The Baroque Majesty of the Tortured She-Male
(Smashwords Edition)
by Blake Ryder
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© 2011 Transgressor
cover © Nikmerkulov | Dreamstime
The Baroque Majesty of the Tortured She-Male
The she-male sat on the mat.
Naked. Feline. Felicitous. She was a sight too beautiful to behold, smooth, hairless and pale white skin, unmistakably female breasts with tender pink nipples and the sweetest male bulge from between his thin but shapely legs. Cute little indented navel.
She. He.
She was pretty, pretty enough so that he could fool anyone into looking twice at him, at least. She was an exemplary specimen of her ilk: a prize to whichever Church of divine conversion could claim her. He was enough to tempt any real man into questioning her sexuality. And that, as the Church knew all too well, made her dangerous indeed.
She was an ambiguous, tantalizing prospect: the forbidden fuck, harlot with a cock. Which way would he take it? Would she suck on it until every last drop of cum had been extracted from him or would he bend over and offer his ass for the satisfaction of a willing thick cock. She had a crucifix tattooed on his cock. Gothic. She had an ankh tattooed on her ankle. He had a teardrop tattooed under the corner of his eye, inside by the start of his cute pointed nose. He was ready for whatever havoc she decided to wreak and she was ready for whatever takers he could solicit.
She leant towards the anonymous naked man and grinned, supporting her way slightly forward onto her elongated arm, it bending in slightly at the elbow. She seemed to purr as he rose onto her knees and reached for the man’s cock with one hand, the other busy massaging her own penis. He leant forward and took the erect cock in her mouth. She sucked it in and let the cock slide along her tongue to the back of her throat before letting it slide back out as her lips glided along the cock’s circumference to the tip and he wrapped his tongue around it lustfully.
She. He.
It was all tastes for this night’s fantasy. All tastes and therefore no accounting.
The television set turned immediately to static, the image gone. Steven stared into the static, trying to make something out of nothing. He wanted to see what the she-male did with the man’s cock. Whether the man put it in his ass or came in her mouth. How much semen the man ejaculated, what texture was the cum on her lips or his sphincter? These were questions that Steven needed to have answered.
Steven grumbled. He put down his beer bottle onto the coffee table and got up from the couch and walked up to the TV set and tapped the side of it. Still no clearer picture. Damned in-house pornography, he thought. He grunted to himself and walked off, leaving the static on. He stood up, aware of the constant pain in his lower back. He walked to the adjoining dining room and a table on which rested a bottle of pills. He took the bottle and opened it, holding it upside down and tapping on his palm until not only one but a second pill came out. He brought them to his mouth and swallowed them, washing them down with some fine 12 year old Scotch. He wiped his lips with his hand. He grabbed his wrist-watch, put it on and reached for his trench-coat. He left the apartment abruptly, making sure that it was locked.