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| Sweet
Transvestite |
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| by
Thomas Roche |
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When Brooke saw the
Rocky Horror Picture Show poster on the wall, she knew she was
going to wank. It's not like it should have surprised her; after
all, she had spent her last two years in this house fetishizing
that image, dreaming about that pout on Tim Curry's face coming
wickedly close to hers. She'd also spent a substantial portion of
her last two years in this house fighting with her supposedly
libertine mom over that poster ("It's not that I object, I just
don't understand why you would want to look at a picture like that
every day!") Mom had finally given in and shut up about it, but to
the day Brooke went away to college, she'd avoided coming into
Brooke's bedroom.
Brooke dropped her bags by the door and climbed onto the single
bed, inhaling the clean scent of fresh sheets and looking around
her room at the memorabilia of her late childhood: Edvard Munch
blow-up doll; postcards from London, Prague and Amsterdam; Senior
Civics final project collage of abortion clinic bombings. She
kicked off her running shoes and stretched out, staring up at the
Rocky Horror picture. It had been a full year since Brooke had
been home, having moved cross-country for an internship right
after college, moving permanently when the internship turned into
a job, skipping Thanksgiving and Christmas because Mom was in
Jamaica with her new boyfriend.
A year was a long time; maybe that's why the image of Tim Curry
decked out in fishnets, corset, makeup and a lush mane of dark
hair had such an effect on her. But she couldn't help but think
how that poster had been such a bone of contention between her mom
and her. In the year since she'd been gone, why hadn't Mom taken
it down? Could it be that she'd finally gotten over herself, maybe
chalked Brooke's late-teen fascination with crossdressing men down
to some harmless hobby like repeated viewings of Some Like it Hot?
Lucky she'd never found out about the drugs Brooke consumed at her
24-month binge of weekly midnight movies -- weed, vodka, Zima,
Boone's apple wine, generic tequila, nitrous oxide and cocaine.
That, or the sex. Could you even really call it sex, Brooke
wondered? She thought of it more as drunken recreation, and it
never went very far. At least, not as far as her fantasies did.
Brooke remembered her adolescent fumblings with Tim, who played
Frank-N-Furter in the cast that re-enacted Rocky Horror every
Saturday night in the flickering light under the screen. In her
postpubescent hormone-drenched fervor, she'd thought it was the
coolest thing in the world that the 19-year-old wannabe actor was
named "Tim," just like Tim Curry, who played the character in the
film. But what really fascinated her was the way his legs looked
in fishnets, the way his lithe body moved in a corset. Tim had
been a pretty mediocre kisser and too drunk to do much with those
long-fingered hands, but their three heated makeout sessions
remained some of the most intense sexual memories of Brooke's
life. She would have lost her virginity to him in a minute if the
idiot hadn't always been too drunk. She wondered if the real Tim
Curry would have been a better lay.
That thought sent a surge of pleasure through Brooke's body.
Suddenly inspired, she squirmed out of the jeans she'd worn on the
plane, slipped off the baggy sweatshirt and unhitched her bra. She
stretched on the bed, vaguely annoyed at the fact that there was
so little room to stretch out -- she'd invested in a queen bed a
year ago and had been enjoying it thoroughly. But then she got a
wicked smile on her face and felt more than a little titillated,
remembering all the times she'd wanked in this very bed thinking
about Frank-N-Furter. Staring up at Tim Curry, Brooke casually
slipped her hand into her thong and gasped as she felt her finger
slide easily into her. Either Tim and his fishnets still carried
an intense charge for her, or her mind had been wandering on the
plane more than she'd noticed. She suspected it was a little of
both. Then she was seized with a sudden powerful, erotic thought
that sent a wave through her body.
She bounded off the bed and dug through her backpack, pawing clean
underwear and dirty magazines out of the way. She ran across her
pocket vibrator and tossed it onto the bed for later reference.
Near the bottom she found her portable MP3 player. It took her a
few minutes of scrolling through songs before she found it. She'd
downloaded it months ago in a fit of nostalgia, then promptly
forgot about it until now: "Sweet Transvestite." She set the
player on repeat, put her headphones on and returned to the bed.
Normally Brooke masturbated on her stomach, but this time she
wanted to stare Tim Curry right in the face -- and be able to run
her eyes over the line of his legs in those fishnets, so she
stayed on her back. The way he was positioned in the poster, she
couldn't really see his crotch, but no matter: in her fantasy, the
fantasy she'd had what seemed like a thousand times since she
first saw the movie, her imagination filled out Tim's crotch quite
nicely. That pair of bulging black lace panties held a long, thin
cock that sent Brooke's head into a spin. She pressed "play" on
the MP3 player and twisted the vibrator's control.
"How do you do? I see you've met my faithful handyman," crooned
Frank-N-Furter privately into Brooke's ear as the vibrator slid
easily into her thong and touched her clit. Her response was
immediate, faster than it almost ever was: power coursed through
her body, her stifled gasp sounding loud in the small room even
over the breathy voice singing "...he thought you were the
Candyman..." as she bucked and arched her back, her buttocks
leaving the bed. Staring at the poster, she imagined herself
dropping to her knees in front of that crooning diva, slipping her
hand into his lace panties and tugging them down to reveal his
long, hard cock, the tip glistening with pre-come. She could
almost taste it as she changed hands, opened her mouth and slipped
a finger in, licking her own juices off and imagining that
Frank-N-Furter's pre-come tasted like her pussy. She imagined her
mouth on his cock, sliding easily up and down with her hand
cupping his balls as he sang to her: "I'm just a sweet
transvestite from transsexual Transylvania..."
Now she was climbing to her feet, bending over one of those
antique couches and putting her ass in the air as Tim kept singing
flawlessly, never missing a note as Magenta guided his cock
between Brooke's legs, tugging her thong out of the way. Brooke's
body responded almost viscerally as she imagined his long, thin
cock parting her lips and sliding into her, finding her pussy as
wet in the fantasy as it was in reality. She pressed the vibrator
harder against her clit and rocked her hips in time with Tim
Curry's cock as it slid all the way into her, her hand lingering
around the entrance to her pussy so she could feel his balls
gently rubbing her clit. Tim kept singing as he began to fuck her
in long, rapid, even strokes: "...stay for the night? Or maybe a
bite?" She could almost feel his cock hitting her G-spot as she
smothered herself in Magenta's cleavage. She slipped two fingers
inside her while the vibrator worked her clit, and opened her eyes
wide to look into Tim's beautiful face as she approached her
orgasm.
But one thing still remained in Brooke's fantasy; it was something
she'd almost forgotten, maybe in a fit of adolescent embarassment.
She had spent so much time during her Rocky Horror days worrying
about getting pregnant -- even though she didn't lose her
virginity until the year she left for college -- that even in her
fantasies she could never let a guy come in her pussy. Maybe
that's why, in her vivid Tim Curry fantasy, Dr. Frank-N-Furter
always pulled out just before he came. Pulled out, and slid into
her ass.
She'd never done it in reality, which is why she was so shocked
when she felt one finger trailing down her pussy, felt the sudden
pulse of bravery that told her she was going to go further than
before. She knew you were supposed to use lube and everything, so
she never would have actually put it in, but of course in the
fantasy there was no lube involved. She touched her slick finger
between her cheeks and, without pushing at all, felt an avalanche
of sensation that set her off into an orgasm as she imagined Tim
Curry's cock sliding smoothly and repeatedly into her ass, his
singing finally faltering as he exploded inside her, flooding her
with his thick come.
Brooke could feel the lingering spasms of her fading climax as she
sang along softly with the MP3 player. "I'm just a sweet
transvestite..."
Brooke smiled. It was going to be a long week at home.
Thomas S. Roche's books include the Noirotica series and the short
story collection Dark Matter. His stories have appeared in many
anthologies, including the Best American Erotica series and this
year's Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica..
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