Trans-demic

Chinese Flu

Sam Wong read the email from Josh Epstein, the partner in charge of the fiendishly complicated real estate deal that had consumed the last three months of their lives.

“You’re going to have to close this deal without me. I’m sick as a dog, and my wife just called an ambulance to take me to Bellevue. I just hope it’s not that fucking Chinese Flu. Do whatever it takes to get this done.”

Sam flinched at the slur but was used to minority bashing that goes on behind closed doors of politically correct law firms like Knight & Knight, the Wall Street sweatshop where Josh was Sam’s supervisor. Josh wielded all the power as the head of K&K’s real estate department, and he always assigned Sam to his biggest and most complex deals. Sam searched the documents for Josh’s signature pages.

“You have three missing signatures, plus the firm signature on the closing opinion.”

Only partners could sign closing opinions, and the trajectory of Sam’s legal career had missed that mark.

“Copy and paste them from archival documents, I’ll give you ink signatures when I’m out of the hospital.”

“Can you send me an email directing me to do that?”

“Yeah, I will, but just do it!”

Josh was the partner; Sam was his underling, in no position to argue, much less refuse.

“No problem, Josh, I’ll make it happen.”

Sam heard coughing, a thud as his phone dropped, then nothing.

She googled “Chinese Flu.” It was a cruel name that the President had tagged on the SARS-CoV-2, the new coronavirus that had surfaced in Wuhan, China. After killing thousands in China and Italy, it was rampaging through the New York City suburb where Josh lived.

Big Law

Sam spent most of the next week in K&K's office high above Downtown LA, billing eighteen hours a day, handling all the calls, pretending to consult Josh, and inventing commentaries in his distinctively profane Brooklyn idiom, pretending he was on top of the deal when in reality, he was fighting for his life on a ventilator.

Without any help or advice, Sam negotiated and finalized all the documents on a sale and leaseback of a portfolio of twelve office buildings valued at a billion dollars. Josh was incommunicado, in an ICU, without his cell phone. Sam was stressed, downing Adderall with Expressos all day, then boozing and popping Ambient to get four hours of drunk, drugged sleep, awakening from one nightmare to live its sequel in real life the next day.

Josh’s absence would be no excuse if K&K failed to close the deal; Sam would be blamed, and be vilified, even though Sam had never blown a closing. Sam had to succeed, no matter what.

Not that any success, or the weekends and vacations Sam had canceled to attain them, would advance Sam’s standing at K&K. Christmas 2018 had brought Sam the professional equivalent of a lump of coal: Sam had been designated a “counsel”, the purgatory to which big law firms relegated senior associates deemed too useful and profitable to terminate, but not worthy of promotion to partnership.

Sam had dreamed of becoming the first MtF Trans partner in big law. But K&K had rebuffed her, and the headhunters who usually swarmed around disappointed counsel seeking outplacement had spurned her too. Big Law wasn’t ready for an MTF transgender partner.

Josh probably knew that, and he had probably sabotaged her partnership run at K&K, secretly preferring to keep Sam as his trusty subordinate. But the K&K’s managing partners had also spurned Sam, unwilling to admit an androgyne like her into their inner circle.

So Sam had recalibrated. A career as a “counsel” would be less lucrative, and the billable hours demands on counsel were closer to slave-like conditions of associates than to the seigneurial status of partners. But a counsel was an employee, with all of the protections of Title VII against discrimination. So she’d disclosed her intention to make a transsexual transition to HR. K&K’s antidiscrimination policies would require the firm to cooperate with the transition of Sam as an employee.

She’d been on hormone blockers and low-dose HRT since college, Having come out as trans, she accelerated her HRT, increasing the estrogen and adding progesterone, and her boobs and butt blossomed. She’d scheduled FFS and boob implants three times, but she’d canceled three times because Josh demanded her time and attention on his deals, and, she suspected because he was afraid that a fully transitioned Sam might spook the clients.

So she’d hidden her budding breasts and her broadening butt beneath men’s shirts and trousers and concealed her femininizing persona behind a blisteringly sarcastic, profane, and aggressive demeanor.

Everyone respected Sam as a demon for details and a demanding deal runner, whose Time, Task, and Responsibility charts were updated twice daily and identified the laggards ruthlessly for shaming.

But now it was K&K that was delaying the deal, but before anyone could object, Sam photoshopped Josh’s missing signatures and emailed the forty-five documents comprising the closing documents to a list of twenty recipients. Then she entered her eighteenth hour of billable time for the day and shut down her computer.

K&K’s offices were empty and dark as she walked through the corridors of its 45th-floor office; motion detection lights flickered on and off; the office was almost eerie devoid of the daytime bustle of staff, lawyers, and clients. As she walked by the security desk, Mario the front desk guard looked up from his phone and smiled.

“¿Otro medio día, abogado? Another half day, counselor?”

"Como de costumbre, apago las luces de la oficina, As usual, I turn out the office lights.”

Sam practiced her college Spanish at every opportunity. Like Sam’s native Chinese, it provided little benefit at the office, but unlike Chinese, it paid huge dividends on the dating apps.

Sam walked past tottering drunks pouring into and spilling out of the bars of LA Live, the scattered homeless encampments on Figueroa, to the nearby condo which Samatha had already infused with her feminine tastes: Pre Raphaelite Prints on the walls, a frilly quilt, plush toys and satin pillowcases on the bed, and red roses in the vases.

In her home, and on her nights out, Sam became Samantha. Deterred, and delayed from realizing her feminine identity by day, she had become a femme fatale of the night.

Date Night

Samantha assembled and swallowed her nighttime meds: a 400 mg Zovirax to control herpes she’d gotten from a freshman-year girlfriend, her first and last. In her new role as the submissive girl, she needed her lips to always be blowjob ready.

She took her second dose of HRT, 4 mg. of estradiol, and 400 mcg of micronized progesterone to grow her almost b-cup boobs; to 200 mg. of Aldactone to sissy-size her three-inch dick-clit and cherry-sized testi-clettes; and the second dose of a Truvada in a 2 1 1 PrEP, to HIV-proof her for what she hoped would be a sexy night. She douched her ass, showered, and moisturized. It was after midnight by the time she’d finished her makeup and caging her dick-clit.

Her mind was still racing, imagining what she might have missed in the deal, angry at Josh for ordering her to fake his signatures. She’d delivered the documents for the deal, a billion dollars of Class B office towers, but if there were any problems, she would own a sizeable share of them.

She blew out her hair, applied cosmetics for a demure but enticing look, put on a black silk top and pantaloons, silver stiletto heels and a silver metallic jacket

She opened her OkC app, connected with a hot Latino guy near DTLA, set up a meet-up at her favorite bar, then headed out to celebrate and to calm her rattled nerves with a drink, and, she hoped, a good hard fuck.

The maître d’ of Elevation greeted her as Samantha, waived the cover charge, and seated her at the bar. Her favorite bartender, Antoine, ignored a Latino guy and waited on her.

“Are you having the usual, senorita?”

“Yeah but only after you serve that hot guy you just ignored and pissed off.”

“Of course, sweetie."

Antoine opened a Modelo for the hot guy and brought Samantha a martini, fuming grey mist from a chip of dry ice.

“Don’t burn your lips, you may need them for the hot guy who just bought you this drink.”

The guy circled the bar and took the bar stool beside her.

“Is that drink radioactive?”

“Could be, it doesn’t matter, because so am I.”

“Agree that you’re the bomb, but you’re nuclear?”

“Worse than Fukushima, cuz I’m trans.”

“Would never have guessed that.”

“It’s in my OkC profile.”

“I never got past the picture, you’re so perfect.”

“Except for the T. Can I keep my drink?”

“For sure, and the next one’s on me too.”

Samantha looked into his eyes for the first time. He seemed sure of himself and sincere.

She stirred the hissing dry ice into oblivion, then took the bracing first sip of icy vodka.

“God that’s good, all it needs is a kiss to be perfect.”

She closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and uttered a silent prayer to the god she’d never believed in. Her prayers were answered with a brush of his firm lips against her trembling lips, a flicker of tongues, and a gasp when they parted. Antoine noticed the passion.

“I deserve an extra good tip for that martini.”

The hot guy gave him a thumbs up.

“So I’m Jules, your DTLA paramedic, who are you?”

“I’m Samantha, your DTLA paralegal. So we’re both para somethings.”

Sam always lied about being a lawyer, wary of scaring guys off.

“How’s life in law land:”

“It’s a grind, the partners I work for are jerks, the clients are double jerks, and the parties on the other side are triple jerks or worse. How about you?

“My job’s getting worse all the time too. Just when I got used to the homeless overdosing and dying, we get nonstop emergency transports of seniors with respiratory distress.”

“The partner I work for went from screaming at a financial advisor during his last conference call to calling me barely able to speak three hours later. Normally he sends me at least twenty emails a day. For the last week, nada. He called it the Chinese Flu.”

“I’ve heard it called that. You’re Chinese?”

“Haven’t been there in ten years, and work in the most Anglo business in the world, surrounded by asshole white guy lawyers. But go ahead, blame la Chinita.”

“It doesn’t matter where a virus started, worry about where it’s going.”

“It’s going strong in New York.”

“Here too; we picked up an old dude at a nursing home in East Hollywood today. He was breathless but still talking to me, but by the time we got to Good Samaritan, twenty minutes later, he was dead. Gave him oxygen, and some epinephrine, but nothing helped, he was gone.”

“We live in interesting times, to quote a Chinese proverb.”

Sam gave Jules what she hoped was an inviting gaze. He returned it and clasped her hand.

“So what are we going to do?”

“Dance, before we die.”

He guided her to the dance floor, where a gay couple were dancing languidly to some dated disco. She’d taught herself the girl’s steps in Salsa from YouTube and they danced some simple steps. The DJ noticed and upped the tempo of his tunes. Jules danced salsa like an expert, and he spun and twirled her until she was dizzy and sweaty.

“Let’s stop before my makeup melts.”

“Right, Fukushima lady, don’t meltdown on the dance floor”

“Let’s meltdown in my bedroom. I live nearby.”

“I’d love to see your place and discover your secrets.”

“No secrets, no limits, I’m yours until morning.”

Jules gestured to Antoine, he cashed out the tab, and they whooshed down the elevator. Jules wrapped her in his arms, squeezed her butt, lifted her from my feet, and kissed her deeply.

“You’re like a flower in a porcelain vase, fragrant but firm.”

“You’re like an action movie superhero. I can’t wait to see how hard you can make my mattress bounce.”

“Can’t wait to show you. I like rough sex, OK with you?”

“As long as I’m receiving, it’s my specialty.”

He clapped her ass cheeks so hard the elevator rocked. She was still squealing when the elevator doors opened and a crowd of last-call drunks heard the last peals of her cries. They laughed and high-fived them.

“Have fun kids.”

“Thanks, we definitely will.”

Jules had a handicap pass so he’d parked nearby.

“I collect these, it’s yours if you want one.”

“Don’t have a car.”

“No car in LA, impossible.”

“I got a couple of DUIs; it was either give up driving or drinking; that’s a no-brainer.”

He parked in her empty parking place and they ascended to her upper-floor condo. He looked out her window at the rooftop bar they’d just left.

“Wow, nice view, great place.”

She pointed to her wet bar and handed him a remote connected to her porn computer.

Night Cap

“Make me a Kettle One on the rocks, get comfortable, and find some mood media, OK?”

She ass douched, showered off the dance floor sweat, moisturized, touched up her makeup, fluffed her hair, re-caged her cock, inserted a feathered metal butt plug, and put on a purple lace teddy with a back door entrance. He was watching Sheylla W getting railed bareback by a Brazilian BBC.

“I love that video. I wish I had her lips, tits, and ass, and I love how she takes those big Brazilian dicks up her ass.”

“Yours are just as perfect, and my dick’s bigger than that thug’s.”

“Let’s see about that.”

She unzipped his pants, freed his cock from his underwear, and licked it from ball sack to tip, then kissed and sucked the tip.

“Yummy, bigger and better than my favorite burrito.”

He entwined his fingers in her hair and guided her head up and down, faster and harder, until she gagged and coughed.

She gazed up at him through tear-blurred eyes.

“Sorry, out of practice, all work and no play since New Year's.”

He pulled the feathered butt plug; it exited with a splunk; she handed him some lube, and he thumb fucked her hole while she blew him some more.

“That’s a tight hole, so hot.”

She wiped her saliva from his cock and smeared it on her hole.

“There’s lube in that drawer.”

“Any condoms?”

“Sure, Maxxum XL’s, but they’re optional. I’m on Prep and tested negative for everything last week.”

“Wow, like a dream come true.”

She propped her ass on a pillow and positioned herself with her legs up, wrists pinning her ankles behind her head.

“It’s my favorite position.”

“As helpless as a trussed hen.”

“Fuck me like an angry bird.”

He thumbed lube in her hole, smoothed more on his dick, slapped it on her hole, poised it, and plunged. Sam felt like a bomb had blown up inside her, spreading fire, shock waves, and shrapnel through her butt and belly.

“Oh my fucking god, you’re huge.”

“So hot, so tight, I love the way your culo spasms.”

Her legs twitched, her eyes rolled back, her arms strained, her back ached, and she stifled a scream.

“So fucking deep, fuck me harder, deeper.”

He twisted her sideways and pounded her exposed ass.

“That’s it, that’s how I like it, smash that ass pussy.”

He planted his foot on her face, lifted her leg, and rammed and slammed her. Her tiny titties shook, her cock and balls were battered by his banging ball sack.

“Oh my god, you’re a beast.”

“You’re the tastiest fuck meat ever.”

“Can I ride you?”

He spun her around, lifted her, aligned her ass with his cock, and bucked upward. His dick jolted her guts from below, she groaned, then he seized her hips and banged her down as he thrust upwards. Her hair flew, the bed bounced, their flesh smacked; she lost count of the thrusts.

She was breathless and flushed and his brow was beaded with sweat when he rolled her over and spooned her, slow-fucking her deep. Her ass acclimated to Jules’ cock, and warm waves of dopamine swirled through her body and soothed the stress.

“God, I needed that dick so much, dildoes and fuck machines just don’t push my buttons the way you do.”

“Your ass pussy’s so good, so much hotter and tighter than regular pussy.”

“Am I your first trans?”

“Never knew what I was missing out on until now.”

“You’re far from my first fuck, but you’re my GOAT.”

“Rough enough, but not too much?”

Only rough sex could blow away the failed boy, liberate the trapped girl inside Sam’s psyche, and obliterate the anxieties caused by her stresses by practicing law amongst the snakes of big-time business law.

“You can amp it up, blow away all the stress of my crazy life with more abuse and humiliation: slap my pretty face, my itty bitty titties, my butt cheeks, and balls.”

“Anything you say, just tell me when to stop.”

He spanked her face, ass, and barely blossomed boobs pink. Her skin felt like it was on fire, but she craved more. Pain purified her and made her submission complete.

“Spank my cage, choke me.”

He pounded her tiny testicles, they throbbed, almost bursting from blows and the tightness of the cage’s ring, his hand squeezed her larynx, and she barely breathed, anoxia intensified her perception of Jules’ cock pounding her prostate.

She smiled and batted her eyes, speechless, but he understood.

“That’s the TG spot, right.”

She nodded, and he pounded down at the precise angle she needed, stabbing past the colon to batter her shrunken prostate. She writhed, then spasmed, then a drizzle cum leaked from the cage and puddled on her belly. He scooped her little load into his palm and rubbed it on her lips. She sucked it in, showed it off on her tongue, then swallowed it.

“Mmm, the sweet and salty taste of success.”

“That was so awesome, but now it’s my turn.”

“Flip me over and prone bone me.”

He spit on her hole, plunged his dick back in, and pulled her hair as he banged her from behind. His dick plunged so deep, it seemed to brush her navel from inside.

“Cum inside me, fill me up, I’m your cum dump slut.”

“Holy shit, I’m cumming.”

His thrusts intensified, then quieted, and she felt a warm rush of semen coat her inner spaces. He pulled out, and she caught his load as it sputtered from her gaping hole. She slurped it from her cupped hand and swallowed it.

“Yum, much better than my girly cum.”

She sucked the last drops from his cock and licked off the lube and her ass juices.

“Better than a happy meal.”

“Better than anything. Samantha, you’re hotter than all the porn stars.”

“I’ve studied them all. I’m a trans-porn addict.”

“I love porn too, but you’re my favorite now.”

“You brought out the bad girl in me. I had a lot of pent-up demons, for the last three months, work has been a bitch: all work and no play made Samantha a very horny whore.”

“Never knew paralegals had it so hard.”

“Sorry, I lied, I’m like, almost a partner, at a big law firm. I just closed a billion-dollar deal.”

“That explains this oh-so-sweet condo.”

“The pay is pretty good, but I’ve worked twelve-hour days since Thanksgiving, including Christmas. And tomorrow, I have a call at seven.”

“Is that an invitation to leave?”

“It’s an invitation to stay, but no fucking, or talking, during my call. Before 6:30 and after that, anything goes until 9, when I have to go to the office.”

Sam sipped her now watery Kettle One.

“I need a bath. Do you want to wash my back?”

“Hell yeah!”

Jules flipped up her butt-washing bidet seat and he dangled his dick over the bowl.

“Wait, don’t waste that pee.”

She led him to her jacuzzi tub, activated the jets, knelt in the swirling waters, and sucked his cock hard.

“Oh my god, that’s awesome, but I need to pee.”

She lubed her ass, grabbed the slip bar, and aimed her ass upwards.”

“Piss up my fun hole.”

“Is that safe?”

“It’s almost mandatory in euro and Brazilian porn.”

She pressed her feet onto the slip strips and pressed her ass back on his dick. He slid in her gaped hole, she flexed her sphincters, squeezing and releasing his cock.

“Hold it as long as you can.”

“Oh fuck, I can’t, I have to go, oh my god!”

He pissed a hot geyser up her ass.

“Oh my god, it’s like a fire hose inside my hole.”

He pulled out and collapsed in the bubbling waters.

“Best piss ever.”

“And the best ass douche ever."

She ran to the toilet, her ass hissed out Jules’ piss, clear and golden. She made two more Kettle Ones, and they exchanged foot massages in her jacuzzi. When the drinks were gone, and bubbles stopped, they dried one another and slept, cuddled like spoons.