When I got home from the Hollywood Hills I barely had the strength to remove my makeup. I was so exhausted I just wanted to flop on the bed and pass out, but I persevered and undressed properly, removed all makeup and even put my wig back on its wig head.

But when I was finally between the covers my brain refused to cooperate, rethinking the night's events, imagining how they may have looked to an observer, or to Harold Plumrose himself. I saw my lap as he must have seen it as he hovered obsessively over those cubic inches of me that that were his chief concern, my smooth thighs and their adornments of taut, taupe nylon stockingtop and rubberized suspender snaps, white linen garter belt and of course my coveted plot of flesh, hot and perfumed, inflated with my pulsing, excited blood and accented by that exclamation point of cropped dark hair. 

The pummeling I had taken at his hands, helplessly pinned by his heavy body, blocked by his broad back from even seeing what he was doing -- but feeling it, imagining it! Responding in orgiastic and shameful surrender, gasping, moaning as he milked me, twice! Even as I lay there, exhausted in bed, curled in near-fetal position, my penis laying on my thigh tried to revive itself, tried to reach full erection until twitching like a fish on the dock, it's mouth opening and closing uselessly as it dies, it finally gave up and I achieved sleep at last.

The next morning the spell seemed to have evaporated. I had a date to see Cindy and tell her my story, to tell her of a very different date with Harold Plumrose than the one she had been on.

We got together at noon at her place on San Vicente. The first thing I did was to show her the pictures of that fantastic closet in the room I had used to change clothes.

"It's the same room I was put in," she said, "but I didn't check out that closet. It's quite unbelievable!"

"Isn't it?  What do you think? Is Plumrose a crossdresser himself, or is he running some sort of cabaret?"

"I guess he could be a crossdresser," she replied, "but your cabaret idea sounds just as plausible."

Cindy zoomed in on a picture with my phone.

"Here," she said, "Look at these shoe boxes, there are several sizes in this closet. Of course," she went on, a frown on her face, "both things could be true."

I chuckled. "With all that body hair, he'd make one hell of a trannie!"

"Yeah, Betty, you've got something there." She handed back my phone. "You seemed to like him more than I did."

"Like the song says, 'he really worked me over good, he was a credit to his gender,' whatever that turns out to be!" We laughed.

Later that afternoon, as I was preparing to leave Cindy handed me an envelope.

"This will put hair on your chest," she said.

I opened the envelope. It was a five figure check. My jaw dropped.

"What's this?"

"Yours, and there is more to come," she said, and went on to outline a plan that involved a scheme for Cindy to own a fifty percent share of my house, with me continuing as the occupant and with both partners' consent necessary for any future sale.

"I'll draw up the paperwork and we can hash out the details. But show that to a lawyer, Hon', you can afford one now."

"I will, Cindy!" I gushed.

If I signed the document I would be out of the woods and set for many years to come. Of course I would still find a career for myself, I thought soberly, I now had a future to protect.

I had a surprise waiting for me when I arrived home, still glowing from my sudden windfall and Cindy's parting smack on my bottom. There was a FedEx delivery at my back doorstep. I took it into the kitchen with me and cut through the tape with a steak knife I got from the drawer.

"Oh, my God!" I said aloud.

It was a bottle of Chanel No. 5 eau de parfum spray. The big one, too, almost 7 ounces. I was puzzled briefly, but it could only have come from Harold Plumrose. 

I had never mentioned my scent, the sly-boots had an educated nose, a continental nose. There was a note in the package; it had just four words: "Be my Valentine, Harold."  And it was true, today was February the fourteenth. 

I actually blushed, then I gathered myself and felt very pleased with this second gratifying surprise of the day, then had to pause as I found myself in a bit of an emotional echo chamber. What did a gift like this really mean? I couldn't deny a sort of feline purr in the center of  my self esteem and this was really a gift calculated to appeal to that feminine sense of luxury.  A minute ago I was a blithe crossdresser and now I had one of the first accoutrements of 'kept womanhood' in my hand. I was suddenly in over my head. I also became aware that while I was having these thoughts an erection, and quite a raging one, had crept up on me, seemingly of its own volition. The raw joy of it made me moan aloud and in a cloud of mixed elation and dismay I picked up my phone to call Cindy again.

Hours later in Cindy's Land Rover on the 405 freeway we passed beneath the Sunset overpass and started the  climb toward the Valley. Traffic is never light on this road until after 2 a.m. but now, at 9 o'clock, it was manageable. I felt the adrenalized alertness I always enjoyed when going out with a friend, dressed to impress and looking for pleasure. We crested the hill and dropped down into the Valley and the lights we saw spread out before us were the same ones I had seen two days ago from Harold's hilltop mansion. As we pulled off on the Burbank Boulevard ramp Cindy started to tell me a story.

"Betty, years ago I started an affair with a much older crossdresser. I was still married to Amy at that time and this was before I had gone to Tokyo and licenced my automatic transmission actuator to the Japanese, so we were quite poor still. Amy worked Saturdays so it was easy to carry on with Jerrilyn (that's what she called herself) even though she lived way down in Fountain Valley. Jerrilyn had a large home there; she was retired and recently divorced and really starting to feel her t-girl oats. She was almost as new to that world as I was, maybe a year's more experience with things transvestite."

"How did you meet?" I wanted to know.

"Oh, an online personal of some sort of another, might have been... I don't remember. But we emailed and we spoke on the phone before we met up. So I started going down there a couple of times a month. 

"Jerrilyn was very nice to me, very accommodating. She was a retired executive, the wife and son had left home, so she had the big place all to herself we liked to swan around that house in our scanties, although the serious sex happened upstairs in the master bedroom, which had mirrored closets, like Plumrose has. 

"Jerrilyn herself was no looker but she was in great shape, toured around on a road bike in one of those lycra-clad gaggles of riders you see all over. When we met she wore full makeup, but for myself, apart from a wig I would just put on lipstick. I didn't need much to excite Jerrilyn, and in those days I didn't even shave my body, because I was married. She didn't care, she would suck me off seven days to Sunday; she couldn't get enough of my cum, Betty!

"But we did a lot of talking too. I liked our chats almost as much as the sex. Almost as much."

"Hey! We're're here."

'Here' was a bar called  'The Hart of the Valley', the site of the oldest lesbian bar in Los Angeles. Almost insolvent at one time, The Hart was turned over to a promoter of transgender events on Wednesdays and Saturdays and the enthusiastic reception by transgender folk of every stripe and denomination had put the owner, Helen, an old gal of the extremely crusty stripe, straight with the IRS and any number of creditors. She usually occupied a stool in front of the bar in the early part of the evening, muttering with her girlfriends.

And so it was tonight. Above them, and mounted just above the mirror, was the white head of a fourteen-point albino stag, the self-same Hart of the Valley. It would be considered a slightly gruesome oddity in these times, declassé for a venue like this and consigned to an antique store or the dumpster, except for the adornments hanging from its antlers -- panties, thirty or forty pairs of them, flung there in the early days of the club by the aboriginal lesbian revelers who celebrated their birthdays by ceremomiously sacrificing  a pair of the birthday girl's knickers on the tines. Later, t-girls, who thought the display was an open invitation, tried to drape their own panties but Helen would remove the interloper's garment with a pool cue and she knew exactly which ones belonged. The museum pieces from the seventies and eighties hung in a splendid Elysium, stiffening with age, fire retardant spray and the slow accumulation of dust. Disgusting and inviolable.

 Cindy chose a spot for us along the bar furthest from the sound system's speakers and continued her story in louder tones.

"Anyway, Betty, Jerrilyn and I were not always able to get together on Saturdays at her place, and sometimes she would drive up to Santa Monica in her little Toyota van. We would meet somewhere and we'd drive over to Fourteeth Street, next to the cemetery, and she would climb into the back and kneel before me as I presented myself to her while sitting on the rear seat. That was lovely, even though she only put on earrings and eye makeup but was otherwise in boymode.

"Of course, I didn't dress on these occasions either. I have to say that with Jerrilyn it wasn't strictly necessary for me to be a girl, since she always treated me with such deference and frank admiration that I felt thoroughly feminine whenever we were together.

"So, I had this sweet pair of magenta workout shorts, a nylon lycra blend that looked wonderfully like a panty-girdle and felt even better; they were styled like bike shorts with a long mid-thigh cut. I would wear these with a close-fitting sweater and would bike over to Stewart Avenue, and when Jerrilyn's van approached I'd lock the bike to a post and sashay up to the passenger door, Jerrilyn's eyes devouring my crotch as I climbed in. We would drive over to Fourteenth, Jerrilyn's hand on my thigh. I'd smile and tell her how nice she looked and the hand would climb up to where I was coiled and primed beneath the lycra and start to gently stroke me, so I would part my legs, just enough for a fist to fit there.

"Remember that, Betty; a little separation is sexier than an open spread; save the full eagle for bondage scenarios where you can let it heighten the sense of humiliation and helpless surrender.

"Anyway, by time we got into the back of the van Jerrilyn had my full attention. She would peel down my shorts and start in on her favorite thing in this world -- administering a blowjob. Her head was out of sight below the sill while my head lolled on the seat back as I groaned in ecstasy trying to stretch the pleasure of it out as long as I could, which with Jerrilyn wasn't very long. It was heightened by the glimpses of normal street life I could see through the gaps of the curtains she'd installed back there. Finally it was too much and I would give up my load into Jerrilyn's always greedy mouth while she hummed affirmative appreciation around my pumping cock

"Jerrilyn would tell me that after I'd left the van and she was making the long drive home alone, she would savor the feeling of my incompletely swallowed wad hanging in her throat. She was a nasty cum whore, that is for sure!"

Cindy had finished her story. She leaned toward me as she got off the bar stool and placed her palm as support on my lap, pressing down gently but firmly so that I got the message directly through my cock, which was tumescent in my panties beneath the hem of my minidress.

"I'm gonna visit Angela, Hon, but I'll be right back," she said.

"I think I'll circulate, too," I replied a little huskily.

What was needed now was another drink; the barmaid was busy at the other end of the bar, so I wandered through the crowd toward her, smiling at people I recognized, mouthing hellos and holding my tiny Kate Spade knockoff bag in front of my crotch to cover the bulge there. 

I slid between what had grown to be a small crowd. We had arrived just before ten and it,was now almost eleven; come midnight the venue would be like a sardine can. I got my hand and bangled wrist on the counter and said 'hi' to Pam, the barmaid, and was able to order an easy gin and tonic from her.

"I'll buy that round," a deep voice said.

I looked down to find a crew-cut, barrel-chested man was smiling up at me. He seemed to be about fifty and his large face was not entirely unattractive. I found that, in the press of drinkers around the bar, my belly was pressed hard against his muscular arm.

"Well, thank you, uh," I saw an anchor tattoo on the back of his hairy hand, "sailor!"

"I can't fool you for long, can I?"

"I don't know about that, right now you seem like a pretty nice guy."

He grinned broadly. I felt a large warm hand cup my bottom.

"How about now?"

"Oh," I said, "is that you? Well, I suppose you have a good reason for doing so."

"The best reason in the world. I want to get to know you."

I pretended a frosty manner and said, "Anyone would think you knew me very well already."

"I don't, but I do know some things about you. "

"Oh, and what's that?"

"Well, " he said, "you're a friend of Cindy's, so you've got good taste."

I smirked a little.

"I also know," he went on, "that you've got on red and black panties."

The fatuous expression left my face.

"How did you see?" I gulped.

"I've been looking at them for about twenty minutes while you and Cindy were talking. You gotta be careful how you sit on these barstools in those tight little minis."

I wriggled and shook off his hand. He just laughed and continued, "Nothing wrong with showing off long, lovely legs like yours. And you are very beautiful besides."

I looked at him quickly, bashfully.

"Thank you, you're very kind," I said softly. "What's you're name?"

"I'm Bob."

I took his warm hand, "I'm Betty, it's a pleasure, Bob."

Bob's face changed slightly, like he was remembering something.

"Save my seat, Betty," he said, "I gotta get something."

He got off the stool and I put my bottom on his warm spot and watched his stocky form roll out of the club. I looked around and saw that Cindy was in deep conversation. I slurpped down my drink to the vaguely juniper flavored ice water in the bottom and decided not to order another when Bob reappeared. He slipped in beside me with his back to the counter, I looked into his smiling face and half rose to relinquish his seat.

"That's okay, you stay there, it won't hurt me to stand awhile," he said, and with a gentle hand on my knee he guided he back onto the barstool. Then he handed over a business card, saying, "I remembered that I had some of these in my pickup."

I looked at the card. It contained his full name with naval rank (retired) and was embellished with anchors surrounded by life preserves, the whole thing printed in red and blue ink. 

I pointedly opened my little bag and dropped the card in.

"This will come in handy," I said, "if I'm ever stopped by the shore patrol."

The smile on the crew-cut face broadened.

"The operative word is 'handy'," Bob said, and his open hand slid all the way up to the hem of my mini dress.

I gave him a very arch look but allowed the trespass because, after all, he had bought me a drink.

He got a dreamy look on his face.

"You look so pretty..."

"Oh, thank you," I was began to reply when his hand went the rest of the way under my hem and I found my clitty-balls, in their red nylon cocoon, skillfully supported atop Bob's fat fingers like watermelons on two forklift prongs.

"...and you feel so good, too."

And his hand also felt good; in fact, my clitty was quickly creeping along it to plant a wet kiss on his palm if he didn't quit. I put my own hand firmly on his forearm.

"Bob," I whispered hoarsly, "please stop."

"Dont you like it?"

"I like it too much. Bob," I went on in a pleading tone, "I'll call you, I promise."

Bob winked and I squirmed my way back through the packed room to Cindy, my little purse called upon to continue its heroic mission of shielding my embarrassing erection. It had subsided by the time I reached Cindy's stool but if I thought I had fooled many people I was mistaken...

"Hello, Boner Girl," she said, "I'm thinking we should leave, and you look like you could use some attention."

"Sure, let's go, " I said and as we passed Bob's stool I looked to my right but he was blocked by the mass of latecomers. I thought of his card in my purse and with a thrill realized I had made up my mind to use it. 

 As midnight approached the club had become well nigh impassable with the influx of working girls, for some their night's work was over and this was relaxation; for others their night's work was just beginning. The tenor of social intercourse shifted up a gear with their arrival and the arrival of their admirers - or patrons, I suppose. The two hours between midnight and closing were the real raison d'etre of the club, the entire bar, because truth be told there was nothing that went on at that address during the rest of the week that came close to matching those hour's heightened emotionality and meaning.

The late part of the evening's idle chatter was not different in content from that exchanged by the crossdressers on their weekly night out in drag, but while the talk before midnight was batted back and forth with paddles, after the witching hour it was parried with rapiers. I felt invisible among these girls who dominated the spaces around the bar and appropriated all the oxygen. It was something I would bring up with Cindy as we drove home.

Hearing me out in the car, Cindy laughed and replied, "Well, Betty, if they make you feel like a dilettante perhaps it's because you are one. So am I for that matter. We don't have as much skin in the game - in fact, those girls would say we don't have any. The hookers are playing a very dangerous game, anyway you care to look at it. Oh, that feels nice, honey."

I had started stroking Cindy's inner thigh right at the hemline of her shiny mini dress.

"Keep that up but don't go too far, I have to drive!"

I bent over kissed her where I had been stroking.

"I won't go too far." I  said softly, inhaling the heat and scent of the air beneath her hemline.

She cleared her throat, "Anyway, they are playing hard, most of them to earn the money for sexual reassignment surgery. They are living in girl-mode twenty-four -seven, and the mask has become the real face. So no, they don't suffer tourists like us casually. You have to earn their respect. But I don't envy them. Do you? I do this because it's so satisfying; if I had to make the world accept Cindy as my legal, emotional and spiritual identity I don't think I would be having this kind of fun."

I ran my fingernail along the line between Cindy's pantyline and her flesh. The pale bone panties were trimmed with a lithe, translucent white frill around the leg holes. I could see that her erection was confined in an uncomfortable tuck, pressing down on the car seat so I pushed my hand under her while she lifted her bottom and together we got her rearranged so Cindy's member was nicely vertical behind the smooth front of her panties

"And..." I continued for her, "you don't really want to have sexual reassignment surgery."

"Mmmm, not just yet," she moaned as I traced her tumescence through the soft, taut nylon.

I kept us both at a simmer until we made a u-turn through the sylvan median on San Vicente and headed back a block to her home. It was situated well behind a wall of bougainvillia but you could see the second story bedroom window from the street, adorned with its pretty crossed priscillas. Whenever I passed the place in my car I would look up at that window and enjoy a conditioned response - a warm ripple from my stomach straight down my urethra. If I didn't feel it now it was because I was already fully erect. Cindy had left upper that light on. She pulled quickly into the drive next to my Karmann Ghia and she had her key in the front door before the automatic gate closed behind us.

When we were in the foyer I backed her up against the street door with my hand up her dress and Cindy held me in similar death-lock. We kissed deeply for a moment. Cindy broke off to say, "My God, I've wanted to have sex with you all evening, that leopard-print dress has been driving me crazy!"

"You were always quick to salute the 'tranny flag'."

We made haste up the staircase to her bedroom, my hand on her rear end.

Another clinch inside the bedroom door. We broke apart by mutual consent to roll back the covers on her huge bed. Cindy's bedroom was decorated with a subtle nod to the Hollywood Regency style in the grey, blue and teal striped wallpaper, the bed coverings in baby blue with navy piping and the elegant and skeletal Billy Haines table against the wall which soon held my hastily flung lurex minidress .

"Wait," she hissed at me, and pulling a white bundle off her dresser top she disappeared into the bathroom.

Cindy came out seconds later quite naked beneath a sheer, high-collared peignoir of mint chiffon. It was gathered at the waist and the three quarter sleeves had a delicate elastic cuff that held them to her slender forearms. I was wearing just bra and panties and the red knickers I now peeled off and sent sailing to join the minidress on the table.

I held her shrouded form next to me and we both shivered to feel our skin touching through the exquisite material; our two cocks nuzzled and clashed and nuzzled again in an irresistible dance with the stuff.

I lifted myself on my toes and Cindy helped me straddle her cock so that I rode its length along my perineum.

Rocking like that, in that silky slide I felt like I had found some ultimate home again, for awhile, and I sighed. Our mouths came together and our tongues curled and caressed, each one the other. 

"I could do this forever, until I came, " I murmured, into her warm mouth, as if it were her ear, both of us as hard as we had ever been, all orifices were becoming as good as another in our extremis.

"Oh, darling. Oh, darling," she whispered. So quietly, barely uttering at all, so close we barely needed to at all.

"I could really come."

"We've done that before. Haven't we?" She asked.

"Uh huh."

A gentle push from Cindy and In a silky sigh the chiffon slid off my cock. She led me to the bed and lay back on the pillow with her hands beside her head. Her eyes were closed against the green apple glow from the porcelain bed lamp where a nymph and a shepherd maintained their century-long embrace for us.

For a moment I hovered above her.  Cindy's erection in that gossamer tent seemed enormous, casting a penumbra in the center of her body and I descended upon her luminous and numinous beacon and deliberately, delicately put her entire display into my mouth and sealed it with my lips. Softly I huffed the nightie off her swollen cock and back again, off and back again like a ventricle. 

Cindy groaned and stirred her legs. I lifted my head and pushed the hem of her nightie over her waist and turned on the bed so that my knees were next to her head and proceeded to give her a slow, tender blowjob. She reached across her chest to find my own cock and stroked it gently, absently, like a cat.

It was the kind of lovemaking that can go on a long time without detonating into orgasm; each of us drifting and lost in our own reveries, two boats on a still lake bobbing occasionally when a particularly erotic memory stirred the waters.

I found myself thinking about Bob. I was sure to take up his invitation. I imagined our first tryst, would it be at his place or mine? I tried to imagine myself in his home. What would I wear? A loose skirt or a short tight one like the mini dress he had peeped up at this evening. I must wear nice panties. The ones Cindy had worn tonight stirrred my imagination. Would she lend them to me? I saw myself presenting myself to him while wearing them. Their special whiteness, woven of that extinct nylon, the scalloped lace embellishment at legs, sweetly translucent, myself standing before him with my hands behind me, leaning backwards a little.

The image was too much. I groaned aloud around Cindy's erect cock and swung my hips off the end of the bed, the better to take her fully into my throat.

I could say that I swallowed her completely but that is not how 'deep throat' works. Actual swallowing is anathema to it -- one would choke, sucking, the creation of a vacuum around the penis is the last thing you want. The trick, I've found is to consider the throat as a fleshy tube and apply stimulation to the penis by sliding it in and out, preferably by a motion originating well down in your torso, keeping your head and neck rigid and your mouth WIDE.

This I did, with Bob's image in mind, on that day in the near future when we should consummate our friendship. Cindy began to moan in earnest.

"Darling, oh Betty, I love that. Oh, yes. Oh, God!"

I made noises of encouragement as best I could through my nose. Humming was counter-indicated for the reasons just given.

"Betty, sweetie..."

"Nng nn."

"Ohhh, when I come, oh, God! I want you to snowball me..."

"Nng nnn!" I sang my nasal affirmation.

And, as if just speaking her desire were enough to bring it to fruition, she began to buck and gasp.

I quickly moved Cindy's pulsing organ from my throat back to my oral cavity.  My lips closed tightly around her cock, I could taste her pre-cum. Nodding briskly I continued to give her head for a moment when my mouth was suddenly full of the hot, yeasty taste of her semen. She was making all sorts of cries and her hips kept rocking. Although she was still in the middle of an extended orgasm my mouth was full so I disengaged and extended my body atop her thrusting torso and closed my lips over her open mouth. We sealed the kiss. Inside that kiss I transferred the oyster of jizz in the hot broth of my saliva to Cindy and together we caressed each other's tongues and shared her wad between us. 

My erection was hard against her thigh, and though she was still dribbling out ejaculate Cindy moved her hand to my twitching cock and grasped it in a gathering of her mint green nightie and stroked me purposefully. I moaned at the chiffon-y feeling and a lava-flow of cum spilled from our unsealed mouths to pour down her cheek and onto the crisp pillowcase. I erupted and pumped my load again and again into voluminous clutch of lingerie, wondering, even as I cried and moaned and added another spurt to the abundance, how could Bob, how could Harold, how could anyone ever be able to make me cum harder than this?