicked my ass out, as soon as he saw that his ideas for 'advancing' my career as a sculptor whose work was 'sanguine' weren't working--as soon as he'd ruined my chance to be a success, in other words." "So you have nowhere to go?" She looked lost. "No." She was a maiden in distress, I thought--or a maiden of sorts, at any rate. The chivalrous knight inside me reared his ugly head, and I heard myself say, "No problem, Mandy. You can stay here as long as you need, as long as you like." She grinned impishly at me. "You want me to suck your dick?" I actually blushed. "That's not necessary." She ran her hand along my inner thigh. My cock responded. "It's fun, though, right?" "You've got me there," I admitted. "But I don't want to make you late for work." I smiled at her as her palm swept over my testicles. Her fingers curled around my burgeoning manhood, which stiffened in her grip, swelling to fullness. "You won't," I assured her. "I'm off today--and tomorrow." Amanda smiled. "Then, please, permit me to demonstrate my gratitude for your gallant and courteous rescue of a lady in distress--or a ladyboy in distress, I guess I should say." She rose, doffed her bra and panties, and, naked, climbed back into bed, pulled the blankets away from me, and freed my cock, drawing the stiff, swollen member through the fly in the front of my briefs. She situated herself upon the mattress in such a way as to gain the best position in which to minister to my erection, and bending low, her hair spilling round my hips and groin, she took my manhood between her full, soft lips, working the ring formed of these orbicular muscles up and down upon my straining shaft. Her head bobbed up and down, in a slow, steady tempo, and I watched my hard prick vanish and reappear repeatedly between her lips as she bounced her mouth up and down upon my standing member, her chin colliding against my balls and her forehead pressing my lower belly. The warm-wet-softness of her mouth--of her lips, her teeth, her tongue, her inner cheeks, and her palate--enveloping and bathing my penis produced incredibly pleasurable and erotic sensations, and a fantastic tickling fluttered in my balls, my cock convulsed, and my anus quivered. Amanda was as superb a cocksucker as ever, I thought. Perhaps she'd performed this feat often, long, and hard upon Professor Hamburg; if so, I supposed the bastard had done Amanda some good, even if unintentionally; he'd kept her both skilled and well-practiced in the art of fellatio. Amanda let my prick slide free of her saliva-glistening lips, and licked the shaft, letting her pink, wet tongue trail along the taut flesh of the stiff column, and took my left testicle into her mouth, holding it in the oral womb. My cock, already rigid, stiffened more, and my balls, already high inside my tightened scrotum, rose still higher. Her inner cheeks caressed my testicle through the silken bag of my scrotum while her thumbnail scratched lightly at the root of my cock, which, like the rest of my organ, was swollen with desire that bordered upon need, making quite a bulging ridge along my perineum. She let my testicle fall free of her oral embrace and colleted its twin, taking my other testicle into her mouth while she continued to stroke my cock, root, shaft, and glans, with her nimble, playful fingertips. I moaned, feeling the first heralding spasm of orgasm deep inside my balls, My cock twitched and jerked, thrashing, as sensations rose, crested, and fell within my loins like waves before an deep-sea tsunami about to crash upon the shore with devastating force and effect. Freeing my testicle, she resumed sucking my cock, her rounded lips a tight ring that pumped itself up and down and back and forth upon my straining, lurching shaft. My balls felt as if they must implode, and I trembled, groaning, both wanting and dreading the release of semen that would bring relief but that would also, at the same time, bring these wonderful sensations to an end. Letting my cock slide free of her lips, she squeezed the tip of my prick firmly in her fist, several times, in quick succession, prolonging the agony of my ecstasy by frustrating, however temporarily, the onset of orgasm and the eruption of semen that would follow this cataclysmic event. Then, her lips were in place again, around my shaft, and she was pumping them hard, fast and furiously, up and down upon the stiff, standing member, her head bobbing up and down in frantic, fluid motion. Her hands were all over my cock and balls, too, even as she sucked my prick. She squeezed, pumped, jerked, wiggled, caressed, and rubbed my penis and his balls as if she had six or eight or a dozen hands. These actions, like the pushing-shoving motion of her mouth, locked in a ring around my organ, brought me closer and closer to the point of no return, and I felt pressure build inside my balls, as it my passion were water flowing, fast and hard, against the barrier of a dam. Any moment now, the dam must give way before the terrific force of my pent- up passion and burst from me, erupting in geysers and streams. She continued to fuck me with her face, driving the circle of her lips harder and faster, with greater and greater force, down upon my trembling prick so that her brow shoved hard against my stomach and the tip of her nose and her chin collided against my balls, jiggling the egg-shaped gonads. Her hands gripped and stroked and massaged, and my anus began to flutter frantically, my thighs started to flex like scissors, and my trembling cock convulsed inside the warm, wet embrace of her liquid mouth. A streamer of semen jetted from my cock. Another followed, and another. Banner after banner of my molten seed unfurled itself inside Amanda's ravenous mouth, and as her tongue was coated again and again by the warm fluid, she continued to suck my prick, swallowing intermittently, until, after several additional ejaculations, my balls were drained dry and I was reduced to exhausted, shuddering ecstasy, feeling as if my very soul had been ejected, along with the reservoir of sperm and semen that had been stored in my testicles, from my cum- spewing prick. In our college days, Amanda had always looked especially beautiful naked, with her man-made breasts always and forever firm, high, and round, even when she was flat on her back, and my semen was coursing, in white rivulets, down her chin and dripping onto her tits, as her cock jutted out from below her carefully trimmed pubic bush. She looked just as lovely now, as then, with my cum dribbling from her semen-smeared lips. I was glad she'd come back to me, even if she'd returned because she had nowhere else to go and no one else but me to whom to turn. * * * We started the day by visiting the Clark County Heritage Museum, which is in Henderson, Nevada, just south of Las Vegas. It was my day off, after all, and what better time is there to take one's girlfriend sightseeing than on one's day off? Girlfriend? Wasn't I rushing it a bit? I mean, Amanda had only been in town a day- -well, a day and a night--and what a night!--and, already, I was thinking of her as, if not yet actually calling her, my girlfriend. I'd known her since our first semester at State, when fate or God or whoever or whatever controls our destinies had seen fit to make us roommates, and Amanda had been Adam, so, no, I don't think we were rushing things. Besides, hadn't she sucked my cock, just the night before, swallowing my sperm? Fellatio has a way of cementing a relationship. I was proud to consider Amanda my girlfriend, and, if things continued to go as well between and for us as it had last night, I'd even start calling her my girlfriend. I had no doubt but that she'd be more than pleased to be considered such. Her brief, ill-fated affair with Professor Hamburg notwithstanding, Amanda had always had a thing for me, and I'd always been more than merely fond of her. It's just that, after graduation, we'd gone our separate ways and, until last night, we'd lost touch. We reached our destination, and I got out, from behind the wheel, crossed behind my car, and opened the passenger door, helping Amanda out of the vehicle. She smiled. "You always were the courteous one." Thinking of my cock's having been in her face only a couple of hours ago, I said, "You bring out the gallantry in me." She kissed my cheek, and I'll be damned if I didn't blush! Feeling awkward, I turned her attention toward the museum. "This is it," I told her, nodding at the array of buildings ahead of us. "The Heritage Museum, like most museums, is kind of eclectic," I told Amanda, as we arrived at the out-of-the-way site upon which the institution's various buildings stood. "Native Americans, Paiutes, especially; mining; railroads; gaming--there's something for everyone, but there is one thing in particular I want to show you--something I think you'll like--something I think, in fact, you'll love. The first time I saw it, I thought immediately of you." "Me?" she asked, wrinkling her brow. I could tell Amanda was intrigued. "You," I assured her. "Why me?" "You'll see," I predicted, "or, if you don't, I'll tell you after you've seen it." She took my hand, without prelude, just like that, and we walked, friends-become-lovers, across the parking lot. We walked to a block of streets along either side of which were houses such as existed in Sin City's yesteryears, when Las Vegas had been nothing more, for most people, than an unwelcome stop on the way farther west. A few stalwarts among the travelers, however, had stopped, rather than merely paused, and put roots down into the desert sand. It was their houses that the museum had collected, hauled to this site, and rebuilt, along the paved streets that formed a neighborhood of sorts for the eclectic collection of domiciles. Each houses had its own yard, and there was even a church and a general store among the houses. I pointed them out to Amanda, as we walked, hand in hand, down the tree-lined streets. "There's an original BMI town site house," I said, "dating to about 1941." "It's cute," Amanda said, squeezing my hand. "I love the low, white picket fence and the overhanging roof. It makes a nice carport." "The building was a small, single-story structure with redwood siding," I informed her. "The interior walls are constructed of one-quarter- inch plywood panels, the seams of which are covered with batten strips. The windows were positioned so as to provide cross-ventilation, and a swamp cooler helped to cool the residents during the summers. At the time that the magnesium-processing plant was in operation, there were 297 of these houses, all of which were intended as temporary residences. Each had three bedrooms, , a bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room. They were thirty-three feet long by twenty-five feet wide. The town site, which later became Henderson, also included 703 two-bedroom houses, stores, schools, two churches, a library, a theater, a bowling alley, and a hospital." "Wow! This is a really cool museum, Jay!" "Thanks. But the coolest thing about the BMI house is that a young woman lived there. Her name was Denise Anderson, and she was a sculptor. She made beautiful statues, and, believe it or not, I've seen pictures of her--and she looks a lot like you." Amanda's eyebrows rose. "Really?" "Really." "That's just crazy." I smiled. "I have plans for the place," I told her. "You're part of them." "Tell me." "I will," I promised, "later." I pointed to another residence. "That's the Giles-Barcus house, built about 1905. It was brought here from Goldfield." "Fabulous!" "And there's the Beckley House, built in 1912, for $2,500. It was hauled here from Las Vegas, and rebuilt on its present site. It's an example of the California bungalow style, cheap to build and easy to expand. Originally, the house had four major rooms and an open-air porch, but, between 1923 and 1925, some more rooms were added, as was a brick fireplace and chimney, and the kitchen was extended and transformed into a dining room. The owner, William Beckley, owned a clothing store. He proposed by mail to Leva Grimes, an Illinois teacher, who, marrying him, gave him two children--a son named Bruce and a daughter named Virginia. Will died in 1965, but Leva continued to reside in the house until she was ninety-three years old, in 1978, when she developed ill health and had to move in with her family." "You really know your stuff," Amanda said. "I'm the assistant curator," I reminded her. "I know," she said, "but, still, it's amazing how you remember all those details." "No more amazing than the statues you sculpt," I told her. "Used to sculpt," she corrected me. "Something tells me you'll sculpt them again, better than ever." Amanda changed the subject. As we walked past a green lawn dappled with shade from a spreading shade tree, she asked, "Which house is that one?" "The Goumond house," I replied. "It was built in 1935 and restored in the 1950s." I nodded toward another. "That's another town site house, built in the 1940s." "They're lovely," Amanda said, "every one." "There's the Babcock and Wilcox house," I said, pointing out another residence. "Wow, that's a lot of cocks!" "Minimal traditional in style, it was built in 1933 and moved here in 1987, from Boulder City, where it had been built as one of twelve residences of its type for Hoover Dam workers. A variety of other types of houses were also built, the government providing two million dollars for the construction of the community. It has two bedrooms, a bath, a kitchen, a hallway, a dining nook, a living room, a screened-in porch, and a half-basement that's accessible from the laundry porch. The screened-in porch doubled as a sleeping porch in the summer. After the Hoover Dam was finished, the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power bought the houses, using them to house those of their employees who lived in Boulder City." "Companies took care of their employees back in the day," Amanda observed. I chuckled. "Sometimes, yes; sometimes, no, but it was a different day then, that's for sure." "You have a dream job, Jay," she said. "How'd you like to be part of this?" I asked her. "What do you mean?" "Remember, I said I have plans for this place? You're part of them, if you want to be." "You still haven't told me what your plans are." "I know," I replied, "but I will--soon. Right now, we have to get you to the mall." "The mall? Why?" "For hair, makeup, clothes, accessories--for a total makeover, that's why." "I can't afford that, Jay!" Amanda protested. "I can," I assured her. "Assistant curators don't make much, but I haven't had anyone to spend my salary on but me for years, and I've managed to save--well, quite a bit, actually." Amanda sniffed. She was crying. I took that as a good thing. * * * An hour later, we'd driven across town, to the local mall. Amanda needed new clothes--a whole wardrobe of them--and accessories. She needed a new look, too--hair, makeup, the works. I had a plan to change her life--and mine--for the better. But, first, we had to change her. Don't ask me how the beautician accomplished the feat, but, using rollers and pin curlers and bobby pins, she somehow managed to give Amanda a fifties hairstyle that was, as best as I can describe it, combed back in front and down the sides, in waves that were held in place, on either side, by a strategically placed hairclip--and lots of hairspray. The result was soft, short, and both curly and wavy. It looked different, certainly, but feminine and, yes, even sexy. Her makeup was different, too: heavy on the eyeliner and mascara, light on the shadow, noticeable blush--or rouge, as it was called back in the day--and ruby-red lips. Had someone with less knowledge and skill applied the cosmetics, Amanda might have looked more clown than model, but, as with the styling of her hair, her makeup went well, and Amanda looked sweet and innocent, but sexy, too, at the same time, or "swell," as her counterparts in the fifties would have said. Her fingernails-- and her toenails--were painted ruby, to match her lips. The color was a bit over the top for me--and, I think, for Amanda, too--but the cosmetologist assured us that such stark reds were the rage back when. Next, we went to a half dozen clothing stores, selecting sundresses, tailored evening gowns, pencil-style dresses, cropped jackets, afternoon tea dresses, dresses with Peter Pan collars, wrap dresses, plaid skirts, pleated skirts, floral swing skirts, a poodle skirt (it was actually emblazoned with a poodle!), pencil skirts, an array of blouses, halter tops, dungarees, Capri shorts, pedal-pushers, several two-piece swimsuits and a couple of semi-risqu? bikinis, swim caps, shawls, a cape, a stole, a bomber jacket, girdles, petticoats, bras, slips, gloves, hats, belts, scarves, purses, shoes, sandals, costume jewelry, a dainty wristwatch, and a host of other accoutrements of femininity. It was at least as expensive to be a woman in the fifties as it is today--probably, more so--and outfitting Amanda set me back-- well, let's just say it wasn't peanuts. It was worth every penny, though. She looked like a million bucks, whatever she wore, and the smiles on her face were priceless. Finally, we visited an art supply warehouse, where I bought Amanda whatever she needed to sculpt again, as only she could. We arranged to have the materials, tools, and other supplies delivered, carried the rest of our purchases to my car, and left the mall, exhausted but delighted. On the way back to my place, Amanda asked, "Are you going to tell me your plans?" I had to tell her sometime, I thought. After all, she was part of them. As we navigated the freeway, driving from Las Vegas to Henderson, I filled her in. When I had finished, I asked her what she thought. "It's crazy," she said. "You're crazy." She paused, looking out the passenger-side window, at the high, barren hills. The Las Vegas area seems to be ringed with mountains; in whichever direction one looks, peaks meet his or her gaze. "Do you think he'll go for it?" "He" was my boss, the museum's curator, Thomas Bender, and, I told Amanda, he'd already "gone for it": he'd subscribed to utilities, ordered water and sewer services, and otherwise made one (and promised to later make all) of the museum's vintage residences fit for human habitation. He'd also agreed to hire an employee to play the full-time role of the house's former resident so that the domicile would be transformed into a "living museum." One house at a time, if the plans continued to go forward, the houses would become homes again, to employees masquerading as residents, so that the community resembled, on a much smaller and more contemporary scale, something akin to colonial Williamsburg, Virginia. Amanda was a perfect candidate for the role of Denise Anderson. Amanda not only resembled the sculptor who'd occupied the original BMI house, but, like Denise, she was herself a sculptor. In fact, Denise's statues much resembled those that Amanda had carved in her earlier, more successful days as an artist. In the fifties hairstyle, makeup, and clothes that they'd bought today, Amanda would be a virtual double for Denise. There was no way that I could see that Thomas could say no to hiring Amanda. I nodded. "You've as good as gotten the job.," I assured Amanda. I wasn't really as cocksure about Amanda's getting the job as I sounded. I wanted to reassure her. I felt fairly certain that Thomas would see in Amanda what I saw in her--the opportunity to bring Denise Anderson back to life, as it were, as the first resident of our museum's little community of vintage houses. We'd talked about doing this very thing, and, at the time, Thomas was as enthused about the idea as I had been in suggesting it. Of course, that was a year ago, but, he had taken the initial steps of authorizing the utilities and other services needed for residence. He ought to be willing to hire Amanda. Of course, there's a world of difference between :ought" and "will." I could only show him what I had in mind. For that to happen, a few other, preliminary things had to happen. As soon as we got back to my place, they would. * * * "So, what do you think, lover?" Amanda stood beside the statue she'd worked on all week, ever since Thomas had agreed to hire her and to allow her to move into the BMI house as sculptor "Denise Anderson," thereby completing the first step in transforming the vintage neighborhood into a "living museum." "I think you should call me 'Mr. Fanning' when we're on the job," I answered. "It's okay to call you 'Jay,' though, when you're balling me?" "We're not working then." "Okay, Mr. Fanning: what do you think?" "I see why you graduated cum laude. That is a truly wonderful statue." "You don't think it's too much?" "Too much?" "With both Elvis and Marilyn? Holding hands? I mean, did they even know each other personally?" "It's perfect. The two figures personify the fifties." "And how about my costume?" "Your hair, your makeup, your outfit--everything about you is the embodiment of Denise Anderson." "Well, almost everything." It was true that Denise hadn't been a chick with a dick, so, yes, Amanda was right about that. "Touch?," I told her. "But that's one thing I'm not giving up, not for Professor Hamburg, for Curator Bender, for Assistant Curator Fanning, or anyone else." "That's three things, actually." "Three things?" "Cock and balls." "You're right again, Mr. Fanning." She looked again at the statue of Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe she'd carved out of the limestone block I'd purchased for her last week. We had set it up in the front yard, to draw attention to the house where "Denise Anderson" lived and worked. "Do you really like it?" "I love it," I told her, "almost as much as I love you." "I thought I'd bake cookies today," Amanda announced, "while the museum's visitors are here, to give the house a homey touch." "What kind of cookies?" "Chocolate chip, of course." I smiled at her. "They're my favorites." "I know," she said. "The museum closes at five. I have an hour's worth of paperwork after that, so I won't be by until about six." "I'll leave the light on for you," Amanda said, "and the door unlocked." * * * I returned, promptly at six that evening, and, just as she'd promised, Amanda had left the light on and the door unlocked. She'd also left a plate of huge chocolate chip cookies on the table in the kitchen. She poured me a glass of milk, cold from the refrigerator, and, as we nibbled cookies, we watched a couple of programs on the black-and-white television we'd installed in the living room. "I'm glad you stopped by, lover," she told me. This time, I didn't object to her calling me by her pet name for me. "I have another treat for you." I raised an eyebrow. "You do?" She smiled. "I do." Feigning innocence, I asked, "Whatever could it be?" She rose from the couch, turned off the television set, took my hand in hers, and led me from the living room, to the bedroom that she'd adopted as her own. "Why don't you get into something more comfortable," she asked, "while I get into something more comfortable." "There's nothing more comfortable than my birthday suit." "I was hoping you'd say that," she said. She grinned at me. "I'll be right back," she promised. "I just want to freshen up a bit." "I'll be waiting," I said, as I began to unbutton my shirt. "Waiting" was right! It took Amanda fifteen minutes to change into something more comfortable--her birthday suit--but, man, was it worth the wait! She looked gorgeous! Her long, soft, short hair, wavy and curly at the same time, framed her lovely face. Eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, rouge, and lipstick enhanced the natural beauties of her eyes, her cheeks, and her lips. Her breasts, of medium size, were neither too small nor too large--she looked neither boyish nor bovine--and her tummy was concave, rater than flat. I could see her ribs through her taut, sleek skin. She was, perhaps, a bit too thin. Artists, in general, didn't earn a good deal of money, and, after Professor Hamburg had booted her booty--because, she'd confided to me, she'd had the audacity to refuse to have her cock and balls cut off and become a "complete woman"--she'd had to go on alone. After her so-called mentor and lover had convinced her to change her artistic style, if not her sex, she'd been able to earn barely enough to pay her rent; she eked out a living, if one can call it that, by skipping meals--a lot of them, from the looks of it. She was still sexy as hell, though, despite her extreme slimness, although, now that she was a working girl again, she'd soon fill out to more feminine than skeletal dimensions; I'd see to that. Her legs were long, slender, and as shapely as if they'd been turned upon a lathe. Her buttocks were sleek, firm, but soft, and swelled to pleasing fullness, in a compact, ladyboy kind of way. Especially cute were her small, boyish, circumcised cock, backed, as it were, by her small balls inside the tight purse of her dangling scrotum. Amanda was an altogether beautiful and enchanting shemale, and, for the next few hours, her ass, like the rest of her, was mine! She'd paused outside the bathroom door, to let me get an eyeful of her charms. "Well, Jay," she asked, an impish smile upon her lovely face, "see anything you like?" Already naked in her bed, my cock erect, I patted the mattress next to me. "Everything," I answered. "Join me, Mandy." My voice was hoarse with desire. "Please." Chuckling, she bounded across the room, doe-like in her lithe, graceful movements, and leaped--literally--into bed. She wasted no time in sweet talk or small talk. She was eager to fuck, and she was eager to let me know that she was eager to fuck. "Fuck me," she pleaded. "Fuck me deep, fast, and hard! I want your thick, hard cock up my ass!" She couldn't put it any plainer than that, I thought, smiling. "Your wish is my command, Mandy," I agreed. Positioning herself on the bed, she faced away from me, on her knees, and dropped to her elbows. Her legs were wide apart, and I could see the dainty dimple of her anus between the firm, compact globes of her derriere. It was a sight I'd seen before, fairly often, during our college days, when we'd been more than roommates--and more than friends--but it was a sight, nevertheless, for sore eyes, and I studied the tight, puckered opening within the sleek globes of her buttocks until Amanda became impatient, demanding, again, that I fuck her in the ass, deep and fast and hard. The mattress dipped and swayed as I complied with her command; rising to my knees, I took my place behind her. She handed me the tube of lube that she took her purse on her bedside table. The lubricant was apparently one of the few items that she'd brought with her when she'd moved to Las Vegas or, perhaps, she'd bought it since her arrival in Sin City. I applied the lubricant to my prick and to my target, Amanda's tight asshole. I took my slick cock in my fist, guiding the stiff shaft between the smooth, silken cheeks of Mandy's buttocks. A thrill, like electricity, shot through my body as my rubbery glans met the stout resistance of her lubricated asshole. I had no illusions that she was a virgin--I'd fucked Mandy enough times myself to know better, and I had no doubt that Professor Hamburg and plenty of other guys had done so, too-- but, despite its having been penetrated many times, her anus was still small and tight. I had to shove hard, several times, before my prick pierced her tight little asshole and slid past the guardian sphincters, to slide into the more commodious chamber of Mandy's lower bowel. I pressed and shoved and rammed until the whole length of my eight-inch monster was buried inside her rectum and my pubes, grinding hard against Mandy's flattened buttocks, I was balls deep inside her sleek, firm-soft ass. Then, I remained motionless, letting Mandy feel me inside her, cramming her full of my manhood, my virility, my manliness. She never said a word, although, once, she moaned, a short protest, whether of pain or anxiety or both, I couldn't say, escaped her lips before she could stifle it. However, she never once tightened her buttocks against my invasion, which showed me that she wanted to be filled as much as I wanted to fill her. Mandy's buttocks remained absolutely still, an unspoken testament to the power of her will, for, of course, anyone, man or woman, who's ever had even so much as a finger introduced into his or her ass--and my stiff, swollen cock was much bigger than a finger--can't help, unless he or she has learned to control him- or herself through long and diligent practice, but to react, by pulling away or, at the very least, flinching or twitching. However, Mandy's buttocks remained acquiescent, accepting--perhaps, one might even say, welcoming. The only resistance I received from her was the wholly involuntary fluttering of her impaled anus. Neither the strongest will nor all the practice and rehearsal in the world can stop a heart from beating, the lungs from breathing, or a penetrated anus from twitching and flexing about the shaft of the penis that invades it. I enjoyed the spasms that squeezed and clamped my organ as the circle of Mandy's anal entrance--it is, normally, an exit, of course, but we who delight in the pleasure of sodomy make an ingress of an egress-- pumped firmly and insistently, as if in a valiant, but vain, effort to dislodge my trespassing member and, in so doing, to stave off its conquest, invasion, and occupation.Finally, as I kept my balls pressed hard against her perineum, maintaining the full presence of my penis inside her bowel, Mandy's sphincter relaxed, admitting defeat, and widened, accepting the organ of its invasion. However, no man gains entry to a girl's--and that includes a t-girl's-- bowels simply for the sake of having accomplished this feat. Rather, admission becomes but the occasion for ravishing the impaled woman, and I had every intention of doing just this to my androgynous young ladyboy. I wanted to leave my semen upon her buttocks, as a mark or a brand; I meant to claim Mandy, splattering her bottom with my seed. Slowly, watching my cock emerge as I eased my hips backward, I withdrew my erection from the depths it had probed, watching as each inch of the rigid, swollen, shaft came into view between Mandy's skewered buttocks. It was, as always, a marvelous sight to observe! Were my prick twelve or eighteen inches long, instead of eight, the additional inches would thrill me that many times more, as each additional inch came slowly into view within the deep cleft between the sleek cushions of Mandy's beleaguered ass. At last, when all but the glans of my penis had been retrieved, I smiled to see that the stalk of my manhood formed a bridge that spanned the distance between Mandy and me, connecting my reproductive organs with her organs of defecation and elimination. Life, as represented by the phallus, was united with death, as embodied by the buttocks and the associated organs within these magnificent globes. Meanwhile, Mandy's smaller cock, primed and ready for action, but denied even an anus and a rectum, jutted uselessly before her, a mere ornament with no purpose whatsoever beyond that of mere decoration. With a smooth, continuous propulsion forward of my hips, I drove the entire length of my cock through Mandy's anus, entirely into her rectum, and my hips crushed her buoyant buttocks flat between us. The circle of her asshole, even relaxed, felt firm and tight, and the sensation of that ring of muscle sliding along the column of my manhood was exhilarating; it was awesome, and it must be repeated--again and again, for as long and as often as I had the strength and the stamina and the will to repeat it. A man or woman is not truly buggered until one's cock has fucked him or her repeatedly, deeply, and thoroughly, with as much force and passion as can be brought to bear in the process, for each additional foray into the impaled person's bowels is itself a new invasion, a novel occupation, and a fresh conquest: the skewered ass of the man or woman who is so impaled feels the thrust and collision anew each time it is committed, and, at every renewed thrust, feels him- or herself invaded again, as if for the first time. Indeed, it is the continual, ongoing, repeatedly renewed connection, or congress, that so delights lovers of sodomy, both givers and receivers alike. Drawing back, I launched myself again into the innermost interior of Mandy's bowels, parting the globes of her buttocks and stretching wide the circle of her anus before me as I plumbed her depths anew. Each time I retreated in preparation to renew my attack and the full, sleek cheeks of her ass, compressed between my crashing pubes, bounced back, I slammed my cock home again, flattening the smooth mounds before my advance. Were another to have observed us, he would, perhaps, have seen but a blur where my hips should be, so fast and furious had I become in my ravishment of Mandy's person. I shuddered as I felt her clinging anus slide the length of my member, riding it in its retreat, before giving way again and widening before my next plunge into her rectum. There is power in sex--and lust--and violence of a certain kind. For Mandy and me, there was love as well. Valiant Amanda! She could not endure my assault in silence any longer, and her moans, wracked from her by the fury of my attack, were forced from her throat by my fierce pummeling of her bowels. She groaned and cried and whimpered. Her head turned to the left, and I saw her features contorted, brow knitted, jaw clenched, a look akin to panic in her startled eyes. The intensity of my attack was exhibited in the intensity of her frown. Tears welled within her eyes. They spilled down her cheeks, and she sobbed, whether from pain or ecstasy, I cannot say. A series of moans, each longer than the previous, escaped her lips before she fell to whimpering. To her credit, though, she never said a word in protest. I withdrew my cock from her bottom, and still she remained in place, surrendered, available, accommodating. Mandy's ass looked as if it had been cored; her once-small anus was nearly perfectly round, and, looking into her wide, open asshole, I could see two inches or more into her bottom before the pink flesh was lost to the darkness of her depths. It was my cock that had reamed her so, I thought, and the thought pleased me well. Supporting myself with a palm flat against Mandy's loins, I gained my feet, the sinews of my calves and thighs swelling with the exertion, and, crouching low above her, sweat running from my chest and midriff, I slipped my erection back into its place--it fit easily, as if it belonged within her bottom, as a sword belongs inside its scabbard-- and, my fingertips, tented to support my weight and to balance me in my somewhat precarious position, I began to fuck my girlfriend again, with renewed passion. The relative positions of our bodies allowed me to enter Mandy to an even greater depth, and each thrust into her backside was a thrust unto my very pubes and balls. Her dainty little cock dangled between her legs, a metronome keeping time to my lunges and plunges into her stuffed bottom, her balls jiggling and bouncing, mere decorations with no purpose other than to beautify. Whereas before, when we were engaged in the doggy-style position, I had been able to thrust with my whole body--with my neck and shoulders, my arms and back, my hips and ass, my thighs and calves--now, my hips and ass had to do the greatest amount of the work and, even supported by my hands upon the swaying, dipping mattress of Mandy's bed, the labors were intense and exhausting. Nevertheless, by an act of determined will, I held out, fucking her hard and fast, my prick, on each stroke, launching full-length into her penetrated ass and bouncing her whole frame before me "Uh!" Mandy gasped. I jabbed my cock into her slick, warm asshole again. "Ah!" And again. "Oh!" I shoved my prick into her bottom, past the silk-smooth cheeks of her ass, through the snug, clutching circle of her anus, and down the smooth-walled tube of her bottom, as far into her rectum as I could, holding my balls tight against her buttocks as sperm-rockets launched themselves from my balls, and semen-missiles shot up, up, up my urethra, to detonate in liquid explosions deep inside the interior of Mandy's occupied bowels. Volley after volley of my warm, thick seed spurted inside her ravaged ass as I emptied the full arsenal of my fecundating fluid into her innermost depths. Finally, I withdrew, pulling my still-ejaculating, but already- dwindling, erection free of Mandy's ass and the well-reamed anus that it had so long and so commandingly occupied. A final streamer of my viscid seed unfurled itself along her back, and a few drops fell upon her ass, one meandering slowly down the cleavage between her buttocks and along the column of one of her thighs. Her own cock, I saw, was also firing, the semen wasted upon the comforter of her bed. I let myself drop backward, onto my buttocks, and gave Mandy a light slap on the ass to let her know she'd done her duty and could be at ease, now that I'd drained my balls inside her. She sat, facing me. My cum, I thought, was probably dribbling out of her asshole, onto her bedspread. She didn't seem to be aware--or to care--that this might be the case. What did it matter, really, whether my semen stained her blankets when I'd already filled her ass to overflowing with my sperm? We talked after that, for a while. (Women always want to talk, it seems, after they've made love.) We shared our hopes that the community would continue to grow, as more employees took up full-time residence in the other period residences that lined Amanda's street. Perhaps, we agreed, there might be more artists--a painter, perhaps, and a musician--among the new residents of the community. There might even be another transsexual among them, we concurred, although we both thought that this was rather improbable. Certainly, even if another shemale did happen to move into one of the other houses along the street, she wouldn't be anywhere nearly as beautiful as Amanda was, I declared--she couldn't be. "After all, you're quite the museum piece." My observation seemed to please her, and Amanda smiled. "Thanks for everything," Amanda told me. "Thanks for giving me the opportunity of helping you," I told her, "and the opportunity of being your boyfriend." We shared a kiss. It was warm and loving and wonderful. "There's only one thing missing," I said. She looked puzzled--and concerned. "What's that?" "This," I said, handing her a gift-wrapped box. "Her frown deepened. The box was too big and too flat to contain a ring. "What is it?" "Open it," I said, "and see." It was a framed picture of Amanda and me, back in the day. We both looked a bit younger. We also both looked full of light and love. We were staring into one another's eyes. It wasn't hard to imagine that pink hearts floated about us like Valentine's Day balloons. Tears overflowed Amanda's eyes. I watched them course down her cheeks. "Oh, Jay! It's beautiful!" she gasped, hugging it to her bare chest. She placed it on the table beside her bed, and it's been there ever since.