Smelly Little Tranny

Mutant John tells me not to shower before I come over because he wants to smell the real me.

Ever loyal and thorough, I spend the Friday before I visit him in a series of nerve-wracking sales meetings that burn my deodorant off in seconds. I then head out for a few drinks with workmates, which inevitably turn into quite a lot of drinks.

At the end of the evening, I cop off with a barman who’s had his eye on me for a while. I choose tonight for this encounter because the barman is at least ten years younger than I am and will work me hard in bed, which he does on both Friday night and the following morning.

Dismissing the eager youth at about 9am, I go for a five-mile run. On my return home I do five hundred crunches in the garden, where the sun heats me further. After that, I do a thousand fast reps with two five-kilogram weights. This latter exercise keeps me tight and strong but not bulky, so I will always be a dress size twelve.

By now I am dripping, and very fragrant.

I lie on the grass in my garden and let the sweat dry as I watch a few wispy white clouds chase each other across the blue morning sky. I then head inside and juice carrots, spinach, kale, oranges, apples, and kiwis and gulp the resulting pint of obscene goodness, along with vitamin supplements and cod liver oil. Then coffee, more coffee, and muesli.

My sped-up metabolism will burn through that lot fast, but while it happens I go upstairs and start work on my hair and makeup. It is true that I am a stinking slut, but that’s no excuse for not looking good.

I break the rules slightly by using a wipe to cleanse my face and then moisturising, but if I don’t do that then makeup won’t stay on. I no longer have a beard or any body hair thanks to electrolysis rather than oestrogen, which I don’t take. I still like a good layer of foundation though, because of the contouring opportunities it offers.

I know I shall be worked hard again later, and that sex with Mutant John will be strange and probably involve submersion in something. I therefore select long-hold waterproof products and begin to enhance the beguiling shadows under my cheekbones and along my jaw. I then work liner around my large brown eyes but don’t make them too smoky, opting instead for natural browns with bold white along the brow bone.

I curl my long lashes and brush in mascara, dust on blusher, and bronzing powder so it’s absorbed by the foundation, and then I do my lips. Mutant John wants to kiss me a lot, so I refrain from my preferred red shade and go for the dark peach lippy I had on when we first met.

It was some months previously, and I had been traded on the Love Exchange, which meant I had sex to repay other people’s debts. Mutant John is a large, sixty-year-old Hell’s Angel with long grey hair, a beard, and a Harley as monstrous as he is. He was owed drug money by a man called Ronson, who I had literally whipped into a frenzy to repay the debt owed him a couple I met purely by chance when I followed a police officer who’d stopped me as I drove back from Candygirls. It had been an extreme night.

To repay Ronson’s debt, I agreed to let Mutant John do what he wanted to me. I allowed this because I could, and because to do so turned me on.

Mutant John’s choice of activity was to get me high, stalk me through the woods in my underwear and then fuck me. It was so sexy – until after an hour inside me, he keeled over with a heart attack.

I rushed to get help, Mutant John was carted off in an ambulance, and over the following months he slowly recovered. I visited him in hospital, then at his brother’s where he convalesced, and finally at his small ground floor flat in Crowborough. We never had sex because he wasn’t up to it.

He’s off the spliff as well on doctor’s orders, which is tough on him as growing it provides a third of his income. The rest is made up by repairs to massive Harley Davidson motorbikes, which not many people own in the UK because we don’t have the roads. Sure, throbbing black machines the size of living rooms look cool in the vast open spaces of California, but less so on the many pinch points of the A21.

The remaining third of Mutant John’s admittedly meagre income is from playing drums in a Screaming Lord Sutch tribute band. As well as being a significant if eccentric English rocker, the late Lord Sutch was also leader of the Official Monster Raving Loony Party, at a time when such movements were fringe eccentricities rather than the political mainstream. Mutant John’s band is called Streaming Lord Sutch, in a plucky attempt to interest generations unfamiliar with the original post-war austerity.

I finish the makeup, and then start on my hair.

My hair is in a little black bob, based on the style of my heroine, silent movie star Louise Brooks. I love my little black bob so much I wrote a book about my erotic adventures with it called, inevitably, My Black Bob. I read it to Mutant John as he reclined in his brother’s conservatory, and the stories inspired him. We have been waiting to have sex ever since.

Usually, when I want sex I go out and get it. This thing with Mutant John is different. It isn’t a relationship exactly, but when you’ve been in an extreme sexual situation followed by a life-and-death situation followed by a period in which the trans woman you were in that situation with turns out to be more loyal on the visiting front than many so-called friends then a definite bond develops.

It helps that I tell John about the people who fuck me, which he loves to hear about. It also helps that John’s brother is a health-obsessed tax accountant with the resources to ensure that John’s recovery is thorough and complete. Indeed, John now looks younger and slimmer, although his beard and hair are unchanged. He has also had a full STD test, and proudly shows me the text giving him the all-clear. He hasn’t been with anyone since that fateful night before Christmas.

The first person he is going to fuck is me, and he wants it dirty, hence my successful efforts to be the smelly little tranny that he desires.

I must have perfect hair though. Like the makeup, it’s essential that I appear to be one thing (a stylish, sophisticated transgender woman in her thirties) while being quite another (a rampant bisexual slut who is not yet a prostitute because she can’t be arsed with the admin). I’ve had the bob long enough now to be able to get it salon-sleek myself, although the dried sweat means it resists a bit today.

I leave it half-done, then head to the bathroom for a slight hangover/fucked-arse/coffee inspired voiding of the part of me that will be thoroughly and repeatedly penetrated in a few hours. This is only polite. I follow up with a quick douche, then a thorough wet wipe. I like sweat, but not scat.

My hair calms down during this process, and I complete the bob as I like it, with its straight, blunt fringe and little daggered curtains along my jaw. I slip my breasts into a black gym bra, my preferred style because it accommodates physical duress and blends better with my physique. I don’t bother with panties, stepping instead into a short, black PVC skirt, then pulling a black leather-style PVC jacket out of the wardrobe.

My handbag is by the bed. I put the makeup in it along with a new tube of Durex Play and two 25ml bottles of Blue Boy poppers. There are condoms already there, but I won’t need those, because Mutant John is going to come in me.

I rarely bareback, because despite being a slut I like the freedom that good sexual health affords. Mutant John is special though, and clean, so I’m going to let him.

Besides, there are other things he wants to do to me that a condom would get in the way of.

I’m excited now, I can tell because I’m giddy. I manage to put together a hefty brunch of bacon, toast, and eggs, then wash it down with more coffee. I’m pretty sure the only thing I’m getting fed later is cock, so I fuel up now and watch Cobra Kai on Netflix, determined to get some writing done after just one episode.

Five episodes and no writing later, it’s midday and I’m in the hall, checking my hair and makeup, after which I tentatively sniff my armpits.

Perfect.

I slide on the black PVC jacket and a pair of black boots, pick up my bag, decide it’s bright enough outside for sunglasses and slip those on too. Then I lock the house and head to my car, a reconditioned 1971 Triumph GT6 that’s as scarlet as my lusty soul.

I never enjoyed driving as much as I do now – indeed, before I transitioned, I wasn’t interested in cars at all other than for their utility. Now though I feel such a harmony with myself and my environment that the car seems an expression of it, like a symbol of freedom. As the fragrance of my body fills the car, I back out, gun the engine, and head for Crowborough.

...To be continued