sleek, pretty legs; the thimble-sized nipples; the trim waist and gorgeous hourglass figure. A hot breath snagged in the redhead’s chest as she stickly applied something to herself.
Regardless of the clearly feminine physical attributes, the redhead sported one feature that was not particular to her gender.
A penis.
Vera’s stare melted like a paraffin mask.
The redhead was a transexual. At least that’s what Vera thought she must be, halfway through the procedure. This was a hideous parody, the near-perfect female physique made aberrant by male genitals. At first Vera thought it must be artificial, but a more intent inspection easily revealed its authenticity: the gorged purple glans, the veined shaft.
Also revealed was the label on the bigger jar: vaseline.
The redhead hummed contently, slicking her hideous erection with the lubricant. It looked huge, gorged stiff and throbbing. The redhead stroked it a moment, leaning her head back with closed eyes. Testicles large as eggs constricted in the dangling scrotum.
“Sandwich time, Paulie. Guess who’s the bologna.” The redhead glided her greased hand up Paul’s buttocks, then pushed him forward.
But it was. Paul crawled up the bed, then slowly lowered his hips. The redhead guided Paul’s penis into the moistened fissure of the blonde’s sex. She let him pump awhile. The bed groaned along with the blonde, whose legs flexed beneath Paul’s thrusts. Her bonds stretched against the brass bedposts. Paul plied her meager breasts and sucked red marks into her throat.
“That’s it, Paulie, nice and slow and deep.” The redhead continued to stroke herself. “Stick that cock in her right up to the balls.” Then she kneed up onto the bed, leaned forward. She carefully parted Paul’s rump and began to sodomize him.
Vera gulped as if swallowing a stone. Her bulged eyes strained against their sockets. The redhead, poised on her hands, paused a moment to grin at her. “Stick around, sweetheart. I’m gonna come up his ass so much it’s gonna squirt out his ears.”
Vera churned back, broke her paralysis, and tripped out of the room. Nearly mindless, she staggered down the dark hall, found the kitchen, and vomited into the sink.
Each eruption of vomit seemed to shake her heart loose from the seats of her soul. Yes, that’s what it felt like: emptying her soul as well as her stomach. Each spasm blinded her.
How long she remained bent over the sink she’d never know. The bedposts thumped the wall in the other room, squeals and chuckles fluttered behind stifled grunts. Vaguely she detected music—an organ work by Bach that she’d bought Paul for his birthday.
“Gimme more of that class A blow,” she heard the blonde hotly request. “I’m gettin’ ready to come again, and I wanna do a big toot while I’m gettin’ off.”
Vera walked numb out of the apartment. She let the front door close behind her. She walked down the stairs, out the lighted brick entrance, and into the cold night.
A single tear hitched down her cheek. She did not scream, she did not sob, she did not tirade.
