Best S&M, Volume 3 (9 page)

A few awkward moments later, he stood with the rest of the “boys,” glad for the full flask in his purse. The announcer for the event, a skinny, balding man who made ghastly jokes and laughed a lot, introduced the gender benders. They were Miss Cancer contestants, the bad presenter explained, and they had one hour to tear through Trapper collecting money for the cancer research. After one hour, they were to report back to the event and hand over their cash. The dude/chick with the most capital won a trophy.

“Damn if you ain’t fine looking, Hondo,” said a voice next to him.

His comrade and fellow Mountain Man, Twiddy, clad in drag, smiled at him. Despite the fact that two of his front teeth were mislaid and another tooth was only half there, the man had no problem with his version of a “winning” smile. Twiddy wore no makeup on his face, though he did wear a black wig with a floral sun bonnet over it. He also wore a blue sequined dress wrenched over his jeans and white T-shirt. “You sure went all out,” he continued. “How you liking those hose?”

The smile on Twiddy’s face seemed bizarre to Hondo. His eyes held more than a straightforward question about his nylons. Suddenly it dawned on him.
Twiddy knows what it feels
like
. He had worn hose before, though he certainly did not have any on now. He also seemed to know what Hondo was thinking.

The way they squeezed his skin, from his inner thighs down to his ankles, felt like the soft caress of a sweet woman. Twiddy knew Hondo kind of liked that feeling. Somehow he knew.

“They’re okay.” Hondo glared out over the sea of faces in the audience. He could feel beads of sweat on his forehead. Twiddy spoke in a conspirational tone.

“I got woman’s underwear on right now, buddy. Ain’t nothing to be worried about.”

At that moment the announcer concluded his horrific preamble to the evening’s festivities. The party of men dressed in women’s clothing stumbled off the stage. Hondo made his way to the front of the crowd. A number of “drivers” waited to take the group around town. He ended up with a young woman from Phoenix named Tyra. She explained that her mother, from Trapper, got cancer and died a year ago.

“Where do I sit?” Hondo reached into his purse for his smokes. He slid one into his mouth and lit it as Tyra opened the passenger door of her black Hyundai.

“My mom died from lung cancer,” she said, “but if you want to smoke, go ahead.”

“Thanks.”

Hondo considered telling her about his own father who kicked the bucket thanks to cancer less than six months ago. Instead, he reached into his purse for his flask. He became aware of the woman staring at him. His dress hitched up nearly around his waste when he climbed into the car. He sat “man-style” and neglected to notice that his white briefs were exposed.

“So what’s your name?” Tyra averted her eyes and focused on the road ahead. Hondo introduced himself as he tipped the flask into his mouth. He smoothed his skirt and told her about his gas station and wife, who undoubtedly still had a smirk on her face as she passed the time back at the cancer event.

“Sounds like a good little life you’ve got here.” Tyra smiled at him. “You going to share that flask or not?”

Hondo handed it over as they reached the first location. He tried to smooth out his bulge as they headed into the rodeo barn, though the harder he tried to hide, the bigger it seemed to get. A number of RVs and tents encircled the old historic rodeo building. A biker group had chartered the whole place out for the weekend in order to hold a minor rally. Mouths hung open as Tyra and Hondo went into the place. While exposed breasts, wet T-shirts, and keg races were fairly conventional fare for this particular organization, a man dressed in drag crossed a big line. The two entered the barn area, where a number of people sat around with beers, all wearing some form of leather or another.

A number of them, burly guys in black leather coats with steely eyes, got up from their seats to surround the couple. Hondo’s muscles tensed. He positioned himself in front of the young woman that accompanied him. She would have none of that.

“Wait, wait, wait,” she cried, marching out from behind the big Mountain Man’s feminine shadow. “We’re here to raise money for cancer! We’re part of the cancer group! Guys dress in women’s clothing and raise money for cancer!”

“Cancer?” A woman stood up from one of the tables. She appeared to be in her forties and wore tight blue jeans and a skimpy white leather corset with a tight black choker around her neck. “I’ve heard of this. It’s kind of like a contest, right?”

The men stepped aside as the woman drew closer to marvel at Hondo.

“That’s right.” Tyra looked around at the bikers. She barely seemed troubled at all. “Does anyone want to contribute to the cause?”

Hondo watched in horrified silence as the crowd assembled to gape at him. They chattered like little girls about how charming he looked, how the black hose made his legs hot, how regrettable that his boobs were not genuine, and so on. Aside from revulsion, he could feel something else as well. He thought about what Twiddy said.
How you liking those hose
?

In the glow of the rodeo barn, Hondo got a better look at his driver as she amassed money from the bikers, who promptly warmed up to the sight of a man in drag. Tyra appeared to be in her twenties, with jet-black hair and blue eyes. She was as narrow as a toothpick and wore a black miniskirt that showed a lot of ivory skin and a white button-up shirt with the sleeves spooled up to her elbows. The outfit looked semi-male and semi-female.

It turned out most of the bikers were lawyers from southern Arizona. It made sense to Hondo, who had no funds for a bike himself. There were a plethora of gurgling Harleys in Trapper at any given time, but most called other cities home. Tyra handed the money to Hondo for him to deposit in his bunny purse. His face burned hot with embarrassment.

“They’re paying extra so they can get their picture with you,” she said, smiling shyly. “I told them you’d be happy to.”

The woman in the corset went first. She dropped her garments to the concrete floor of the rodeo barn and approached the Mountain Man. The strange woman massaged her large brown nipples over Hondo’s faux chest, smiling coyly as the bikers snapped photos with their cell phones and digital cameras. Hondo proffered a weak “cheese” as the cameras flashed. By the last flash, his cheeses got better. As a Mountain Man of the tourist Mecca of Trapper, he was used to having his photo taken, but there were no similarities here. Sexual vigor electrified the old barn. When he wore his skins and bore his black powder rifle, the photos were obliged and hampered.

Tyra asked to have her picture taken with Hondo last and handed her cell phone to one of the bikers. Her short stature allowed her to stand in front of him. Warming to his predicament, Hondo wrapped her in a bear hug.

Back in the car, Tyra chuckled playfully.

 “You’re still smiling.” She waved bye to the bikers as they left the rodeo grounds. Hondo lit a cigarette and rubbed his hands over his legs. He scarcely detected the smarting in his toes. The tightness, the silkiness of the hose, overwhelmed everything else.

“I think you’re enjoying this. Maybe for a guy who owns a gas station and likes to smoke and look tough, there’s a feminine side to you too?” She stared over at her passenger. He stopped smiling.

Hondo leaned back in the chair and brushed a lock of plastic blonde hair from his face. He looked out the window into the shadowy night.

“It’s okay,” she laughed. “Don’t fight it.”

“I’m not fighting nothing.”

“You make a great-looking, albeit masculine, woman. There are guys and girls I know in the valley who would pay big bucks for the likes of you.” Tyra kept her eyes on the street as Hondo turned his head to examine her.
Who the hell is this woman
?

“I work at a place, you could say, where kinky is in. Where people embrace sexual awakening in whatever way suits them. I get choked a lot. Tied up in a bow.”

“Sounds weird,” Hondo said. He flicked open his flask with his thumb. Sighing, Hondo stared at her white toothpick legs as she rammed her foot on the accelerator. He liked more meat on his women, but she did have a certain allure about her. It could have been her clothes, half man and half woman. Amber had that going for her. She liked to wear Hondo’s shirts, but Tyra seemed to have it down to a science.

 “It’s not as weird as all that. Everybody’s into something. I do schoolgirl stuff and business woman stuff, usually for business men. I’ve seen a lot of scrawny white cocks more full of angst than sperm.” She laughed and turned to smile at him. “I hope I’m not saying too much, but I can tell when there’s a hidden thrill going on. You’re making it pretty obvious.”

Hondo swallowed. “Tell me more.”

“Why don’t you masturbate while I talk?” she suggested, while dropping one hand onto her crotch as she drove.

The Mountain Man hesitated, but only for a split second. He hiked his skirt up to his waist and thrust his white briefs down to his knees. His thick penis sprung out like a tent pole. Tyra peeked over at her passenger as she spoke, disclosing to Hondo stories of the men and women she role-played with on a daily basis while he wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock. Hondo disliked jerking off quickly. He preferred the protracted method, gradually encouraging the explosion of sticky white cum. Tyra rubbed her pussy through her clothing as she spoke, keeping an eye on the man in the seat beside her as he got himself off. His facial features were obscured. The crazy blonde wig hid everything but his chin and lips.

Hondo’s orgasm shot like a geyser in the car. He gasped, arching his back in the throes of orgasm as cum splattered on the dashboard like whipped cream spurting from a half-empty container.

 “That’s a lot of jizz, buddy,” Tyra said. “I knew you were digging this cross-dressing thing, having women control that big-ass manhood of yours.”

While he did not win for getting the most cash, despite the liberal contribution from the bikers, Hondo did win the “best dressed” award. Twiddy got a mite jealous over that. His winnings were zilch. After accepting the trophy, a Ken doll dressed in Barbie’s clothes, Hondo did a little foxtrot on stage. He even pinched his boobs and laughed at the bald announcer’s bad jokes. Not that he thought they were comical in any way, but because he did not mind laughing at him publicly.

Amber’s jaw dropped. Twiddy clapped his hands. Tyra blew him kisses from the audience.

Hondo squandered no time getting changed when he got home. To Amber’s astonishment, however, it was not into his sweat pants and white T-shirt. He inquired about her dresses, the ones she wore on those rare circumstances that they did something out of the ordinary.

“And your undies, too, babe. Where are they? I want to know what Twiddy’s talking about.”

“Twiddy? My underwear? Are you drunk, buster?”

“No, I’m hard as a rock. Come here. And bring your spanking hand.”

Crossed

By

Kane

Some things you never forget.

I’d spent the day in Bath, smiling at my cartoon self in the blood and the silk of the bridesmaid dress. My Mohawk fingered into femme, pretty, cuteness. It made me feel boyish and naughty. Like I really shouldn’t be there, yet I was and I looked hot in my own mischief and grazed knees kind of way.

I remember it all. The changing room, the coffee, the tapping of my shoes in the sunshine on the station platform, waiting. The choice to walk home from the station in the white heat of a summer that turned shop entrances into the mouths of caves, gaping their cold blackness into the street.

You lived en route. I’d left my bike at your house. It made perfect sense to drop in, pick it up, and ride the rest of the way home.

I remember the shock on your face when you opened the door. I saw you for the first time. The shock turned to embarrass-ment as you ran in to pause
Desert Hearts
. You had been caught.

I had no idea. I didn’t know you’d been fucking yourself all day and that young, breathless, excitedness was you. Vulnerable and fucked senseless.

And there I was. Ready to be your muse, the clay. You were tearing at the seams of your perfect life and I walked in just in time to be your accomplice. It could have been anyone. But it was me. I was clueless. I was sick. I was wide eyed and gurning on dance floors, blissed out and intoxicated, climbing trees and skipping over roofs at dawn with people who didn’t know any better either. I was painfully young. I was the antithesis of your safe life, with your beautiful wife, in your white house in that green street.

And all this time, I thought you reeled
me
in.

I don’t know how it happened in that conversation in the kitchen but it did. Easy words and belly laughs and hours passed. Laughing over each other, falling over each other. It got dark, we got drinks, we laughed into the night and we knew, even then, we were already gone wherever we were going, but for the getting there.

Sobriety and sunshine didn’t make it go away. The pull of us was like hunger. Craving and clawing. Fuck everybody else. Fuck everything else. This is everything.

That phone call.

I want to know who you are.

You have no fucking idea, little girl.

Show me.

If I show you, there’s no going back.

Show me.

You fucking idiot. Shower. Wear loose clothes you don’t care about ruining and be outside your house at 9:30pm. Tell no one.

I opened my mouth in the shower, taking in water until my mouth was full and overflowing and I shook suddenly. I had no idea.

9:30.

You pushed me into the backseat of the car and handed me the shot of tequila. I downed it and returned the empty glass. Proud. That hard slap across my face stunned me into silence. I wanted to cry, instant and intensely. I wasn’t going to cry. Black. The blindfold across my eyes. My hands tied fast. I was so terrified. So wet. You were fucking me already.