How I Met My Shemale Pt. 04

"John?"

I winced. That's not my name. Fuck it. "Yes?"

"John, I want you to like me. Stick that thing of yours in here." She lifted her big white mammaries up out of her robe, one in each hand; they spilled out of her grasp. "Fuck my tits like you fucked that fat pussy last night. I'll be right back."

She covered her cleavage with slick lotion and worked her tits together until they gleamed. "C'mon, I'm waiting." The radiator ticked as time passed—but not for long. I got hard and couldn't resist.

I stood up and pushed into her welcoming warmth. My come shot looked pure white on her blushing neck.

****

"John, I've packed our things. Go to the car while I check my messages."

I sat out in the car. "Hey, the keys, I could leave her here." I said it, but who was I kidding? I needed to call Cheryl. I had to hear her voice. Last night? Screw that—never happened—I'm pulling a Joyce on that one.

I dialed the payphone. She picked up. "Hello?" Her voice stirred me to my toes.

I froze. I can't lie to her—can't leave things out, not with my Cheryl. Where to start? What to say? Well hello Cheryl. YeeHaw! Wanna hear about all the snatch I've been plowing? I hung up by her third hello.

Joyce came back a bit shaken. I got out of the driver's seat. She pulled out into traffic, tugging at the seatbelt trapped under her weighty bottom. "There! Got it." She said it, she waved the buckle around and damned near hit a stop sign. So much for safety.

We sat eating breakfast and it wasn't cheap. What really bugged me was when she left too big of a tip—it's not like they did her any sex favors—although she smiled at them as if they might. Crazy bitch.

'Back on the Road with Joyce.' I repeated it in my head until it sounded innocent.

"Hey, John. Wanna know where we're headed next?"

"I guess."

"I have another date lined up for us. They're a lovely couple. Rich as all hell too."

"Oh good."

"The story I wrote for them went something like this:" And on and on she went with it. I got nauseated.

"Yech! So you're saying he wants to be in a crib, wearing diapers no less, watching me do his wife? And what do you get to do?"

"Oh, I can't remember."

"Tell me. Or I'm out. Then one way or another you're fucked."

"Oh John, it's not so bad. He just wants to pee in my mouth__"

"No way!" I interrupted.

"__after he comes in it. I sort of have to suck him off. It gets worse after that, much worse. I'll need to buy some costumes and facemasks. Any ideas?"

I waved off her last question, "No. Not for a million dollars! We're not doing that."

"You'd be surprised how close you are. That's what you'd be, John."

"Really? A million? Are these people nuts or something?"

"Too rich to stay sane I guess. You in? There might be some anal action, just so you know."

"For a million bucks?"

"Yes! Yes!" she shouted. "Well not a million obviously, but trust me, it's a lot." She grabbed my knee and shook it.

"Fuck yeah!"

We checked into a hotel—there went Joyce, trading our hard earned green for smiles from the help. I wished she'd smarten up. Funny thing was, I didn't mind her all that much when we drank together. And drank together we did—plenty, and I mean plenty of costly champagne no less, with exotic appetizers too. "Eat up. You'll need your strength for tomorrow."

We settled into bed together. She offered up her glass for a slurred toast, "To us." Clink Clunk.

Us. Yeah right. After we fucked I considered forging her suicide note and throwing her off the balcony—if only I could lift her. Fat saved her.

Instead I sat awake listening to her snore. Time for a test. I leaned in close, whispered, "Hey Joyce." She smiled, her snoring subsided. "Hey Joyce." Her brows tensed, she smiled again. "I fucking hate you. You killed Cheryl and me. You're a whore and I hate you."

Her face contorted—lost all support from within, creased with remarkable force. The shock wave traveled to her ears, her chest, to the tips of her fingers. She hugged herself and grimaced. I rolled over. Bile polluted my tonsils. Time passed.

And then, "I know you do, John." Ice cold words to sleep by. She pulled the covers—took them all for herself.

Fuck. Fuck you. Fuck your tomorrow. And hell yes? Hell no. No never, not ever, no more.

I dreamed the craziest dream where Joyce and I were at a funeral. I scanned the faces but knew no one. I looked to my side; there sat Joyce. I strained to see a photograph near the coffin. Oh no. It was Cheryl—a picture of Cheryl and me. I struggled, kicked like my bed was short-sheeted. Oh fuck I'm lost. I turned to Joyce but she was gone. Where? The crowd gasped—the coffin lurched. It tipped, struck the floor in slow motion.

Everyone screamed when the coffin broke open. Joyce and Cheryl tangled together, rolled out and fucked on the floor. The crowd panicked and ran for the exit. I tried to stand but couldn't move. They died together, bodies twitching, animated to their last—eyes black and lifeless, mouths impassive yet smirking.

The priest collapsed. His robes turned black and he became a huge snake. I sat quaking as he unhinged his bloody jaws and devoured them. He came slithering towards me, all fat and happy.

"John! John! Oh shit!" Joyce shook me awake. I woke up clutching vomit. I couldn't breathe—could only manage to drag rasping snatches of pain into my lungs.

"John! Here!" She grabbed me by the legs and dragged me over to the side of the bed.

The end is near. The party's over. Good riddance.

"Stop that goddam smiling! Breathe goddam you!" She jerked me upright from behind, folded my ribcage, and crushed me. "Live you bastard! Breathe!"

I spewed. I breathed. I cried.

She carried me to the tub and washed away my filth. I cried some more. "Damn near lost you there..." she trailed off.

I mouthed the words, "Let me go," but not to her. I lay dead in the water, expressionless, all corpsed up. Freezing cold closed in around me. Fuck me. Good night nurse.

****

"Hello in there? Hello?"

Who__?

A singular point of light invaded. I'm done—all done and into the light. But I couldn't. I went to shield my eyes but couldn't. I did a back arch. Ouch! Pinpricks raged on the back of my hands. I couldn't break free.

"Doctor! Call the doctor!" That voice again. A hornet's nest exploded in my head. Gone again.

****

"You gave us quite a scare. How many fingers?"

I shrugged.

"I'm the resident doctor on call. You're allergic to..." I waited, heard the scrabbling of a clipboard. "...to mushrooms, apparently. I don't know who left you here, but I assume alcohol was a factor?"

I nodded. He cleared his throat, "Now c'mon, I'm a busy man. How many fingers?"

I sat up—couldn't see fuck all. I sensed a third presence in the room. I'll show him. "Two fingers please. Scotch, and make it neat."

A woman said, "I see he hasn't lost his sense of humor. Oh wait, he was never all that funny. Must be the drugs. Oh well." That voice—I know who!

I reached out—arms from a cradle. "Cheryl?"

"Yes! He remembers you! A very good sign."

"Cheryl?" Nothing. I sank back down. They screeched the curtains shut on me. They whispered and left.

Cheryl returned alone—I'd know her scent anywhere.

"You know what?" she asked. Her lips touched my ear. I felt her tits on my arm. I turned to kiss her. She grabbed my face, returned me to position.

"You know what?" she repeated, hard words through her teeth.

My fists and bowels clenched. "What?"

"I'm taking you home soon. Not today or tomorrow, but soon." She ran her hands from my cock to my chest. I stirred grinning.

"Really?" My cock surged and hurt.

"Yes." She twisted my nipples. "And you're gonna love what I've done with the place. Home sweet Hell. Welcome home John."