The End Of Jessica Munroe. Part 3 free porn video

"Are you OK man?" "What?" Art had been staring off into the middle distance, ignoring whatever conversation his friends were engaged in. Danny looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "You've been away with the fairies all day. You've hardly said a word." "Really? I hadn't noticed." In fact Art had noticed he had been quieter around his friends recently. He found it almost impossible to keep his mind off his after school activities these days. He found himself drawn to looking at girls, not their bodies but their clothes, the way they wore their hair, the confidence they had to dress however they wanted whenever they wanted. There was a jealousy that simmered under the surface, but it wasn't something he was willing to act on. Not yet anyway. "Well you have. You've been really quiet." Danny turned a little in his seat to face Art. "You sure you're fine?" "Yes Danny. Fucking hell, calm down man. I'm fine." Art punched his friend playfully in the arm. "You're the one acting weird here!" "Ok, Ok." Danny paused. "It's just that you've been a lot quieter recently, and you've lost loads of weight. Just wanted to check." Art flashed him a half smile. He could tell Danny was feeling awkward. This wasn't the kind of conversation sixteen year old boys had. He was also a little flattered that Danny had noticed his losing weight. It had been six weeks since Art first ventured outside. Six weeks since his encounter with Doyle, Marcus and the police. Six weeks since Art's determination had steeled and he had fully commited to the idea of presenting as a girl. His hair, once a messy but short mop, now reached to his jaw line, it's texture much smoother and glossier since Art had switched his shampoo and conditioner. This too hadn't gone unnoticed, but the ribbing he received from his friends was easily dismissed. "Danny, mate. I'm good." Danny seemed satisfied enough. "Ok cool. We're going round Billy's tonight. His mum has finally let him have his Playstation back after the whole calling-that-kid-a-cunt-online- and-having-the-police-called-and-him-grounded-for-two-months episode. Wanna come?" "Can't sorry," Art lied. "My sister's home tonight. Told my mum I'd stay in." "It's the weekend though." Art shrugged. "Sorry." Art's sister wasn't coming home that night. Art's mum wasn't even in the house and he certainly hadn't promised her he would stay in. Art had his own plans. Plans he had been forming for the past two weeks on one of his now regular journeys out of the house dressed. Yes he had left the house at night, he had even left the house during the day a few times, but he had never really interacted with anyone outside. No one other than Doyle or Marcus but they didn't count. That wasn't an interaction he had planned or enjoyed. He was still just a boy walking around in a dress and make up. Jessica wouldn't act like this. She wouldn't tense up every time a car drove past, or take long winding routes away from home just to avoid walking past busy bars or pubs. If he really wanted to experience what it was like to be her, to prove to himself that anyone could be just like her he had to get out there. He had to really experience his life as a girl. Art stepped out of the shower, towling himself down before wrapping his hair and covering his body from the waist down. He padded into his bedroom and reclined on the bed opening his laptop and heading to Skype. There, waiting for him was screen name and little green icon of Stacey. He had arranged to talk to her at this time and she never let him down. He typed a hello. "Hey girl." There was a short pause as Stacey typed back. "Hi." "You getting ready?" This time the pause was much longer. Art focused his eyes on the bouncing grey dots as Stacey formulated a reply. "I think so." Art furrowed his brow a little. Stacey had never been the most talkative of people but she ussually said more than this. This wasn't like her, or this wasn't like her from as far as he could tell, having only known her for a few weeks. Stacey, like Art, was a crossdresser. He had met her in an online chatroom, one of the many he frequented in his spare time. She had been full of praise for his pictures, gushing over his make up and hair and dress. She had told him how she was a little older than him, how she could never be as pretty as he could, how she wished she could head out as a girl just like him. For his part, Art had encouraged this line of chat. He liked speaking to Stacey, she fed his increasing ego. It had become a private little rush for Art. He would post pictures of himself posing and pouting and hundreds of people would comment on how good he looked. The likes and downloads of his pictures further reinforced this flood of positive energy. Art accepted and revelled in it. Not only that but Art had finally picked out a name for himself. Every night after school Art would disappear and Ally would take his place. At first, Stacey had just been another of the many who had messaged him. However Stacey had one advantage over the others, something that meant Art not only enjoyed her praise but that meant he reponded. Stacey was local. Stacey was in her late twenties. She had been dressing since she was ten and she had never left the house. She hadn't even tried make up until a few years ago. She only managed to dress every couple of months and even then for only a few hours at a time. It confused Art greatly that she didn't feel the same pull he had. The same desire to embrace everything about this side of herself. He had, however, seen an opportunity. Stacey often expressed a desire to go out dressed and with her being local Art had decided a trip out with her was the perfect chance to get out there and interact. He had encouraged her, pushing her to buy more clothes, to try new make up techniques all with the goal of getting her to leave the house and meet up with him. A meeting that was set for tonight. "Can I see your outfit? I bet it looks great!" Art pushed a little more, dropping some less than subtle encouragement in the hope of coaxing Stacey out of her shell. The ping of the instant messager announced the arrival of a picture file. Art opened it to find the now familiar image of Stacey staring back at him. She was larger than Art, standing at nearly six foot. Her shoulders were broad and pushed out at the fabric of the tight dress, much like her round stomach. The hairs on her legs were visible through the tan tights she wore and her make up was a little sloppy and heavy. Art screwed his face up. Poor Stacey. She wasn't a looker, but she would do. "How do I look?" she asked hopefully. "Great!" he lied. It took a little more persuasion before Art was finally happy that Stacey would meet him at the arranged bar. It was a bar he knew didn't check I.D at the door, a fact he had heard from a friend of Danny's friend. He had never been himself. It wasn't somewhere he would have considered as a boy, especially at sixteen, but tonight was all about taking chances and as a girl he felt reasonably comfortable he would be welcomed. He hoped so at least. He sat at the same table he had done when first applying his make up all them weeks ago and set to work. His eyes were painted with warm, smokey browns and thick dramatic eyeliner, topped with a pair of false lashes. He used a pencil and brush to shape thick, but perfectly formed, brows. He left his lips somewhat nude with only a layer of slick gloss. He straigtened his jaw length hair and used a powder to lift and create volume. His dress was navy blue, short sleeved with a slight dip above his chest to show of small cleavage created with contoured make up. The dress hugged his padded curves and the hem of the skirt finished quite high above his kness, constricting his legs and putting a definite hobble into his walk. His legs were encased in dark, tan tights, his feet slipped into silver heels. He carried a black handbag filled with an assortment of make up, money and tampons. Art stood before the mirror. The familiar sense of accomplisment washed over him as he drank in the image. There was no way anyone would guess him to be a boy. No way anyone would guess him to be sixteen. To all the world he would appear as a young, twenty something woman. He placed his hands on his waist and cocked his head back, pouting at himself in the mirror and winking one long, lashed wink. Yes, he would do. Without hesitation he span on his heel and headed for the front door. The door slammed hard as he skipped down the driveway, the click of heels disappearing down the road. Art arrived at the bar a little after eight. There were a few older men sat outside smoking and enjoying the very last of the early summer sunshine. The kind of men who had clearly been there for sometime. The kind of men Art tried to avoid when dressed. He hesitated a little as he neared the smoking area, the sound of his heels on concrete suddenly seeming very loud. He needn't have worried. A day spent drinking, the warm air and the relative age of the drinkers had knocked them out for the count. They could barely lift their heads nevermind look towards the pretty young woman who turned in through the gates and headed for the front door. There was an audible sigh of relief from Art as he pushed on the heavy front door of the bar and made his way inside. The bar was still relatively empty. A few families sat finishing underwhelming looking meals. Over in the corner another group of old blokes sat, slumped in chairs, victims of the drink. Plenty of empty tables, Art thought. Perfect. He'd aim to pick one in the back, away from prying eyes. Stacey should be here soon anyway. There was music playing but it wasn't particularly loud and the dancefloor was decidedly empty as Art stood by the entrance, trying to look as confident and natural as his thumping heart would allow him to. There was a man behind the bar, slick quiffed hair, black shirt, early thirties maybe. His head was bowed as he absent mindedly cleaned a glass, not noticing the young woman stood in the bar. Art swallowed hard. This was it, he reasoned. His first actual interaction with another human being as Ally. His first interaction on his terms anyway. His heart felt leaden in his chest. His head was swimming with conflicting thoughts. His legs had already started moving. This was it. No turning back now. The barman looked up as Art approached. Even in his heels the flat top of the bar only reached just below his bosom. He stood still looking up at the barman, knowing he was being silently judged. "Alright love?" The man's voice dripped in a heavy Australian accent. Art felt one of the many little weights that seemed to holding his heart down fall away. He had been called love. It was just a little sign but it was enough to convince Art that the barman saw nothing but a girl in front of him. First obstacle cleared. "One large glass of house white, please." The voice that had first escaped his lips back on that darkened road when talking to Marcus and Doyle had been refined over the past few weeks. Now it felt much more natural to Art. It was something he had practiced, something he had almost perfected. Worryingly, the barman didn't move. Instead he looked Art up and down, from head to toe and back up again. Art shifted, a little nervous in his heels. "How old are you?" "Twenty." Art's reply was fast, maybe a little too fast. He had figured out what he was going to say all through today at school. Now he was worried it all sounded a little rehearsed. "Really." The man seemed unconvinced. "When was your birthday?" "Errr." This time Art paused, for effect. He bit his lip slightly and glanced up at the ceiling. "The twenty-first of January, nineteen ninety- six." The barman's eye narrowed a little. "And what if I don't believe you?" Art's heart skipped. He had been worried, terrified, that he would be found out to be a boy in a dress. That the first person he met would see straight through the make up. Instead he now found himself at risk because of his age, because despite what he might have thought he didn't look old enough. He decide to stumble through some words, anything was better than an awkward, pregnant pause. "Erm, I don't know what to say. I am twenty." "You look younger." "Should I take that as a compliment?" The barman laughed. It was a loud, Ozzie laugh and it caught Art off guard. He hadn't thought he was being particulaly funny. The barman pulled himself back together. "Take it how you like." He looked Art up and down again. "A large glass was it?" "Yes!" Art almost shouted his reply such was his relief at the offer. He tacked on a rather weak ending, "Please." "So you meeting friends here?" The barman continued to make small talk as he produced a tumbler, bottle and glass and poured the exact amount for a large glass. No more, no less. "Just one. She should be here soon." "That's a shame. I was gonna offer to come and sit with you." He slid the full glass of pale, fizzing liquid across the marble surface towards Art, who gracefully took it between his thumb and forefingers. "Haven't you got a bar to run?" "I've got my break soon." Art smiled at him, coyly. "Well I'll tell you what. If she doesn't show you can come and join me." Art lifted the glass and turned away from the bar, clicking his way back out into the dancefloor. It was only when he was halfway from the bar that he realised what had just happened. He had been flirting. He had never flirted before in his life, to his knowledge at least. No girls had ever given him the opportunity. His legs felt a little weak at the thought that when he finally had it had been in a bar, with a man while he wore a dress and heels. At the same time there was a rush to it, an excitement. The man behind the bar had not only thought he was a girl after one conversation, but he had thought Art was a girl worth flirting with. It was becoming a familiar feeling to Art after the encounter with Marcus and Doyle weeks ago but he had to admit, this time it felt a lot nicer even if he had no interest in the person doing the flirting. He felt a little bounce in his step. Bouyed by the positive result and the sun and the desire to meet Stacey, the table in the back no longer appealed. Art made a sharp turn towards the table by the window and the last of the sunlight streaming in. An hour and a half later much of the positivity Art had felt had drained away. The bar was beginning to fill up. All around him punters entered and found their places. Art had returned to the bar twice, firstly for another glass, the second time for a bottle, determined not to lose his table. He had no one to guard it for him. Stacey hadn't shown. Art had desperately been messaging her over Skype, imploring her to come and meet him, that he was all alone and the bar was filling up. No reply. As the minutes ticked on Art was growing to regret his decision to invite the barman over. His break couldn't be far off now. Art considered his options. He couldn't stay here, not with greedy eyes of the bar punters on his table and the eyes of the barman on him. However he still had half a bottle of wine left. It was not something he wanted to give up on quickly. Also, not one person had yet come to him and called him out on being a boy. Not one person had mocked him or beat him up. As far as he could tell every single person in this bar was convinced that Art was a woman. Wasn't this what he wanted? Didn't he want to be seen as a woman, to have a genuine experience as Ally? If he went home now that would be it. It would be like admitting defeat. Jessica wouldn't do that. She would love this, the potential to bask in the attention, to flirt with barmen and have them flirt back. He couldn't turn back at the earliest chance. A heady mix of anger, excitement, fear and alcohol swirled in Art's head. He quietly supped his wine, unaware that the group entering the bar would hasten the decision to leave for him. Outside in the smoking area at the front of the bar a group of young men was gathering, shouting and laughing and jockeying between themselves, each pushing to be the aplha male. Each failing miserably in the presence of Linton Fearns. Art spotted him the second he walked in. How could he not? Linton stood a head taller than anyone else in the group. Art tried to make himself as small as he could. He lifted his small handbag onto the table in a vain attempt to shield himself. He could feel a pit forming in his stomach. Why Linton? As good and as passable as he was sure he looked, Art still felt Linton could see through it. They had been best friends for years. The pit inside Art opened up into a gaping chasm as the familiar hulking shoulders of Doyle and Marcus too made their presence known, the loudest and most obnoxious of the group. Suddenly the empty table that Art sat at felt like a very open place to be. Just him and three empty chairs. He resolved to staring at nothing in particular outside the window and tried desperately to get his breathing under control. He bit down hard on his lip,wanting to look back towards the group but not wanting to acknowledge them at all. He wanted to get up and run, but he didn't want to draw any attention to himself. He was a hive of conflicting thoughts and feelings, trying desperately to sort itself. Another thought whizzed through Art's head like a bullet. Linton was here. Was she here? Jessica? For the first time in his life Art almost hoped that she was near. If anyone could distract from the girl sat all alone in the corner it was her. Jessica Munroe, with her looks, her confidence, her laugh. All eyes would be on her, just like they always were. Just like Art hated. The whole reason he had started down this stupid road in the first place. He could feel his face begin to flush red with anger. Oh yes, she'd hog all the attention and she'd love it. The movement was entirely involuntary. Art hadn't realised he had done it until it had already happened. His neck swung around, sending his gaze darting across the dancefloor. Had he wanted to check no boys were approaching? Had he wanted to confirm whether Jessica was actually there? He didn't know. What he did know was that when his eyes settled and his head stopped turning he found himself looking into the eyes of another person. The dark eyes of Doyle narrowed as he smiled back. The gaze lasted only a second but to Art it felt forever. The chasm in his stomach collapsed into a supermassive black hole as the heavy, shaven headed boy began to approach the table. "Hello love," Doyle ventured. "All alone?" "Yes." Art caught himself too late. "No." "Is it yes or no?" "No." Art looked away from Doyle the best he could, down at the scratched, scuffed surface of the table. "No, I guess not. I don't think a little lady like you could handle a full bottle to yourself." He gestured to the bottle of wine that sat in the metallic cooler. Art hated the way Doyle spoke, like an older man but not the kind of older man Art would ever want to meet. "I guess." It was as uncommital an answer as Art could muster. Doyle seemed to pause for a second. "Do I know you?" If Art's heart could have sunk any lower then it would have. He hadn't even considered that one of Doyle or Marcus might recognise him from the night all those weeks ago. He forced himself to shake his head and shrug his shoulders. Doyle persisted, "Are you sure. There's something pretty familiar about you." "I don't know. I get that a lot. I don't know you though." That was good. That's what normal people say. Wasn't it? Doyle seemed unconvinced but relented. "Ok, maybe not." His smile widened a little again, "No. I would definitely remember you." "Thank you." If Art could have slapped himself he would have done. Thank you? Thank you?! Thank you wasn't what people said to that sort of comment. Thank you invited more conversation. Thank you wasnt the desperate, flailing escape that Art wanted to make. Thank you was the worst thing he could have said. The heart in his chest began to beat even quicker. If Doyle was looking at his breasts, Art was sure he would be able to see it. Panicked, he grabbed at the wine glass and almost threw the remaining dregs into his mouth, swallowing hard. "Wow! Maybe this bottle is all for you." Doyle seemed genuinely impressed. "I love a girl who can hold her drink." Art made no sign of the repulsion he felt inside himself. He coughed a little as the bubbles in the wine tickled the back of his throat. Nothing more. "Doyle! Doyle!" The gruff, gravelled voice of Marcus sounded across the bar. "What the fuck are you doing? Jagerbombs!" In his hand he held a glass of dark brown liquid. Art involuntarily turned to face the bar too. He prayed that the look he saw flash across Marcus' face wasnt the same recognition Doyle had. "Nah! I'm Ok for now!" The reply was not one Art welcomed. Doyle placed his flat palm onto the table a little too close to Art's hand for his liking, "I've found something else to do!" "If you say so!" The smirk that spread across Marcus' face was unpleasant. An unspoken acknowledgement that these two idiots thought Art couldn't read. Art's mood fell even lower, and then even lower still as Doyle downed the last of his drink and turned to face him. "I'm gonna get another one. Wait here." It wasn't a request. It was an order. Of course Art considered standing up and sprinting out of there as fast as his heels could carry him. He could throw the shoes away, run barefoot with his skirt riding up exposing his pantied arse. He could run until his face was sweaty and red and his make up smudged and ruined. He could do all that but what was the point? However fast he ran Doyle would catch him. The risk of being exposed as a boy in a dress was too high. He was stuck here, with a boy as a girl. Fucking Stacey. While Art weighed all this up in his head, Doyle returned, a full pint of cheap, European lager in one hand, a wine cooler with a fresh bottle in the other. "I thought you looked a little empty." The black hole inside Art swallowed everything up inside of him. "White wine for the lady!" An hour later and Art had made a genuine attempt to fill the hole up with wine. He had come to one reasoned conclusion. If he was stuck here with this pig there was only one way he was going to get through it. Drink like he had never drunk before. And he had. He was almost two bottles down, and there was still room for more. To his credit Doyle had managed to keep up, just. The beers and jagerbombs had rendered Doyle even chattier than before. The wine had lowered Art's considerable resistance, despite his wanting it not to. "So, if you think about it, I scored the goal that won us the match," Doyle waffled on. "Not that I actually put it in the net, but it was my foul at the back that meant their free kick went to our team, that meant the lads were able to get it up field and put the cross in that lead to the goal that won us the match. Plus I had a mad hangover at the time." "Hmm. Doesn't sound like it. Sounds like whoever scored the goal won you the match." Art's line of converstion wasn't reciprical. He didn't like this person. He wasn't going to simply nod his head and agree. "You don't understand football. It's tactical, innit!" "I don't agree." Art sipped another long sip from his glass. "Who did score the goal?" "Does it matter?" Doyle was gruff in his reply. Clearly Art had touched a nerve. He decided to prod it further. "Yeah it does. Seems like they are the real hero here." The emphasis on the word "hero" dripped in sarcasm. Doyle turned slightly and gestured towards the group of boys. "Linton. Linton scored it. That one there. The lanky streak of piss." He turned back towards the table and stared into the bubbling, amber liquid in the pint glass. "Of course it was him. Everything goes right for him." Art was a little taken aback by this change in tact. At school he had only ever seen one Doyle, the loud, brash bully. In the car on the road that night months ago he had seen another, the leacherous, hungry predator. This was the first time he had ever seen in any weakness from him. An inferiority. "Oh yeah? Why's Linton so good then?" Art decided to press ahead. "Why? I dunno. He's captain of the rugby team, the football team. His family are rich, richer than mine anyway." Doyle's voice got quieter. Art had a little trouble hearing him over the bars music and the own alcoholic rush in his head. "Everyone likes him." "Everyone likes him? What, and people don't like you?" Art jabbed at Doyle with his words. It was technically a question, but Art meant it as a statement of fact. Of course no one liked Doyle. He was Doyle, the angry ape man who bragged about fouling footballers as if it was a noble deed, who hung out of car windows perving on passing women. It was for these reasons that the quiet sincerity of the ape man's reply took Art off guard and sent him reeling a little. "No. No one does." It was difficult to make out, but Art thought he could see a glisten in Doyle's eye. Was he crying? Doyle, the same Doyle that always appeared so sure of himself, was sat in at the table welling up. "Oh shit. I'm sorry." Was he? Was Art sorry? He didn't think it was possible to feel that way for Doyle, and yet he couldn't help it. As much as it tugged at his stomach, Art could see a little of himself in Doyle. There was a jealousy there, a knowledge that someone close by was seen as better in every way. Maybe it didn't manifest itself in the same anger and hate that had driven Art to dresses and make up and getting drunk in a bar, but it was still there. Instinctively Art's hand reached out and fell on Doyle's. "It's just everyone thinks I'm this big, stupid idiot who follows him around like a dog. I'm not stupid, you know. I got kept back a year." He paused. "Twice, but that just means I was able to learn everything twice as well." "Err, yeah I guess so." Art couldn't see the logic but he thought it best not to interrupt. "Linton, though. He's big and popular and smart. Like, properly smart. He's got everything." He turned his big, round head to face the would-be girl across the table. "And you should see his girlfriend, Jessica." "Oh really?" The familiar rush of red to Art's face. He pulled his hand back, recoiling at the mere mention of her name His response was slow, deliberately constructed so as not to reveal and any acknowledgement on his part. "And what's she like?" "Fit," Doyle's face lit up a little as he pictured her, "Really fit! Not even just fit, like beautiful you know. She's got blonde hair, and a nice bum and a massive set of..." "What?" Art's interruption stopped Doyle short. "Legs," he revised. "She's just beautiful, but, like, too beautiful, you know?" "No. I don't." Art could feel himself getting angrier. "Tell me." "She's just distant when you talk to her. It's like she knows how good looking she is. She knows most guys would do anything for her, so you just sort of find it hard to talk to her. Even Linton does. I dunno how happy he is with her." "He's not happy with her?" Art had to catch himself. He had managed to hold his feminine voice all night. It hadn't slipped once, but it almost had then. Doyle shot him an odd look. Art coughed in an attempt to hide the slip. Doyle seemed convinced. He continued. "Yeah. I mean, could you really be happy with her? Knowing every guy was looking at her. Being constantly on edge all the time, and with her playing up to it. I don't think I could. That would do me in." He lifted his head a stared off into the middle distance, wistfully. "She is fit though. Beautiful." "I bet she's not that pretty." It was Art's turn to sulk. Even he wasn't convinced by what he had just said. Of course she was that pretty. He was actually a little surprised how jealous he felt. He poured the last of his second bottle of wine into the glass and took a big sip. "Hey!" Art turned back to face Doyle. The glisten in his eye was gone. The dour droop to his face replaced with an upturned smirk. His eyes dark and hungry. The old Doyle had reamerged from where it had been hiding. Brash, confident and loud, "She might be fit, but I prefer you." Art couldn't help it. His self control was loose at best. The wine had taken hold. The compliment hit him like a ton of bricks. Bricks that hugged close to his heart and warmed his insides. This was Doyle. Doyle! He hated Doyle and everything he was. Didn't he? And yet, his head lifted, his heart jumped and his face curled into a warm smile. His eyes softened and gazed back across the table towards the big oaf. His mind was foggy and buzzed with alcohol. His legs felt numb and his fingers tingled. This was it. This was what he wanted. In that moment, rubbing the material of his tights together between his thighs, tasting the gloss on his lips and with Doyle's half compliment ringing in his ears he truly felt all woman for the first time ever. Art stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. His make up had held up pretty well, as far as he could tell. It was difficult to see as the walls of the room wobbled in and out of focus. Art held on tight to the sink, trying to steady himself. He scanned the room. No urinals. At least he had managed to pick the right bathroom. He leaned in for a closer look. Maybe his lips could use a little more gloss. He clumsily reached into the handbag that sat beside him and the counter by the sink. It took more than a little trial and error to finally grasp at the small plastic tube and retrieve it from the depths of the bag. Still holding himself steady he pushed out his lips into a wide O shape and attempted to drag the applicator across the surface. "Damn. That's sexy!" Art's hand slipped on the wet surface of the sink, nearly sending him toppling over. He turned his head towards the sound and tried to focus his eyes on the big, hulking shape of Doye. "Doyle, this is the girls bathroom," Art half laughed. "You can't be in here." "So?" His answer was delivered with a sense of finality. "I don't care." "Well I'm just doing my lips and then I'll be back out." He turned back towards the mirror. "Then I really should head home." Art again went to spread the make up across his mouth. He leaned in close over the sink, pushing his behind out as he did. He was aware that Doyle hadn't left. In fact the bigger of the two boys instead began to move towards Art, stopping close behind him. Close enough they were touching. Close enough that Art could feel the hard bulge in Doyle's pants brush lightly against his bent over ass. "Yeah. You said you might be leaving." He brushed across Art once more, "That'd be a shame. I've enjoyed tonight." Art finished applying the gloss. Way too much. His lips were dripping in it. He moved to straighten up as quickly as his body and alcohol restricted motor skills would allow him to, only to find, when at his full height, the hard, tight grip of Doyle's hands on his waist. He tensed up. "Doyle, stop! Someone could walk in." "There's barely anyone left in this place. It's almost empty." He pulled Art backwards, placing the groove of his bum onto the hard ridge of his cock, while his head came to rest gently on Art's left shoulder staring him in the eye via the mirror. "We're all alone in here." "What about your friends?" Art asked desperately. "I told them to go. I told them I had more important things to do. I know you want me." He made sure to pull Art even further back towards him, his arms snaking around and clasping at the front of Art's stomach. His head turned a little, the surface of his lips pressed against the bare, exposed flesh of the small boys neck. Art's heart was almost beating out of his chest. His stomach felt leaden and hard. He worried about throwing up. This was too much, too soon. How had he let this happen? Why the fuck had he spent so long talking to Doyle, humouring him, flirting with him? Why hadn't he just got up and left? Doyle's hands began to move, rubbing and stroking Art's waist. For Art's part, he did nothing, standing rigid, desperately trying to figure an escape plan. None was formulating. All he could think about was the pressure from Doyle's cock, the increasingly wet and strong kisses that peppered his neck, the hands that roamed about his body. Hands that had begun to move south. Hands that would soon discover a surprise between Art's legs. He made to grab at Doyle's wrists moving them north again, towards his padded breasts. Doyle took it as a sign. This was no longer a one person tango. The girl was joining in too. Art stared, petrified at the sight he saw in the mirror. A young woman stared back at him, wide eyed and stiff. A young woman in the arms of a large man. Her make up dark and sultry, her hair big and styled. Art saw himself, but he saw a woman all the same. He was definitely getting to experience what it was like to be a woman, to be objectified and pushed and pulled by a man. To be flirted with, and to flirt back. To have drinks bought for him. To be opened up to. To be touched. To be kissed. His head was swimming. The kisses on his neck tingled down his spine. What was he doing? Is this not what he wanted? Is this not what Jessica felt all the time? Is this not why he started dressing in the first place? At this moment Art couldn't quite remember why had begun dressing. The logic seemed lost on him. All he could think of was the grip Doyle had on him. The grip Doyle had on this woman. This girl. Him. The hand on Art's face was a shock. His head was pushed back towards Doyle's over his shoulder. Their lips met. Art could feel the slick surface of the gloss spread out between the two mouths. Their lips slid back and forth, pulled left and right by Doyle. Art barely kissed back. This was, after all, his first kiss. He hadn't practiced. This wasn't how he had pictured it. Part of him wanted to scream, to cry and run away, but, despite his best efforts, that small part of him shrank. It became smaller and smaller with every rough, wet meeting of mouths. Art felt his shoulders loosen. He felt his knees buckle a little. He sank into the arms of the boy behind him. The only boy in the room. Art grunted sligtly as Doyle threw him against the cold, wooden wall of the toilet cubicle. The door was shut and the lock engaged. The kissing started anew. Art's breath was short and sharp, desperate to take any air he could between the assault on his mouth. By now Doyle wasn't the only one engaged in the kiss. Art fought back, pushing his face forwards and sucking on Doyle's lower lip. Doyle's hands moved again. They rested on Art's bottom, lifting him slightly from the tiled floor, his heels hanging off his feet. It was with a sense of panic that Art felt a stiring in his groin. A common stirring for a sixteen year old boy. Despite the weak protestaions in his mind his own cock had been stirred. He began to feel it grow hard. If he could feel it Doyle soon would too. He had to act fast. Mustering all his strength he pushed the large boy off him, creating a little gap between them. Doyle paused, looking quizically at the panting, drunk girl before him. He pushed back forwards, his hands again clasping across her ass his lips again pressed against hers. Again, she pushed him away. "What?" "Just-" Art didn't know what to say. He could feel the tent that had begun to form in his tights. There was no way he could let Doyle get that close again. "Just one second." "What's the matter?" Come on!" Doyle again went to move forwards. Again, pushed back. He breathed heavy. The bulge in Doyle's pants was certainly not hidden. It protruded outwards, jutting towards Art, commanding attention. It was obvious to him stood just a foot away. His own bulge would be more than visible to Doyle at this distance. He should leave. This was too dangerous. He was going to get caught. But he didn't leave. He didn't want to. He was too far gone. He was having fun. Doyle was caught off guard as Art pushed him hard in the chest against the opposite wall. He went to move back but stopped as the girl approached him. She leant into him, one hand around the back of his neck, his face pulled in close for more kisses. And then she began to bend, slowly at first but quicker and lower till she squatted down, resting on the heels of her shoes, dark tight legs spread wide and eyes looking back up at him. Her mouth in front of his cock. Art's heart was racing. Was he really going to do this? He had only minutes ago had his first kiss. Was he really going to suck his first cock? It had never been on the bucket list, and yet here he was, with Doyle's bulge sat prominent in front of his mouth. He tried to frame his thinking. He focused on the feeling of his made up lips, the constricting fabric of the tights and mini dress, the uncomfortable straps of his bra. Utterly feminine sensations. Only a girl would feel them. He was a girl. He was a girl. He was a girl. Wasn't he? He needed more. "Tell me I'm beautiful." His voice was almost a whisper. "What?" "Tell me I'm beautiful!" Art's hand reached up and slowly rubbed the bulge in Doyle's pants. "Oh fuck. Yeah! You're beautiful." Art's hand rubbed a little harder. "You're fit as fuck. You're amazing!" "Tell me what you'd do to me." Art could barely recognise his own voice or the words that escaped it. He could barely stop himself as he began to undo the buckle on Doyle's belt and pop the buttons on his fly. He needed to hear Doyle's voice, to have confirmation. Doyle saw him as a girl. He was a girl and girls suck cocks. "I'm going to fuck you in the mouth! I'm going to hold your head and I'm going to...I'm going to..." Doyle never got to finish his declaration of lust. The head of his dick was already in Art's mouth. The sensation was alien to Art. The thick, hard meat of Doyles cock stabbed at the side of his mouth pushing his cheek outwards.Was he doing it right? He'd seen videos but the technique those girls showed seemed to esacpe him right now. He resolved to simply bob his head back and forth, taking the head across his tongue. Between his legs his own cock strained at the fabric of the tights. It was Art's only reminder of what he really was. In every other sense he was a girl. He was a girl just like her. Jessica Munroe. A girl who met guys in bars, who flirted and revelled in male attention. A slut who took men into bathroom cubicles and sucked them off. Everything she ever felt now washed over him. A sense of power, of achievement, of excitement. The cock pushed hard against the roof of his mouth. He pushed back, sucking harder, kissing and licking the salty head of Doyle's penis. The anger, though, the anger was still there. The desire to kick back at her, to show her how ordinary she was, was still there. He had proven to himself he could do it. He had proven in some way to Doyle that he could be a slut, even if Doyle was none the wiser to what he truly was, but that was it. That wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted everyone to see this for themselves. It wasn't enough. He needed more. The hot, salty liquid of Doyle's load hit him like a steam train. It throthed and bubbled in his mouth. One jet, two jets, three jets and then stopped. Art coughed a little, sending a dribble of sticky white cum down his chin. He spat most of the rest out onto the floor, leaving a dirty puddle. Most of it. A little still churned around underneath his tongue. It was intinctive. He hadn't realised he had done until until it was too late. He swallowed. The slimy mass slid down his neck, disappearing into his stomach. That was that. It was a part of him now. He looked up at the sweaty happy face of Doyle. "Tell me I'm better than Jessica Munroe." Doyle barely even registered. "Who?" Art's heart jumped. It was the best thing he could have heard.