Beyond The Grey Metal Walls

Wouldn't life be so much better if, once we realized we'd made a mistake, we could simply rewind and start again? That was the thought that crossed my mind - and not for the first time, I readily confess - when I stepped off that crowded bus into the path of all those baleful stares.

In dilapidated parts of South London like this drab and ugly suburb, trannies like me were not a common sight - at least, not during daytime! Around here, real women wore shell suits and trainers, and carried cans of strong booze, half-concealed by torn plastic bags.

My red stilettos might have matched my leather skirt and black, chiffon blouse rather nicely - but they also marked my card. To call me a fish out of water simply didn't do the situation justice - I was a fairy loose in hell...

Still, I had no choice. I needed to urgently find my boyfriend Gerry, a no-good former marine who'd tried to sell me into prostitution to pay off his gambling debts. He'd simply have to think again, get me some money and organize a proper roof over my head!

Gerry lived on a sprawling housing estate, reached from the bus stop through a dusty lane lined with grey, corrugated iron walls - the only colourful components of an otherwise thoroughly depressing landscape, thanks to the bright and expressive graffiti they'd managed to attract.

The whole area could have easily been part of some run-down enclave in a depressed northern town, except that, from Gerry's kitchen window, you could see the Houses of Parliament! Such was London in the 1980s...

Setting off up the lane, I was uncomfortably aware how my stiletto heels echoed ominously around those grey, metal walls - and how so many faceless hoods eagerly pursued my every step. I regretted putting on tights, which would severely impair my mobility should I suddenly get an urge to run.

Staring studiously at the pointed toes of my own shoes, I tried hard to ignore the growing banter that was ambling along behind me - the sneers, spitting and increasingly raucous guffaws. But when the first stone whizzed past my ear, caressing my necklace before crashing sonorously into the kettledrum wall, my nerves finally gave way...

When exactly should a tranny run from a mob? It's very hard to get this one right, because the mob almost always catches up with you! And when it does, the kind of kicking you'll receive depends to a large extent on their perceptions of your fear.

So, if you break at the earliest opportunity - maybe flick off your shoes and run for dear life - then they may take that as a really serious effort to escape, and their collective adrenalin levels are sure to rise during the ensuing chase. A harsh thrashing maybe becomes inevitable?

But if you resign yourself to fate, and fail to run at all - well that's just suicidal! You might only do it because you're depressed, but they'll feel heavily disrespected, and their feelings will be passed on through the venom behind all those subsequent blows.

Usually, an experienced tranny will split her losses. She'll glance back, treating the mob to a look of genuine trepidation, then break into a rather pathetic, girlish attempt at a run - never difficult in heels and nylons!

The mob will need to dash a bit, but they'll soon catch her up without ever breaking into a sweat. And hopefully, thanks to their relatively low adrenalin levels, along with her well-rehearsed ability to scream loudly and appear in agony after the lightest of bruisings, she'll escape without too many fractures.

On this particular occasion, I was perhaps overly resigned to the inevitable kicking.

Nonetheless, I did run - it is incumbent upon a victim to try and escape! Anyway, I ran as fast as anyone can whilst wearing two-inch stiletto court shoes and tights. And it was worth the effort because, just as they were catching up with me - when they were actually so close I was anticipating the first punch raining down upon the back of my head - part of the grey corrugated iron wall suddenly opened up, and out shot a burly arm which dragged me into another world...

It was utterly surreal. I'd already resigned myself to lying in the lane's dirt, helplessly trying to defend myself from kicks and punches, when I found myself on the other side of the fence instead, standing alongside a swarthy, donkey-jacketed knight in shining armour, listening in bemusement as my erstwhile pursuers swore and kicked, vainly cursing the spot from where I'd vanished!

A tall, dark-skinned European with penetrating black eyes now held me firmly in his arms. "I'm Jake," he told me in hoarse, heavily-accented undertones. "Come with me!"

Looking around, I saw lots of rubble, some earthworks, some cultivated soil where vegetables were growing in uneven rows, and a couple of threadbare portable office cabins. As soon as the noise died down in the lane and we could hear my frustrated admirers reluctantly dispersing, Jake led me towards the nearest of the cabins.

Hesitating uncomfortably, I began to stumble over the rough ground, which threatened to swallow my heels. But Jake more or less carried me inside, where a Great Dane lazily occupied a musty red sofa, and very large stacks of unwashed dishes were piled precariously upon a crumbling Formica table.

It was the way Jake latched the door firmly shut that told me his chivalry hadn't come entirely free of charge. "Sit down," he commanded, pointing towards the dog on the sofa. "And don't mind her - she won't bite."

Nervously, I sat down besides the enormous canine, who unhelpfully placed a large paw onto my nylon-clad knee. All in all, I felt I had quite enough to worry about without laddering my only pair of tights, and so withdrew my legs defensively, cradling them in my arms.

"I told you not to mind her!" Jake chided, sitting down perilously close to me. Putting an arm assuringly around my shoulders, he less assuringly pushed his free hand forcefully between my thighs, and began groping my lame tackle through my tights and panties.

"I did you a big favour back there!" he reminded me ominously.

His lips came down upon mine, and I responded to his passionate kiss with equal vigour, hoping a little foreplay might dampen his ardour. But it wasn't to be - he simply grabbed my hand and forced it down the front of his trousers...

Fondling his manhood, I began slowly but surely pulling him towards what I hoped may prove a premature end to our association - but such hopes were ridiculously aspirational! Taking his trousers off, Jake ordered me to kneel in front of him, and get busy with my tongue...

Unsure whether the festering odours filling the room belonged to Jake, his giant dog or the unswept carpet I was now forcibly kneeling upon, I reluctantly went to work. Jake's manhood was short but sweet - not too long, but nice and stocky.

He was ramrod stiff, like an iron bar, and seemed to appreciate the way I licked slowly around his balls, then massaged every last inch of his throbbing meat-rod with both my tongue and lips before finally popping his cherry lasciviously into my mouth.

For several minutes, I gently blew and sucked whilst slurping loudly and groaning through my nose, all the while hoping an explosion of salty cream was imminent. But to my dismay, not so much as a solitary drop of pre-cum deigned to appear...

"Right," Jake murmured at length, "Get your arse over there!" Following his pointed command, I emptied my mouth before bending warily over the sofa's wide, luscious armrest. And as my body moulded into place, I felt remarkably settled - even though my thighs were stretching beyond their comfort zone.

Hardly a moment passed before I felt my tights and panties being crudely tugged onto my lower butt cheeks. Fleetingly, I caught sight of Jake scraping some lard off a dirty plate, then felt him rubbing it around the rim of my anus, just before his bullish insertion forced my lips to part company...

After that, Jake's action was fast and furious. His thrusts always seemed to fail to complete their cycle before repeating - causing me to feel that I was being widened, rather than expanded. But any pain I was spared by his lack of length was more than compensated for by the harsh burning around my rim.

Jake's shortish but wide and terribly firm cock is exactly the kind of lethal weapon that turns a tranny's bum-hole into a replica vagina. I'd taken much bigger meat-rods inside me before - including Kurt the Tranny Master's 14-inch colossus.

But it was Jake's relatively modest endowment, along with his rapid action and his use of fried lard as a lubricant, that scarred me with a new set of lips, which forever betray me to all who see them as nothing more than a cheap tart!

Yet ridiculously, throughout this significant ordeal, my main concern was that Jake would ruin my tights! You see, all the time he was fucking me, he kept fingering my thighs, and I was increasingly worried that, if he'd failed to wipe that lard off his hands, then my tights would no longer be fit to wear!

And if I turned up at Gerry's place with no tights on, and he wasn't too pissed to notice, then I'd have quite a lot of explaining to do! This thought was running furiously around in my mind, driving me ever closer to madness, when suddenly Jake began moaning and groaning, and my bum finally started filling up with hot, creamy cum...

Now, thanks to a vicious assault by thugs, who caught me dressed as a girl when I was a teenager and decided to punish me, I'm incapable of maintaining an erection or experiencing an orgasm. However, I'm perfectly able to ejaculate...

Ever since Jake had pulled my panties and tights down so he could begin ploughing me, my measly and inadequate member had been rubbing up and down against the sofa's armrest, under the sway of my full bodyweight - in perfect harmony with Jake's strong, manly thrusts.

And now, just as I felt my aching butt filling with warm, creamy love juices, my own sad, wet little offering chose to spew onto the armrest. It was my closest experience to a mutual orgasm, and left me unsure whether to laugh or cry!

Feeling Jake withdrawing his still impressively stiff and meaty chopper, I was amazed, just moments later, to feel his tongue gently lapping around his handiwork. His warm slurps truly sated my burning butt lips, and I felt immensely grateful that such an obvious Neanderthal was able to display sensitivity of this kind!

But then I caught sight of Jake behind the Formica table, rolling a cigarette - and realized to my horror it was the Great Dane who was licking my butt! I jumped up so fast I almost left my skin behind, before tripping over my own stilettos and collapsing in an ungainly heap...

"I told you not to mind her," Jake chided. "She's only trying to help!"

Sniffing that awful, smelly carpet while that stupid mutt tried to carry on licking my butt, I realized I'd more chance of seeing a pig fly than of getting a clean towel from Jake. And yet my need was great!

Not only were his copious juices dribbling steadily out of my anus and mixing with that horrible dog's slobber, but my own spillage was soaking my pubes. If I simply pulled my panties and tights up, they might become glued to me within seconds!

As much as I needed to get out of Jake's place fast, I would never manage to walk anywhere without first cleaning myself up...

Confiding my dilemma to Jake, I found him impressively concerned. After several long draws on his cigarette, he suggested he might manage to find me a clean towel - if only I would wash the dishes in exchange?

Looking over those enormous stacks of extremely dirty plates whilst contrasting them with Jake's tiny sink and his even tinier bottle of washing-up liquid, I wondered whether I might not actually be better off declining his offer...

After all, why couldn't I simply take off my tights and wipe myself down with them, then get on my way bare-legged and hopefully clean up properly at Gerry's place? And looking back, that would have been the smart thing to do...

But when have I ever done the smart thing? Instead, I agreed to do the washing up - and opened the gate to hell...