The Mystery Maid Of Milton Manor free porn video

The Mystery Maid of Milton Manor By Cassandra Morgan The taxi rode slowly along the mountain road, and I had to admit, the scenery was something out of Ansel Adams' portfolio. The sky was high, as advertised, and the low mountains were green. I supposed that in another few months, they would be covered in white. There were crossing rivers in the valley, blue and green and peaceful. I looked out the back window for wildlife, but I couldn't see any. I sighed and settled back in the seat. Even as the crow flies, it was a long way from Great Falls to the ranch at Milton Manor. It was big country, the kind of country where a girl could re-invent herself and start over. Great Falls? Hell, my fall was pretty good too. That's how I ended up in Montana, which is about 40 miles beyond the end of the earth. It's a pretty piece of geography, but it's a hard land with hard people enduring hard winters. Hardly a place for a soft little trans woman on the movies e. I was working for Hyatt Hotels as a maid. I find no shame in it. I had been a domestic long enough that it wasn't a sex game for me any more, and my uniforms weren't the saucy little numbers you see in Halloween displays. I was a working girl, trying to out-earn the coming rent. My feet hurt. My back ached. I was tired. The truth of it is, that kind of work is kinder if you can find yourself a nice family to serve. That's what I was doing in a cab. I was applying for work at Milton Manor, a large home on the outskirts of Great Falls. Once, the employment officer had told me, it was a real working ranch, the Ponderosa of Montana. But now it was just the home of Abby Milton, the grand lady of the house. I looked out the window. A bird -- an eagle -- flew high above. Was that symbolic of something? Did it mean I would be able to stretch my wings and fly, too? Or that, maybe, I was about to lay an egg? "Long way out here, isn't it? the driver said to me as we made a wide turn around the lake. "It's pretty, though," I said. "Yeah. Long as you don't have to walk to town. You don't pop in for a loaf of bread when you live this far out." "I guess not," I said to the back of his head. "I think we just passed Lewis and Clark on the road." "Funny. But if Lewis and Clark had come to Great Falls, they'd never have left. It's pretty here. You from here?" "No. I'm from back east. I work for the Hyatt." "Good place. But I discovered that they don't rent by the hour." "Hah. No, they don't." Finally, in the distance, I could see the stately manor on the horizon. It was impressive, two stories and built as solidly as a castle. We passed three men on horseback. One of them waved to the taxi. We pulled into the front of the house. "I'm looking for the servant's entrance," I said. "This is it. As I understand it, Ms. Milton doesn't hold with special entrances for her help. She's good that way." "Well, it's impressive. Be a lot to clean." "You going to be her new maid?" "Maybe. Or maybe I'll be walking back to town in a little bit." "Hah. I'm supposed to pick you up in the morning, after your interview. I hope you get the job. You'e a nice lady." "I'm not as nice as you think," I said. He looked at me. "I'm a pretty good judge of character," he said. "Well, I'v always liked a lenient judge." I stepped out of his taxi, and stared up the circular driveway. Then dug in my purse for money, but he shook his head. "Mrs. Milton has taken care of it." He handed me my bag and left. I hesitated and took a deep breath. Then I rang the doorbell. In a few moments, a middle-aged lady with brown hair opened the door. She smiled at me. "I'm Abigail Milton," she said. "You must be Elizabeth." I nodded. "Yes, ma'am. We spoke on the phone." "Indeed we did, Elizabeth. Can I call you Lizzy? So you want to work for me, do you? My reputation didn't change your mind." "You have a wonderful reputation, Mrs. Milton." "It's Abby. Or Miss Abby if you insist. And I guess I'll have to get back to beating the hired help. A lady can't afford to let her reputation slide. Come in. Coffee?" She was pretty, Abby Mikton. She was short, about 5-5, and she had a nice smile. She wasn't too old for freckles. She had the shoulders of a woman who had baled hay before. I entered her home, and it struck me as a mansion. The rooms were oversized, and the furniture was old but sturdy. Lights dangled from the ceilings. I followed her into a huge room. Her office, she called it. "Might I change?" I asked. "I didn't want to wear a uniform in the taxi." "Not yet. Sit and tell me about yourself, Lizzy." "Not much to tell, I'm afraid. I'm transsexual. You know that. Some people won't hire trans girls." "Hell, I think it's an advantage. Buck and the boys won't have you pregnant by the first snowfall. You're safe. here, Lizzy. We have no prejudices." "That's good to hear. I'm a good maid, Miss Abby. I work hard. I mind my manners." "Well, it's not a killer job, Lizzy. You get one floor to keep clean. You clean four days a week, and you take a day in the kitchen for when Mrs. Walters if off. It's simple fare. Chili. Chicken. Steaks. Can you do that?" "Yes, ma'am. I'm a decent cook." "Do you clean? Is there anything you object to cleaning?" "I clean," I said. "I'll wash everything but the snakes. have no restrictions. If I'm your maid, I'm your maid." "So how does a pretty young trans girl get into this business." "Oh... just circumstance, ma'am. A boy grows up feminine. Sooner or later, someone hands him a mop. The usual." She looked at me for a long time. She shook her head. "Do you have your resume?" I sighed. This was always the hard part. "No, ma'am," I said. "I don't." "Well, Lizzy, I have to know who I'm bringing into my home." "I understand, ma'am. Does the fact I don't have one end my interview?" She kept staring at me. "I can't believe you would come all this way and not have a resume. References. Job history." "I'm sorry to waste your time Miss Abby. I was hoping you wouldn't require them." "Damn. Well, Lizzy, you're here now. Why don't you change into your uniform and attack the dishes in the sink. I have to have something to judge you by." "Here?" "If you don't mind." I blushed. Then I began to disrobe. I was wearing a blue pair of panties under my suit. Beneath them, you could clearly see the outline of my cock cage. "Caged?" she said. "When I'm on duty," I said. "An erection isn't welcome, you know. Would you like the hold the key?" She nodded. I unzipped my small suitcase and pulled out a royal blue maid's uniform. I had a pair of black flats -- working shoes -- beneath it in the suitcase. Now I was nearly naked. I reached behind me and fastened a pale blue bra. "Wait. Damn, what are those scars?" Miss Abby asked. "Were you in some sort of a fight?" "Um, it was an accident. A motorcycle accident. I was dragged for a while." Miss Abby looked at the scars and started to say something. Then she didn't. But she obviously didn't believe me." I put on hose, then I stepped into the flats. I tied my hair up, then I walked into the kitchen. I washed her dishes carefully. "You know your way around a kitchen," Miss Abby said. "Yes ma'am." "A shame you don't have papers," she said. "Yes, ma'am. But a dog can have papers and he'll still pee on the floor." She waited for me to be more forthcoming, but I just stared at the floor. She squinted. "Lizzy, I have a very important question to ask you." "Yes, ma'am." "Do you like Scotch?" * * Abby peered at me over the top of her glass. She had a playful grin and a wicked laugh. "Okay," she said. "20 Questions." "I'm lousy at this game," I said, taking a sip of a very nice Scotch. "You're wearing a ring, Lizzy. Are you married now, or were you ever?" "That's two questions," I said. She giggled. "Have you ever been married?" "Do I have to drink if I don't answer?" "You do." "I think I'm going to get sloshed," I said, drinking a sip. "You won't answer something that easy?" "My past is a closed book, I'm afraid," I said. "I'm not worth figuring out." "Okay," Abby said. "Your turn. Ask." "How were you when you lost your virginity?" "I was 17. Junior prom. In the barn. Chris Gatewood. I was such a fucking cliche." Abby grinned. "Your turn." "Go ahead." "Okay. How old were you when you started wearing dresses full time. I mean, to school and shit." "I was a sophomore in high school. I got beat up a lot." "See. That wasn't so hard. Ask me another." "Okay. Who had the biggest thingie you've ever seen?" "Hah. That's easy. Buck Edwards. My foreman. Now, what was your boy name?" "Um... it was Edward." She nodded. I smiled. "Who is celebrity crush?" I asked. "Oh, this may be embarrassing. But I have a real thing for Halle Berry." I raised my eyebrow. She giggled. "I like girls, too. My turn: Do you like boys or girls?" Sip. "Cheater! You've got to answer." "I don't. I'm an expert on the rules of 20 questions. Now, how old were you when you kissed your first girl?" "15. Debbie Williams. She had big boobs. Tell me: Do you prefer oral or anal?" Sip. The rules were forgotten now. Abby kept asking her questions rapid-fire, trying desperately to find out any secrets I might be hiding. The thing was, they were hidden well. "Do you wear a butt plug?" Sip. "Damn. You're hard to play against. Any tattoos?" Sip. "Shit. Now you're just being difficult. Are your breasts real?" "Yes." "Aha. I got one. Ever been under arrest?" Sip. "Crud. Ever been in a threesome?" Sip. "Bondage?" Sip. "Prostitution?" Sip. "Fuck. You're the Invisible Woman. Are you in witness relocation?" Sip. "Why are you like this? They're just simple questions." I smiled. "What's the old saying? That handling your business is different from people knowing your business?" "You're a fortune cookie?" "Sometimes, not telling people anything is a good thing." "Why aren't you drunk yet?" "Who says I'm not?" "Okay. I gotta pee. But first, let me ask you this: Lizzy, are you a good person?" "No, I said, frowning. "I'm not." * * * The interview, I supposed, was over. But the game waged on. I was still in my maid's dress, but we were drinking and starting to laugh like old buddies. We had gotten to be very close very fast. "Where's home?" she said. "Back east," I said, without details. "I thought I was from middle America. But compared to Montana, everything is back east. How about you?" "I'm from here," she said. "I married Jimmy when we were kids. He was an engineer then. Invented some sort of surgical clamp. We ended up with this place before he passed. Cancer." "I'm sorry." "Look at me, being a downer," she said. "So when's the very first time you remember wearing a dress? I mean, back before you started wearing them to school." "I guess I was about eight. I had an older sister, Ruth." "And she let you dress?" "Let me? Hell, she encouraged me. I was her Barbie doll. One day, we went down for lunch, and I was wearing a skirt, and my mother freaked. But I wore her down. A woman gets tired of saying no every day of her life, you know?" "Did you play sports?" I asked. "I was a basketball player," Abby said. "I was pretty damn good, too. You weren't the great jock of the Bowden household?" "Hey. I scored the winning goal in a district soccer match when I was a junior," Lizzy said. "It was the worst goal in the history of goals." "I doubt that." "No, really," Lizzy said, giggling. "We had a no-cut policy, which meant everyone made the team. Even the class fag. And I really was the worst player on the field. My mother made me play. She wanted her son to sweat, you know? So we're playing, and two kids get red-carded, and three more get hurt. I went into the game, and the other players ignored me. They wouldn't pass me the ball if I begged. But we got to overtime, and Scottie Jenson took a shot. It rebounded off of the goalie and it came right to my foot. Everyone was yelling for me to pass the ball, but when I tried, the ball went off the side of my foot with this crazy angle. It went into a corner of the goal, and we won. I was such a hero the other players actually talked to me for a couple of days." "Yay team," she said, laughing. "Go Giraffes." "Giraffes?" "Yeah," I said. "Someone in the athletic department had a sense of humor." "First boyfriend?" "You're assuming I like boys." "I guess I was. I'm sorry." "I used to like everyone. Now I like no one." She laughed. "You are an enigma, Lizzie," she said. "A riddle and a mystery and a puzzle and however that goes." "Another glass of this Scotch, and who knows how you'll say it?" "Shit. This is Montana. A girl has to hold her liquor. I have maids to flog." "You said that before. You don't really beat your maids, do you?" "Fuck no," she said. "Who can afford the medical bills? I render them useless with my sarcasm." "You're funny. I would have liked to have worked for you." "I would have liked that, too. But you've got more secrets than Victoria. Tell me: you let the dogs out, didn't you? You shot a man in Reno just to watch him die?" "Something like that." "Fuck it, Sissy Lizzy. I cannot figure you out. What is this big dark secret? Are you a vampire? A member of a cult? A Shriner?" "I'm just the maid." "Shit. The come and work for me. I'll act like you had papers. I wouldn't have fucking read them anyway. How about a two-week trial? That'll let us get used to each other." I nodded. I lifted my glass. I had a job. For now. Later, alone in my room, I watched the moon for the longest time. I heard an animal baying in the distance. It felt lonely way out here under the stars. I dressed for bed, a conservative nightgown. I wiped off my makeup. And like every night, I wept until sleep came. * * * The next morning, I was at work early. I hadn't been given a uniform by Miss Abby, and so I went to work in my old one. I went through my chores with care. First impressions, and all that. Luckily, I could dance with a vacuum cleaner. I thought about the early days, the thrilling days where I first wore a dress while I flitted about, playing, acting more than being a domestic. It was a sexual release at the time, from the lipstick to the underwear to the sexy maid's uniforms. I was under instruction at the time, but that was part of it, too. The submission. The surrender. The bending of the knee. I loved it all. Most transvestites don't become maids, of course. Those of us who do often don't stick with it when the work gets hard. But I fitted into this life from my first time in a dress. It wasn't a game to me. It was a life choice. It was a transformation. I went from being a young professional to being a maid who bowed and scraped and didn't dare speak unless commanded to. Things would get rocky later, but those first few days were delicious. Now? Now I'm 35 years old, and this is the life I know best. My chosen field has passed me by. I no longer do this for the kink of it; I do this because it is my job. I am a maid. I mop. I scrub toilets. I iron clothes. It is my lot in life now. I serve. I keep to myself. I looked out the window at the distant mountains. It is a picture postcard of a setting. I can see horses in a meadow. A small creek runs alongside the house. Yes, I could work here. I could start over. "Morning, Lizzy," I heard a voice say. I turned and greeted Miss Abby. She was reaching at a shelf for aspirin. We'd had a lot to drink last night. "So, Lizzie. You ever been married?" I cleared my throat. "Can we talk about something else?" I said. "Damn, you are a tough nut," she said. "When are you going to open up? I'm not here to bite." "I'm sorry, ma'am. I just think it's better not to talk about certain things. The past is a beast." "So I don't get to know why you're a maid, or if you were married, or whether you like boys or girls or Republicans or Democrats or if you've ever had a horse lowered onto you like Catherine the Great." I smiled at her. "Maybe someday," I said. "Did you run guns into Ethiopia? Did you go out and pick up girls with Gandhi?" "Gandhi kept the pretty ones for himself," I said. "Did you invent New Coke? Did you sell the apple to Eve? Did you kidnap the Lindbergh baby?" I shook my head. "I'm not that mysterious," I said. "I'm just boring." Miss Abby smiled. "Could you iron my green dress before you iron anything else? The boys are coming for dinner later." "The boys?" "Buck. And Frank and Jesse." "Frank and Jesse? You hired men named Frank and Jesse?" "No, I nicknamed them that. After the James boys. It was either that or Butch and Sundance." I giggled. "Sounds charming." "You like to dance? Or is that a secret, too?" "I like to dance." "Then you'll have fun. You'll get to meet Chandra and Mrs. Lassiter. Chandra is our upstairs maid, and Mrs. Lassiter is the cook." "Yes ma'am." "Lizzy. Just so you'll know, I called Mrs. Abernathy at the Hyatt this morning. To talk about you." "I figured you would, Ma'am." "She didn't know much. She wasn't even sure if I knew you were trans, Lizzie. She said you came to work without papers there, too. She said you never talked about yourself." "I don't advertise things, Miss Abby. But I thought you should know about me being trans." "I'm glad you told me. I can be trusted, Lizzy. We all have a past." "Ma'am, I'm sure. This isn't about you. It's about me." "I see. Well, you should get back to work. I have errands to run in town. I have to order your uniform, for one thing. The taxi is coming at 10 o'clock to take you back to town. I'll take your ride, if you don't mind." "I don't mind, ma'am." "Good. I'd hate to have to tie you up." I flinched. I couldn't help it. I'm sure Miss Abby saw it. And then I went to work. * * There were six of us, plus Miss Abby, at the dinner. Buck was a tall, blond man who reminded me of a Clint Eastwood movie. The sun had bronzed his skin, but he liked to laugh. If Miss Lizzy had told him I was trans -- and why shouldn't she? -- then he didn't let on. Frank and Jesse were lovable clods who liked to talk about their horses. They worked hard, tending to the few cattle that Miss Abby still owned, mending fences, repairing the tractor. Jesse seemed to have a thing for Chandra, an Indian woman from the Blackfeet Tribe. They were canoodling in the corner of the back yard. A fire burned in the middle. "So welcome to the Manor," Buck said. "Lizzy, is it?" "Thank you, Buck. Yes, it's Lizzy." "You're not a Montana girl." "Everyone notices. I should just wear a sign that says 'outsider.'" "Hell, a pretty thing like you will get along just fine, Lizzy." "I hope so. Montana is a good run away from home for me." "Yeah? So what are you running from?" "We all have demons chasing us, don't we, Buck?" "You didn't answer the question." "No, I didn't. Did I?" "Fine. Keep your damn secrets. Frank and Jesse have secrets, too." "Then you know how it is. Yesterday isn't important, Buck. Just tomorrow." "That's true enough. Look. Abby wants to ask me something. I'd better go see what it is." "Buck?" "Yes?" "Be nice to her." "I always am." * * The hours became days, and the days became weeks. I was happy at the Manor -- or as close as memory would allow. There seemed to be less use for small talk under the Big Sky, and that suited me fine. I was weary of dodging questions. Then, one morning, Miss Abby asked me into the library. She had a stern look on her face and a file of papers in front of her. Uh-oh, I thought. Busted. I guessed it was only a matter of time. "We need to talk, Lizzy," she said. "I think we might have a problem." "Yes, ma'am," I said, taking the chair. "When you wouldn't talk about yourself, Lizzie, I feared the worst. Drugs, maybe. An affair with a married man. Prison, even. But this?" "Yes, ma'am," I said. "I'll go." "Just sit your ass there," she said. Her eyes narrowed. "You owe me an explanation." I knew the secret door was about to be opened. I braced as she said the word, the same as I always did. "Murder?" She shook her head. The word is cold, distant. There is no nice way to say it. It is a word that does not beg for explanation. It is final, and it is vulgar, and it is accusatory. "I can explain," I said. "It's more complicated than it sounds, ma'am." "It always is, isn't it?" I exhaled audibly. I closed my eyes, and I remembered Annie's face, and Chuck's, and the way they screamed at the end. I remembered a judge and a prosecutor. I remembered the faces of the jurors. I remembered tears and sleepless nights and the sound of the gavel. "I ... was in a bad marriage," I said. "I know you won't believe me. But I was." "Lizzy. You killed two people!" "I know," I said. "And nothing else matters. Not that they beat me, which is why I have those scars. Not that they chained me up and flogged me with a whip. Not that they starved me until I almost died myself. "Who did?" "Chuck did. And my wife. Annie." "Tell me what happened, Lizzie. No secrets this time." And then I was telling her everything. About a young wife who discovered her husband liked women's clothing, about how she urged him, and she dared him, and she seduced him into wearing them. About her first maid's dress. About the excitement of the early days. About Chuck, the man who had cuckolded her with Annie. About how, together, they sexual abused her. About how they loaned her to friends, about how they forced her to work in the massage parlor. About that damn kennel cage where they made her sleep. About the nights she fell asleep with blood dripping down her back and tears down her face. It wasn't sex. It was cruelty. You wouldn't treat a rodent the way they treated her. She cooked for them, and she cleaned, and she washed their genitals with her tongue. They forced her to have anal sex with them both, and with their friends, and then with anyone who had $10. Any form of debasement you could imagine, they inflicted upon her. By the end, she was malnourished, and diseased, and abused. They shackled her. They whipped her. They threatened to kill her. She was half out of her mind by the end, delirious from hunger and pain and desperation. And, finally, out of desperation, she did all she could think to do. She poisoned their soup. The mushroom is called the Death Cap, and it grows mostly in Europe. But you can buy it easily enough in Cincinnati. Slice it thinly enough, and it looks like just another garnish in the broth. They ate their dinner -- Lizzy wasn't allowed to eat at the table with them, anyway -- and by midnight, they were vomiting. They were both dead by the morning, Annie with horrible convulsions, Chuck with a death wail before he died. Lizzie turned herself in that morning. She was prepared to go to prison for life. She could still hear their screams at night. She could still see them clutch at their throats. She would feel remorse later, but for the moment, all she felt was relief. Her torture was ending. Even if she went to prison, the pain was over. It was one of those Trial of the Centuries. She was Lizzie Bowden, but the newspapers called her the second coming of Lizzie Borden. It was a tale laced by sex and adultery and murder and bondage, one of those stories with enough gossip to take hold of the American imagination. The story turned national in scope. She was the vixen who had murdered her wife and lover with poison. Some said she deserved the chair. Feminists said she deserved a throne. She sat in the courtroom, dazed, half-insane, and she listened to what the others said about her. That she was evil. That she had planned it all from the start. That she was a killer. When she was found "not guilty," the courtroom erupted in noise. Some cheers. Some protests. Some tears. In the end, she got off because of the battered wife syndrome -- one of the few biologically male humans who had used it. She had enough scars. She was thin enough. There were films in their closet of how they had abused her and taunted her as they did. Still, even as her attorney embraced her, she failed to grasp that it was all over. She was going to get out ... and then what? And now? Now she went from one town to another, looking for a fresh start, hoping that somewhere, people didn't remember a headline that read "Lizzie Borden II Freed!" Listening to the outrage, you would have thought that Lizzie had done in Annie and Chuck with an ax herself. People saw her as a killer who had been wrongly freed; few saw her as a trapped animal trying to chew off her leg to be free. It had been easy enough for Miss Abby to find it all out. She had been referred to a private eye. She told him the soccer story. She told him she thought she had been married. She had mailed a glass with Lizzie's DNA on it. It was the DNA that uncovered the trial. And there I was. The murderous maid of the mansion. I had been been exposed. * * "Lizzie, tell me the truth. Are you dangerous? Will you kill again? Should I be worried?" "I don't think so, Miss Abby. I'll never be in a position to be enslaved again. But I'll understand if you want me to go. Most people would." "I don't want to wake up in my own blood." "I wouldn't either. But in those days, I just had no place left to turn. I tried running away, and Chuck kept bringing me back. Three times, he brought me back." "What will happen to you if I fire you?" "That's...that's not your concern, Miss Abby. I'll get by. Australia, maybe. Maybe Canada." "What would you do if you were me?" "I don't know, ma'am. I could argue that, technically, I was found not guilty. So was the original Lizzie Borden, you know. For all the poems about her and her ax, she wasn't convicted. But if I were, I wouldn't want to risk sleeping in the same house as me. I guess if I were you, I'd wash my hands of a killer maid and be done with her." "It's a tough choice." "I loved her, Miss Abby. For all the crap she dumped on me, for as much as she made me bleed -- physically and emotionally -- I loved her. I would have forgiven the shackles and the adultery and the prostitution. But she was going to kill me, Miss Abby. As sure as I'm sitting here, she saw no value in my life. I cry every night because I miss her, because I hate myself for what I did, because I remember every second of it. I'm a murderer. I'll always be a murderer." Miss Abby wiped away a tear. How could anyone have endured such physical and mental torture? She would have killed Annie, too. Most people would have. The bitch deserved to die. "You were a victim," she said. "You're still a victim." Lizzy kept talking. Now that her secrets were out, she wouldn't stop talking. "I tried everything afterward, Miss Abby. I was promiscuous for a while. I went through men like I was taking an anatomy course. I went to counseling. I thought about suicide. I thought I really was the freak that everyone said I was. 'A chick with a dick who made her Mistress sick.' That's what they said. They said I got off because of my high- priced lawyers. Hell, my lawyer was court-appointed. She worked for free." Abby found herself nodding with Lizzy's story. "Lizzy, I'm sorry I pried. I had to check you out. I'm sorry that I did." "It's okay, ma'am. I should have told you from the start." "It's okay, Lizzy. You're going to heal. You're going to be all right." "Thank you, ma'am," Lizzie dabbed at her eyes. She sighed heavily. "Can I have a few minutes to pack?" "You may not," Miss Abby said. "Ma'am?" "You aren't going to pack to go anywhere. You're going to go back to your room. You're going to wash your face. And then you're going to clean out the refrigerator like my maid should." It took me a moment to realize that Miss Abby wasn't going to replace me. Part of me felt she should have. "Miss Abby? If you want, you can lock my door at night. You can put bars on my window. You can make sure your employees are safe." "That won't be necessary. Just be part of my family, and time will forgive everything." "There will be new stories now that I've been sighted." "They will pass." "Thank you." "We'll get through this." Tears were falling onto my chest. Funny. I didn't realize I had been crying. * * Word travels fast on a ranch. Frank and Jesse kept their distance for a few days. Buck kept checking the chili, making sure there weren't mushrooms in it. Even when it was made by Mrs. Lassiter. He was worried that I might slip some Death Trap into the pot. You know, for old times' sake. Still, he got over it. One night, Buck knocked on my door, however. I opened it, and he grinned. He was holding his hat in his hands. "I'm here to see a man about a horse," he said. "Doesn't that mean you have to pee?" I said. "Maybe I'm here to see about a cow," he said. "I'm a cow?" "You're a pretty girl who happens to have a dingle. There are worse crimes." "Yes, there are." "Ouch. I didn't mean that. I just wanted to say I'm sorry for believing the worst of you." "Are you going to come in, or are you going to stand out there like a rube?" He entered the room. He looked down and kissed me. I hadn't been kissed for four years. Good thing men still had lips. I liked lips. He pushed me gently backward, until the backs of my knees hit the mattress of my bed. I sat down, and he clambered over me. "You know, it was the Chippewa Cree Indian tribe that brought the blowjob to North America," he said. "In 1794." "Is that true?" "I don't know. I just made it up, so it might be." "Well, let's renew the patent. Take off your pants, big boy." Turns out, there are some other tools to lovemaking that hadn't been declared obsolete in the time I was away. Lips still felt good on a man's shaft. The bulb still fit perfectly in one's mouth. The 'bob' was always a winning move. Men still liked it when you kissed their balls. This much I remembered. I loved giving blow jobs. I loved having a penis pump into my lips, to feel a man's hands on my head, to feel his grow inside my throat. For 20 minutes, I sucked Buck's cock. It slid and out of my throat like an old friend, like validation that life really did go on. He came, sweet and warm, into my mouth, and it was as if an angel had touched my tongue. We fell asleep that way, with my head in his lap, with his fingers twisted into my hair, with his boots still on his feet. It was my best morning-after in years. For once, I did not hear the screams. * * The next morning, I showed and got ready for work just like always. But when I went downstairs to make coffee, Miss Abby was already there, a cup in her hand. ?Any more secrets?? she asked. I giggled. ?Was Buck a set up?? ?Maybe a little. I thought you needed it. Men can be so convenient.? ?It was very nice. Buck?s very nice.? ?Oh, I know all about Buck. Did he take his boots off this time?? ?Um, no.? She burst out laughing. ?Fucking cowboys,? he said. I poured myself coffee. ?Can I sit before I start my chores?? I asked. ?Please.? I sat. I had a little more to say. ?I killed two people, Miss Abby. I ended their existence. I took away all their hopes and dreams. I still have nightmares about it.? ?I know.? ?I don?t think I?ll ever get over it.? Miss Abby was quiet for a moment. ?Maybe you?re not supposed to get over it,? she said. ?Maybe it was the price of your freedom. Maybe they call it a last chance because you were taking your last chance.? ?Would it have been that way if I didn?t dress up like a girl? If I was normal?? ?Of course it would have been. A cruel nature isn?t tied to the sexual games one plays. A submissive nature isn?t, either.? ?I guess not,? I said. She put her hand on mine. I looked at her. She smiled. ?LIzzy? When you were married, did you like sleeping with your wife?? She said. ?I did. She was very sweet in the beginning. We were kids. It didn?t get weird until later? ?Did you lick her pussy?? ?What?? ?Well, now that we have no secrets, tell me: did you lick her pussy?? ?Of course I did. It was very nice.? ?Lizzy .... will you lick mine? Will you be my sissy and put your tongue inside me?? I looked at her and smiled. She had been so good to me. How could I say no? She was pretty and warm and built like a women?s tennis player. Her hand was soft. I felt comforted. ?It?ll cost you a quarter,? I said. ?Us girls don?t work for free.? ?I?ll get a dollar. We?re going to be busy today.? ?Oh. Maybe I?ll lend you another dollar.? I moved over to her. She was taller than me. She was stronger, too. Thank God, because by the time the weekend was over, we broke the bank. Copyright (c) 2019 by Cassandra Morgan