|by Kerry Mahs|
|© Copyright 2011 - Kerry Mahs - Used by permission|
|Storycodes: MF; M/m; tv; cd; implants; bond; rope; gag; breast; oral; anal; sex; slave; true; cons; X||
|Kerry’s Pride Kerry Mahs MF; M/m; tv; cd; implants; bond; rope; gag; breast; oral; anal; sex; slave; true; cons; X|
There is a gay bar in town`, which proudly illuminates its "PRIDE" signs. It is billed as the town’s only “alternative restaurant and bar.” Here, everyone -- Gays and lesbians, transgender, and heterosexual cross dressers, or transvestites (or TVs, AKA trannies or T-gurls) -- is safe and welcome. There are no judgments about who or what you are. In fact, for many who continue to struggle with where they fit, or who they are, or why they are like they are, the bar is a sanctuary (and the food is good, too). It has an atmosphere of acceptance and understanding. And that is important, because it generally does more to help men and women like us figure out who we are, or who we are not, and this helps us immeasurably as we attempt to deal with our sexual identity. The bar does more than all the psychologists, psychiatrists and social workers combined whom we’ve all visited, and to whom we’ve all poured out our innermost feelings – not to mention our money.
And for what? I actually had one shrink who, after thousands of dollars, told me, as he stared at my boobs (great implants) thrusting up inside my sweater, threatening to pop the buttons, that it was okay to look like a girl, and could he feel my breasts. When he tried to get on top of me, I kneed him in the groin and left his office without paying my final bill.
That's why we flock to this place, this haven where we’re not considered misfit toys, as they say in the Rudolph movie, and not even misfit boys or girls. Here, we don’t have to worry or care.
I am a transvestite, not to be confused with a pre-op transvestite or transsexual. I am also heterosexual but with a decided penchant for things bi-sexual. I'm not a woman born in a man's body. I'm content with my public role as a man. I love women. I love to make love to women. However, I'm happier in my alter ego; a beautiful, desirable woman. But, even more -- and this is what distinguishes me as a transvestite rather than a transgendered person -- I love that I have the ability to switch back and forth when I want to.
It also has to do with breasts.
I love breasts.
For as long as I can remember I have been fascinated with breasts. I love to touch women's breasts, to feel their softness and fullness in my hands, their sweet nipples in my mouth.
And I have always wanted breasts. For years in my youth, I searched far and wide to find the perfect breasts. And when I found them, in my twenties I had silicone implants and became a modest 36C. They were lovely but the surgery was still new and the implants were hard. Still, I had boobs at last. It wasn’t until my mid forties that I had more surgery and went to my present voluptuous Ds. They’re salene, under the muscle, and they’re as soft as real breasts.
They're big. They have weight. They jiggle appropriately. My nipples are sensitive and reactive, and I can pose topless. The highest compliment for me is when other women who know I am a TV have asked me when I had my surgery. I love to engage in conversations with other women about our breasts.
And I love the word.
I love bras, too.
When I was very young, I used to make bras out of my undershirts and put baseballs, or toilet paper rolled up in socks in the cups. I was nine when I started sneaking my mother's bras out of the laundry, and stealing bras from neighbors’ clotheslines (clotheslines! I’m dating myself, I know), and as I grew older I became more sophisticated in how I stole bras and other lingerie.
And I love the word.
I don't like the word brassier, though. It's stilted and so archaic sounding. "She felt her full breasts drop as they came out of the cups of her brassier.”
Shish! That first part was okay, but…brassier?
My three favorite words in the English language are breasts, bras, and bondage. I love the feeling I get when I put on a bra, slipping my arms through the straps, reaching behind me in a way that makes my breasts stick out as I slip the hooks into the eyelets. I love the way my breasts jiggle and the way my shoulders feel and my back as the elastic in the straps expands and contracts when I walk. I don’t mind the weight, rarely have back aches, and I love being groped and fondled – by men or women. And I love the feel of rope wrapped tightly around my arms and body, restraining me, so I can’t move. I love being submissive, vulnerable and helpless.
I am stimulated by being taken as a woman and being attractive to men and being able to play the role to perfection, with all the subtle nuances and body language… the soft moans of ecstasy, the passion … right up to sex and fake orgasms, and some not so fake. And, even then, when some have learned the truth, they have taken me anyway (a straight man I knew in Oregon bought me at a slave auction at a Halloween party I’d gone to as Elvira, assuming I was actually a woman. However, once he found out what he had bought after feeling the goods and discovering I was a TV, he decided to keep me, anyway. But that's another story).
There have been some bad experiences; I’ve been raped twice, once by two cops on an expressway in Brooklyn. They pulled me over for speeding, I was in full makeup, wearing a black chiffon cocktail dress and sling strap stilettos (I was also pretty drunk) so, rather than give me a ticket, they handcuffed me and raped me in the back of their patrol car. They took turns sodomizing me and fucking me. And once by a former master from whom I’d just bought my freedom, and that, too is another story.
I’ve been harassed by rednecks, and told never to come back to some stores. I've been bound, gagged, chained, kept in a dungeon cell, and bought and sold a couple of times. The slavery is not all bad or all good, but it’s always risky and requires an enormous amount of trust.
I've been in towns where cross dressing or any other alternative lifestyle is decidedly hazardous. I do not recommend Denver, one of the most conservative cities in the country. I once walked up the Sixteenth Street Mall alone at night, fully dressed and obviously feminine, and have never felt so vulnerable. It was December. It was cold. There were other people on the mall, going about their business, trying to stay warm, so it may have been my paranoia, but everybody seemed to be staring at me. I assumed that when someone gave me more than a cursory glance it was because they knew I was a transvestite. But, since I pass virtually always as a woman when I’m dressed, I also assumed that they were looking at me because they saw an attractive woman… alone, fair game, easy prey. Either way, I was pretty close to terrified.
That notwithstanding, as I said, I'm quite comfortable in both my roles, even though it's a challenge to keep them separate -- and when I'm in the embrace of the bar, I know, at least for awhile, I can be all woman. I do not have to cover up, or sneak around for fear of being outed, and I always use the Ladies room.
At the bar, my name is Kerry, and I am addressed, always, as Kerry, as a woman. Even when I stop by for lunch wearing regular male street clothes, sometimes with a bra and full breasts, or without (not much I can do about them, though, with or without they’re visible and, much as I hate to, during the work day, I strap them down), Holly, the owner, an honest-to-god real gorgeous woman who is openly proud of her surgically enhanced, incredible 36DDs (and, like mine, you cannot tell they're implants) greets me by name, Dannie, with a killer 32D+ (implants, too), which she brazenly flaunts, calls me "sweetie" or "babe," or "doll", or sometimes, when she’s feeling a little more raunchy than normal, she calls me “Tits.” “Hey Tits, how’re they hangin’?” And Morgan, the beautiful, very slender, new lesbian bartender who works on Mondays and Fridays, who has long red hair and wonderful natural big boobs (which I'd sell my soul to have), calls out, "hey girl friend!" She tells me she's only just come out. She’s dating another girl, but tells me she still has feelings for her former boyfriend, and they’re sexual (I think she's more bi- than lesbian. However, what ever way she goes she is a thrilling looking girl), so she says It’s good to have a girlfriend whose a guy who she knows would love to feel her up and loves to have her/him feel her up. It’s confusing as hell, she says, but it is helping because she can still think of me as a guy, but a guy who's also a gorgeous girl with big tits. It’s the bar, stupid.
This is really parenthetical, but it's too long an aside to bracket. I had to fly home a few weeks ago and forgot my makeup kit. So I went to the nearest mall and found Bridgett and Shannon -- two makeup technicians at Macy's -- and while they did my makeup they referred to me as "she" even though, in spite of the boobs I looked male. I told them about the time I had impersonated Jane Russell in a scene from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and how Miss Russell told me I was the best Jane Russell she had ever seen, except that my boobs weren't big enough. The girls laughed when I said, somewhat resentfully, that I was a D cup, and Shannon said, laughing, "Yeah, I was noticing your boobs. I'd kill to have 'em that big." And she was no slouch in the boob department, either and I told her so. As a result, I left feeling prettier and bustier than I had all day. And I strode proudly through the mall out to my car.
And when I come in to the bar in the evening, fully transformed -- en femme, as they say -- Morgan and I act like lovers: we embrace and kiss and have a mutual thrill when our breasts touch.
The guys and gals, too, gay and bi, treat me and the other trannies as women. We hug, we kiss, and we all dance with each other. It doesn’t matter who. We just all dance with everybody. Some we let feel us up, others we don't. I went in one night a few years ago, when I was first coming out here, and there were three young women playing pool. Two of them disappeared, leaving the third one – Jennifer – alone, still playing pool. I strolled over to watch. She was petite, brunette, and was wearing a tight striped tee that showed off her lovely little breasts. I asked her if she was playing alone and she smiled. But before she could respond, the other two came back and Laura, who seemed to be the leader, said abruptly, "No, she's not alone," and strode over to the pool table and picked up her cue. Lisa, the other girl, went with Laura and they started a game.
Jennifer came over to me and we started talking. I don't remember much about the first part of the conversation, other than introducing ourselves, but then I made the observation that I had the biggest tits in the room, and Jennifer agreed. "I'm so jealous," she said smiling. And then she copped a feel!
Oh wow! I loved it!
As I said, I love making out and being groped, but I have to like the guy or girl whose feeling me up, and I still prefer the girls. But, I have to admit, I’ve let both women and men take me to bed.
"But, Kerry," you say, "you’ve just said you're not gay. How can you have sex with another man, and enjoy it if you're not queer?" I do enjoy it, for two reasons: first, as I’ve already admitted, I’m probably bi-sexual. And moreover, I have sex with men, only when I am a woman. When I am a woman, with unfettered breasts, and a vagina – prosthetic but a vagina – my whole psyche changes. I convert completely, and I am, in my mind and heart, a woman. My male persona is gone, and my voice goes up a few octaves (that has to do with the hormones I take, and that’s still another story). My frontal lobe or rear lobe, whatever it is, makes me act like a woman, right down to the soles of my stilettos.
In my lifetime as a male, I have had a few homosexual encounters, and they have left me cold. I didn't find it offensive. It just does not interest me, or arouse me if I am not dressed as a woman. Secondly -- and here's a bit of a paradox -- when I have sex with a man, the thrill for me is making the man think I’ve had an orgasm. It's the thrill of playing a part so convincingly that the man making love to me thinks it's real. And I get a tremendous rush when a guy comes in my mouth (and I have been told I give very good head), or I can feel his juices shooting into the rubber deep inside me. When I get home, I relive the experience while masturbating, and then I have a screaming orgasm. I also come furiously when, as a woman, or straight, I have sex with another woman…go figure.
As a teenager, when I first started masturbating, in my fantasies – my stories – I was always the girl or woman and generally I was tied up. I don't know where that came from because I did not see my first bondage magazine until I was a teenager, and then it was a photograph on a True Crime magazine cover with a nurse in her slip tightly bound and gagged with some guy standing over her with a knife. Wow! She was so terrified, so beautiful, so vulnerable. Her legs were frog tied, and then wrapped with rope, and she was hogtied! I wanted so desperately to have someone tie me up like that. So I can thank those true crime magazines I read so surreptitiously in the barber shop or the drug store for introducing me to the idea of being beautiful, busty, bound and gagged.
I would take different girl's names and create a fantasy image of myself, beautiful, young, and vulnerable, with big tits, blue eyes, and long, dark hair down to my slender but shapely butt.
I also was every girl and woman with whom I was infatuated. Miss Whalen, my sixth grade teacher who had an incredible set, and Mrs. Ray, my high school history teacher, who had killer legs and tight little tits that she let me feel once. And there were all those girls in high school and college, too numerous to mention, but I was all of them at one time or another. I had a rich imagination, and an incredible collection of purloined bras.
Now, as a grown woman/she/male, I shop openly for bras and panties at Frederick's and Victoria's Secret. I've only run into one Frederick's where they would not let me try on bras. But, then again, one night at my favorite Frederick's the girls and I stood around feeling each others' breasts, and trying to figure out who was wearing a water bra and who wasn't. Turns out Shelly with a pair of 34DDs was not. "They don't make 'em in my size," she said modestly, as we all stared longingly at her wonderful tits, which she let us feel. In fact, while the other girls stood guard, I took Shelly in back where she took off her top and bra and let me feel her up and suck her nipples, and then we fucked. She even let me tie her hands behind her back with her bra. There're so many advantages to being a TV.
One night, not too long ago, Dannie came over to my table with my gin and tonic. She's the manager, straight, and built like a …well, you know. She has gorgeous 32Ds, as I've already said, and their beauty and perfection bear a lot of discussion and admiration. She has a beautiful little ass, hair down to the middle of her back, and four-inch fingernails. Although she talks like a truck driver, she is wholly feminine, and was totally flattered when I told her I, at one time would have sold my soul to look like her and have boobs like hers. She reminded me I did and reminded me that I’d also told her about when I’d gotten my new, bigger tits, and she reminded me also that she had asked if she could feel them, and I had said if I could feel hers. And we did it; we felt each other up. We felt pretty much the same. Then we went in the back room and she let me eat her and fuck her. But that was back a couple of years. We still feel each other up every once in awhile, and I eat her and we fuck each other with strap ons.
"Honey, you are looking hot tonight," she said, looking me over appraisingly. I had on an off white cable v-neck sweater, which clung, nicely to my breasts and revealed a fair bit of cleavage, dark brown skirt, off white tights, and brown leather knee-high boots. Cyndi, another friend, had done my hair and makeup that afternoon (I am able to do my own hair and makeup, but like any girl I love to be pampered). My hair was long and dark and hung halfway to my waist. By the way, it is my real hair (for my day job, a professor of anthropology, I wear it brushed severely back and in a tight bun (my students think of me as either an Indian or Indian wannabe. I’m actually half Athabascan, so I get away with the ponytail and pierced ears). My lipstick was a soft, moist rose quartz. Dannie said my lips begged to be kissed. So, we kissed, and she slipped me a little tongue and I pinched her nipple.
“Bitch,” she said with a grin.
“Slut,” I replied, and squeezed her whole tit.
She put my drink down in front of me and said, gesturing toward the bar with a toss of her ponytail, "the guy at the bar wants to know if you'd let him buy you a drink."
I looked over at him. He was watching us through the mirror on the back bar; good-looking guy, neat appearance, seemed to be tall, about my age. "Do you know him?" I asked. I can always count on Dannie to watch out for me.
"Yeah," she said, "he's cool. And bi." She winked at me. "You might even get him to tie you up."
"Oooh," I said. My pulse quickened. "You think?"
"Could be," she said. "He used to do Colleen," a trannie who was a regular at Holly's other bar. And he asked me once if he could do me, you know, tie me up, and stuff. But I just let him fuck me."
Dannie doesn't like to be tied up. She told me she was tied up, kidnapped and raped when she was a teenager. Since then she's had some severe issues with trust and claustrophobia, but she knows I'm into it. Knows about my website and my master and all our adventures and she did let us tie her up once for a shoot. She and I were tied up together, but she sort of freaked when the master gagged her and blindfolded her. Being hog tied and unable to see or speak, she later said, was just too freaky for her. And we haven't done it since.
Dannie went back to the bar and told him I was cool and would let him buy me a drink. He looked appraisingly over at me and I smiled at him and leaned back in the seat, throwing my shoulders back, showing him my breasts. Soon he was sitting across from me in the booth.
I nodded. "Hi."
"I'm Dean," he said and extended his hand across the table. I took it daintily.
We sat quietly, sipping our drinks, smiling at each other and averting our eyes. Mine went to spots on the table; his went to my bust. The tension was clear and building, but there was nothing I, as a woman could do to break it, or want to. I couldn't think of a thing to say.
Finally, he said, "You are beautiful and you have magnificent breasts."
That was direct.
"Well, thank you," I said, surprised at his bluntness, and delighted.
"Are they real?"
"You get right to the point." I stared at him, piercingly, I hoped, and challenging. "What do you think?"
"They look real. How do they feel?"
“Wonderful. I love how they feel."
"You just said that." I was flirting madly.
"It bears repeating."
More silence. He stared at my boobs. "How big are you?"
"That's all? They look bigger, closer to double Ds."
I looked down at them, and said, "It’s the bra.” But it’s enough."
"May I feel them?"
Again my pulse quickened. I love this; leading men on, seducing them. I feigned surprise. "But we've only just met!" I really wanted him to feel me up and do other things to me, but I could not succumb this easily. I had to play hard-to-get, and play it for all it was worth, right up to when he ultimately got into my pants, which, I knew, was pretty much a far gone conclusion.
"I know," he said, almost pleading (I loved that, too). So how long do I have to wait?"
I laughed heartily and could feel my breasts jiggling, and watched his eyes hungrily devour my big tits. "Oh," I paused for dramatic effect, and then said off-handedly, "another minute or two." He pointedly looked at his watch, accepting my challenge, and counted off a full minute.
"Now?" he said, looking up from his watch.
"If it pleasures you," I said averting my eyes demurely, and sitting up straight. I got that expression -- "if it pleasures you" -- from Bonnie, a woman I knew in Oregon whom I came out to. I got her to tie me up after a couple of bottles of wine (I'd gone upstairs and put on a bra and tight shorts and a very feminine tee) and she, though nervous, felt me up in such a way that I thought I'd come right there. I kept trying to kiss her big breasts, which she later told me were 40Ds, through her heavy sweater and I finally asked her to untie me. Then I asked her if I could kiss her breasts and she said "if it pleasures you. (I love that expression)."
I expected Dean to just reach across the table and cop a quick feel from where he was sitting (frankly, I would have been sorely disappointed if that’s all he did, and I’d have probably thrown my drink in his face and gone over and offered to fuck Danni). But he got up and moved to my side of the table. He put his arm across the back of the seat. His left hand was on my shoulder and he pulled me closer so I was leaning against him. He gently touched and squeezed first my right breast under my arm and then , dropping his hand from my shoulder, onto my left breast.. His right hand cradled my right breast from underneath my arm. He squeezed them both hard enough that I felt the pressure and I arched my back so I could feel the full force as I thrust them into his hands. Then I became perfectly still, poised, with my hands folded on the table; my head tilted at an angle, my eyes closed.
Submissive. My lips were parted slightly as I leaned my head toward him. He continued to knead my breasts and play with my hard nipples. "I love these," he said.
"Mmmm, me too," I languidly replied.
"You should," he said. "They're beautiful."
"Thank you." I felt so warm and comfortable. It was like I was in a dream state and I was floating in a cradle made of his arms around me, his hands lovingly fondling my breasts.
Our heads touched and moved together, feeling the touch of flesh on flesh, mine smooth and soft against his cheek, his slightly rough, masculine, scratching my cheek, like fine sandpaper on soft wood. He tilted my chin up and kissed me as his other hand stayed closed around my right breast.
As the kiss lingered, his hand dropped to my thigh and began to explore under the hem of my skirt. Suddenly needing to regain control, I broke out of my reverie and pulled away.
"Do you play pool?" I asked as I took his hand from my thigh and held it.
"Well, yeah," he said, "but I'd rather sit here and feel you up."
"Yeah, me, too, but I think we need to cool off just a bit, okay?" My heart was pounding and I was shaky. I kissed him quickly and pushed him out of the booth. He took my hand as we moved back to the poolroom. In my boots with five inch stiletto heels I was almost as tall as he.
I made the first break and I could feel his eyes on me as I leaned over the table. I let my hair hang over my shoulder so it partially obscured my cleavage, and peered at him around my flowing locks as I sank my first three shots. He was positioned where he could see down the front of my sweater, and each time I leaned over, I leaned over slowly so he could see everything I had to show, and I felt his gaze hotly on me, it was almost palpable. I liked that.
"Damn, Kerry," he said, "you're good. When do I get a chance?"
Boy, I thought, was that ever full of double entendre'. I giggled as I leaned over the table again.
Purposely I missed my next shot – there were other things I wanted to do and it didn’t include pool all night – and he came over and stood next to me as he surveyed the table. I stood close to him and he rested his hand on my butt. He made his shot, and his next shot, and then it was my turn again, and I practically ran the table, with five balls in a row. Again, we stood together while he figured his next shot. He put his arm around me and I put my arm around his waist and pressed my breast against his side. He rubbed my back and massaged the place where my bra strap crosses. I could tell he was checking to see where my bra hooked -- front or back.
He won that game, and I took the next two. One shot he was standing behind me and I was leaning back against him. I said "three in the corner," and leaned over to take aim. He stayed where he was with his hands resting lightly on my hips and I felt his erection against my crack. Instinctively I pressed into him at the same time he pulled me against him. The pressure of hands on my hips and his hard cock, made me miss my shot. "Oh damn, look what you made me do."
He grinned and took me in his arms. There were some other customers who wanted to use the pool table, so we hung up our sticks and sat down at a table near the pool table. His hand was, once again, working its way up under my skirt, and this time I let him. He leaned over and whispered in my ear, "you wanna' get laid?"
I kissed him and said through our lips as I nibbled on his lower lip, "Where?"
"My RV. It's right outside."
"Golly," I girlishly said, "you travel with your own fuck truck?" I could feel my heart beginning to pound.
"Always," he said. "Can never tell when I'm going to run into a beautiful little TV slut like you.” I lowered my eyes and acknowledged his “compliment” with a small smile. “So, what d'ya think? Can I take you to bed?"
Oh my God, I thought, no man has ever said that to me.
They’ve never asked… they’ve just taken me. I nodded yes.
"Would you let me tie you up?" he asked as his hand explored under my skirt all the way to my crotch.
I swallowed, trying to get some saliva going in my mouth, and said, "I'd love it."
Just then Dannie appeared at our sides and asked Dean if she could get us anything.
"Some rope?" he asked. Obviously Dannie had briefed him.
"Comin' up," she said and grinned at me. As you can see, pretty much anything goes at the bar. To Dean she said, “behave yourself, she's our best girl."
The room was filling up when Dannie returned with a length of rope and others around knew what was going on and watched surreptitiously as Danny handed Dean the rope and asked if he needed more. He said that this was enough for now; he had more in the RV. Again, my pulse quickened, almost skipped a beat when I heard that.
I scooted forward in the chair and put my arms behind my back. Dean quickly and efficiently tied my hands tightly together, palms in and cinched them.
"Too tight?" he asked. I wriggled my wrists, the rope was soft and deliciously tight but I could feel my wrists, and said that was fine. The way he tied my hands, palms in like that, forced my shoulders back and my boobs outward.
He lifted me to my feet and amidst a few calls of encouragement to both of us; Dean led me out the back door, across the dark parking lot and into his RV.
I stood inside the RV waiting for Dean to lock the door and start to do whatever he was planning to do to me. He put his arms around me from behind and took my breasts in his hands. I raised my bound wrists until I could feel his cock. It was long, thick and hard and throbbing through his jeans.
"MM." I said, "You’re enormous."
His hand dropped to my crotch and he dug his fingers in. "What do we have here?" he asked.
"A full service vagina," I gasped rather than said. It's not that much of an act, you see; I get such pleasure out of doing this.
"What's it made of?"
"I can get inside you and it won't come off?"
"No it won't, and yes, you can," I moaned.
“But then I can’t suck your cock?” he questioned.
“You can,” I breathlessly replied, “but I’d rather you didn’t...”
“So, you play the female role all the way?” I nodded my head.
“I’d rather suck yours.”
“Fair enough, Pussy,” he murmured into my hair.
Dean then pulled my sweater up and unhooked my front closure bra. "I figured that out when I touched your back," he said through a chuckle. He tucked the cups under my arms and squeezed my naked breasts. "Damn," he marveled, "these are fantastic. They're so real!”
"Because they are! Ho!" His hands on me were driving me wild.
“Yes way!” I groaned. He squeezed them hard and pushed them together, and pushed them up.
“See?” I cried, frantic. He pulled my sweater up over my head and left it across my shoulders, and pulled my hair free. "I don't want to take the time to untie you, if I don't have to," He said urgently. "But I do need to do some further tying here." He picked up another length of rope and bound my elbows together. I gasped with surprise as I felt and saw my breasts thrust even further outward. He turned me around and felt my breasts again and tweaked my nipples, which hardened immediately. My nipples are my most erogenous zone. And then he took one in his mouth. "Shit, that is so real! I half expected you to be lactating."
We laughed and kissed again, deeply, our tongues hungrily dancing inside each other's mouths. He was working on my skirt and it was soon on the floor and then he sat me down to take my boots off and then my tights and panties. He explored my vagina, which I had earlier lubricated with some great stuff I buy from a local sex shop, and he slipped his fingers between the very soft and inviting lips.
As we moved down the short corridor to the bedroom in the rear, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the full-length mirror. It almost made me come. Every once in awhile there is an instant when everything comes together and I see, as I look in a mirror, the image of a beautiful naked woman looking back at me. This was one of them.
He sat down on the edge of the bed. "So, two questions: do you like dirty talk?" I nodded. "Second question, and probably the most critical, is what will you let me do to you?" I arched my back to feel the rope tighten on my arms as he continued squeezing and kneading my breasts.
"You can do to me whatever you want to…" He looked hungrily at me, and I could see his mind turning over an erotic number of scenarios. "…and if I think we're getting into some stuff I'm not comfortable with, I'll let you know."
"Fair enough," he replied, his eyes still devouring me. "Do you have a safety word?"
I nodded. "Horse."
"Okay. Why horse?"
"Because I can say it through a gag."
"Whoa!" he exclaimed admiringly, "You like being gagged?" he asked as he gently pulled me to my knees in front of him. I knew what was coming next.
"I do," I said.
"Good, because I think you'd look beautiful gagged."
"But then I can't suck your cock," I sweetly protested.
"After, then." He undid his jeans and pulled out his enormous cock and moved forward to the edge of the bed and took my head in his hands…"But now, suck on this, bitch."
He took his cock in one hand, forced my head down and pressed it against my yielding lips. I opened my mouth and swallowed him. "Oh my God!" he cried out as I sucked him in and out, and licked his shaft and the head and then deep throated him again. He grabbed my breasts and rubbed them frantically. "Oh you fucking little whore!" he cried out. "Slut! Cunt!"
Then he pulled me up so he could wrap my boobs around his cock. “Here, bitch,” he cried, “fuck my cock with your tits!” Then he forced my head down on him again, and as I sucked him in, to the back of my throat, I tasted his hot cum filling my mouth and shooting down my throat. And I felt myself getting wet.
"Oh Jesus!" he cried.
Spent, he leaned back, but he was still hard. And I continued to kiss, suck, and lick his hardness.
After awhile he pulled me up onto the bed. "Do I have to use a rubber when I fuck you, you little slut?"
"No," I demurely said as I French kissed his thigh, "I just swallowed your cum, didn't I? Besides, I don't do this that often, and I test regularly. Do you?" He nodded, and I could tell from the clear look in his eye that he was telling the truth.
"Okay, whore, get up here." He pulled me up on the bed and made me lie flat on my tightly bound arms and wrists. "Spread your legs, so I can see your cunt," he ordered. He frog-tied my legs – ankles to thighs to wrists (I'd never been tied like that before). "Tell me what you want, slut," he ordered as he made sure my legs were wide apart and tightly tied. "What do you want me to do to you?"
"Fuck me, please," I cried.
"Where, sweet pussy? In your cunt, in your ass?"
"Yes, Master," I cried, "fuck me in my cunt and in my ass!"
"Very well, Kerry the cunt with the great tits and sweet pussy. I will now fuck your brains out."
Then he rolled up my thong in a tight little ball and forced it into my mouth, and then cleave gagged me with a scarf. "How's that feel slut, okay?"
"Mmmmph," was all I could get out.
"Little scared?" he asked as he rubbed my breasts.
"Uh huh," I replied through my gag. Actually I was a lot scared but not ready to say horse.
"Well, a little scared is good," he matter-of-factly said, "It makes it more exciting, you fucking little whore bitch." His hand was again between my legs and I moaned appropriately as he kneaded me.
He kissed and licked me from head to toe, my shoulders, my arms, my chest, my breasts, my belly, my cunt; all the way down to my ankles and back up leaving deliciously painful hickeys on my inner thighs. "You are so smooth," he said as he stroked my thighs. “One smooth little slut,” he said pensively.
And then he entered me. I could feel his fullness between my thighs and inside me where I was moist and moving around his shaft. He fucked me at first slowly and rhythmically moving in and out. I gasped and cried as he reached the soft lips of my pussy, and started in again. I struggled to get my legs, tightly bound as they were around him, and strained against the tight ropes on my wrists and upper arms. It seemed the more I struggled the tighter they became. I kissed him frantically through my gag. And when he came, I cried out through my gag and arched my back, raising myself as much as I could on my bound arms and wrists, thrusting myself against him, trying to hold him inside me.
"Oh you fucking cunt!" he cried out as I felt his hot stream shoot into me.
He lay on top of me, exhausted, but still hard, and then, as I felt his penis softening, he pulled out of me and gently removed my gag and thong, and kissed me sweetly and I kissed him back. "Kerry, he said, quietly as he stroked my breasts and pinched my nipples. "You are, without a doubt, the very best piece of ass – man or woman – I have ever had."
"Thank you, sweetheart," I said and kissed him. "You were fantastic, too, and the way we both came, if it were possible, I'd bet you knocked me up." We chuckled quietly at the image.
"You're welcome. Now, do you have to be anywhere else tonight?"
"Not until much later," I replied. " What did you have in mind?"
"I would love to take some pictures of you all nice and tied up."
"All right," I said, "like this? Tied up and naked?"
"Yeah, and maybe some other, more inventive things."
“Ever had your tits tied?” I had and I loved it.
"Cool," I sensuously cooed.
And so Dean got some more rope and tightly tied my tits until they were cold and I could see them turning blue, and for the next couple of hours, Dean took pictures, still and video, of me, tied spread eagle to the bed, and then again with my legs spread and my arms tied behind me. He hog-tied me completely naked and videoed me struggling to get free. He put clamps on my nipples and forced me to hold the string between the clamps in my mouth (my tits were still tied, too) and then he tied me up with my thong on and my boots. We fucked a few more times, once with me frog tied again -- my ankles tied to my thighs -- with him on top, and then with me on top. He videotaped that and we looked at it later and it was incredible. With my hands and arms tied behind my back, my back arched, my tightly tied breasts out thrust seeming to undulate as I rolled my hips around his cock, it was another one of those incredible moments.
“You know,” he said, as we looked at the images of my nakedness,” you look like Emmy Lou Harris with big tits.
I smiled to myself and nuzzled his bare chest. “But my hair is much lighter,” I replied sleepily. Then I asked him if I could give him another blow job.
It was around midnight when he took me back into the bar. My hands were still tied, although he had untied my arms and my breasts when I told him they were beginning to hurt, and he had taken my bra, thong and tights as souvenirs. My lipstick was gone and my hair was a mess. But Dannie appraised my appearance and said, "Looks like you had a good time."
"We did," Dean and I said in duet. I leaned against him and he stroked my shoulder and held me close.
"Dannie, you were right," he said, "Miss Kerry Doll is the best I've ever had."
"Really?" Dannie delightedly said.
"Absolutely," Dean replied. "Well as good as you were," he corrected himself. “Except Kerry, of course, let me tie her up.”
"Glad you added that," Dannie sardonically said, but with a grin. "This is one trannie I'm honored to be compared to."
"Well, thank you, Dannie," I said. "It's an honor to be compared to you."
"You should know, sweetie," she retorted. "You've fucked and eaten me enough. And I've gone down on you enough times."
Dean looked surprised. "You and Kerry have fucked?"
"You bet," Dannie said. I nodded in agreement, and she added, "And I've strapped a big one on and dildoe fucked her, too."
Dean squeezed my breast and kissed me. " Wow," he said, "I'd love to see that sometime. But now I have to let her go," he reluctantly said and began untying me. "Are either of you for sale?" he asked as an after thought.
Dannie asked, "As in slavery?"
"As in slavery," Dean replied.
Dannie paused for a moment and looked at me, making a decision. "She is, I'm not," Dannie said.
Dean stopped untying me. He looked at Dannie, the ends of the rope poised in his hands still tight around my wrists. He looked at me. My expression was neutral. "You are?" he asked me. I nodded.
"How much?" he asked.
"You'll have to ask my owner," I said shaking my head.
"Oh baby, I'd love to buy you. How do I get hold of your owner?"
"I'll tell him you're interested, and he'll leave a price with Dannie, that okay?" I looked at Dannie for confirmation, and she nodded.
"Sure," she said.
"Well, can you give me a ball park?" Dean asked.
I shrugged my shoulders and said, "He paid $12,000 for me."
"Damn," Dean said, "that's a lot of money."
"And she's worth every fucking penny of it," Dannie said. "You said so yourself," she reminded Dean.
"I did, didn't I?"
"Yep." Dannie said. They were both talking about me like a piece of property, which in this case I was.
"Well," he said to me, "ask him how much he wants and we'll go from there."
My master wanted $35,000 for me, which was too rich for Dean's blood. But my master has since sold me at the price he wanted and he's moved back to Oregon. With my work situation what it is, it was not practical for me to move, so he sold me to Holly and Dannie. And now I work occasionally at the bar. Dean comes in every once in awhile and does me, and pays Holly and Dannie, so I guess now I’m a TV prostitute. It's a nice life.
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