Caught In the Tranny Master's Web

One of the nicest things about living in London's West End is how you can look out of your window at all the glitz and glamour, and feel like you're right in the middle of something big. And if something as big as Kurt's 14-inch cock happens to be pounding in and out of you while you look, then doesn't that just take the biscuit?

An over-endowed black German with a penchant for white suits and matching trilby hats, Kurt was known throughout 80s Soho as The Tranny Master. I had fallen under his influence when my boyfriend Gerry, a no-good former marine, had kind of sold me to him.

I say kind of, because I wasn't exactly a slave -- I could have said no! But where would that have left me? Along with Gerry, I'd been kicked out of the hostel where I used to live, when he was caught stealing clothes for me from the rooms of lady guests.

I had so many beautiful new clothes they wouldn't all fit in my case. So when Gerry pleaded with me to meet a friend of his, and to come dressed as a woman, I decided to grasp the nettle -- and left all my male clothes behind at the hostel!

Gerry's car had picked me up as agreed -- only Gerry hadn't been behind the wheel! Kurt had been driving, and he'd given me a simple choice; either go on the game to repay Gerry's gambling debts, or make my own arrangements.

I've never been particularly indecisive, and finding myself standing in the car park of a shabby hostel, wearing a dress and heels, with passers-by gawking and raindrops beginning to splash everywhere, had proven very persuasive!

So I was driven across London, from its eastern slums towards its fashionable centre, where I was given a room to share with Monica, a transvestite just like me, who would soon become the best friend I've ever known.

But before we could so much as say hello, Kurt began pounding me. I hadn't even put my suitcase down, when he ordered me to lean against the window sill. That's how I got to see our impressive view of Chinatown, with all its night-time bustle, for the very first time.

Peering out of the window, I hardly paid any attention as he spread my legs wide apart and pulled my panties down over my butt cheeks towards my stocking tops. I might have shuddered slightly when he fingered me, but only because the lube was cold -- I was blissfully ignorant of what was about to happen next...

They didn't call Kurt The Tranny Master without good reason! His manhood truly was enormous; not just incredibly long, but thick, juicy and hard as steel. As he sank into me, I let out a desperate cry, and felt my knees turning to jelly.

In an instant, I was utterly at his mercy, for two or three strong thrusts would have destroyed me. It is true to say he held my life on his cock! "Tell me," he enquired in a menacing drawl, sliding his ramrod piston slowly up inside me till I could feel warm pre-cum teasing my very epicentre, "are you going to be a good little whore?"

"Oh yes!" I croaked. "I'm going to be a very good little whore!"

Slowly, he began withdrawing his long, fat tool from my burning butt-hole, and I teetered unsteadily as, reaching my rim with his cherry, he teasingly feigned an exit before plunging back into me, causing my legs to finally buckle.

I was fully upon him now, skewered by my anus like an olive on a cocktail stick. My legs flailed wildly, causing my pretty white boots to rub erratically against Kurt's trousers. To help steady me, he took a firm grip on my shoulders, sinking his smouldering lips into the nape of my neck.

As he treated me to a long, warm necking, he bounced me on his groin, and I sank further onto his throbbing manhood than I would ever have believed possible. To this day, I swear I don't know what was separating his red end from my heart! The shock simply overwhelmed me, and I swooned...

But I wasn't unconscious for long. I soon revived, only to find myself lying on the bed, facing Kurt as he ploughed me remorselessly whilst stroking my stockings. He'd taken advantage of my little faint to increase his pace substantially, and was now thumping away like a steam hammer!

Looking into his dark, clinical eyes, I realized what I meant to him -- and it wasn't good news! To Kurt, I was simply a slab of meat, and he was only fucking me to assess my commercial potential.

As the harsh truth of my situation began to sink in, I felt my butt searing, and tears began welling in my eyes. I almost screamed in frustration, but just then Kurt let out a grunt of satisfaction, as my anus filled with long, soothing spurts of hot creamy cum.

"Clean me up," he ordered, waving his semi-erect colossus contemptuously into my face. "And then change into something you can work in!" Nodding obediently, I sat up and began slowly licking my butt juices off Kurt's simmering meat rod.

Starting at his mighty stem, I tongued him judiciously, lapping up the mixture of his clear, salty cream and my off-brown anal fluid with a pretence at enjoyment I hoped would impress my powerful new boss. And I wasn't wrong! Because by the time the tip of my tongue reached his cherry, it was showing fresh signs of growth!

A panic struck me, as I trembled at the thought of my tender bum being subjected to second helpings so soon. But Kurt simply wasn't interested in more sex. "Leave off me, whore!" he chided, pushing his manhood abruptly inside his trousers. "There's no time for that now -- you gotta get to work!"

That first night, I worked on the door. Wearing a gold lamé miniskirt and matching boob-tube, my skimpy outfit was completed with black, seamed hold-up stockings and silver stiletto sandals, whose strapless design and extreme height made them hard to stand in, let alone walk.

That was because Kurt didn't want me getting any ideas about wandering off!

Whilst the door to the apartment I was now sharing with Monica was rather shabby, with peeling paint and several broken bell-ringers, it was far from out of place in the neighbourhood. Back in the 80s, Soho was the epitome of sleaze -- and transvestite hookers were just one exotic item on many a sex tourist's list of things to see (and sometimes do!)...

Teetering over six feet high in my stilettos, I felt nervous and extremely vulnerable, standing just inside our open doorway whilst smiling blindly towards the crowded night. I was now one of London's attractions - in much the same way as Big Ben or Buckingham Palace!

I knew that to some, I was an object of curiosity, whilst many others would think me a derisory creature. But who plans to make a living by dressing in skimpy women's clothes and smiling at strangers? And when a drunken lout decides to become loudly abusive, what do we learn? Should the likes of me be locked up simply for existing - or do such louts live in mortal fear of their own, darkest desires?

As people passed me by that night, I found myself on the receiving end of every kind of smile, sneer and cruel jibe. But I soon got used to the attention, learning quickly how to pose with an alluring pout and one sandal arched across the door, so I might shut it, fast and firmly, if needs be. And I also learnt how to spot the punters -- like needles in a haystack -- and beckon them in under a cloak of absolute discretion.

Typically, our customers kept their collars up and wore a hat and scarf; anything to make them hard to identify. They glanced furtively at the door from across the road, hesitating for a time. But once they made up their minds, they always strode purposefully towards me, heads down but eyes fixed on my boob-tube.

And another thing they had in common was a mid-stroll tussle with their left hands. God knows why, because anyone could guess they were married. But for some reason, most men don't like screwing tranny hookers with their wedding rings on!

"Next time, I'm going to do you!" He smelt of stale beer and tobacco, and his halitosis would have made a camel blush. Putting his hand under my miniskirt, he groped my lace panties and squeezed mercilessly. "Better be more pleased to see me than that!" he griped, kissing my cheek on his way through the door.

Wearily, I locked up behind this final punter, hoping he wouldn't fulfil his promise without at least taking a bath! But if he did, he was sure to be disappointed -- back in my home town, vicious thugs who'd caught me dressed as a woman had repeatedly flung me, groin first, into a metal banister post. I've never functioned properly since...

As I climbed the stairs into the room I was to share with Monica, daylight was threatening to peek through the curtains, while out on the street, a garbage truck noisily emptied bins. I found her lying on the bed, wearing black panties and a matching bra - a laddered stocking testifying to her last punter's lack of finesse.

"God I'm knackered!" she confessed, wiping sweat from her brow whilst lighting a cigarette. "Come over here and introduce yourself properly!"

I sat next to her on the bed, keenly aware that an electric undercurrent was passing between us; something that simultaneously terrified and fascinated me. At 23, Monica was older than I was, and far more experienced. She took my hand, placed it upon her crotch, and stared intensely into my face with her beautiful, deep green eyes...

I couldn't have resisted her lips for long -- not once I realized we were wearing the same lipstick! But I didn't have to try, for I soon felt Monica pulling my face towards hers, and burying her tongue deep into the back of my mouth whilst urging me to massage her crotch.

As we lay down, I became aware that, unlike me, Monica had a fully functioning penis. It was bulging inside her panties, threatening to break her knicker elastic. As I gently began massaging her, several drops of pre-cum leaked across my fingers, which I lapped up lustfully.

Hoping to reciprocate, her palm glided over my panties, and I felt her suddenly hesitate, as her fingers identified my plight. "You've been posted?" she asked, and I nodded tearfully. "The rotten bastards! But don't worry," she whispered cheerfully, "we can still have fun! Just do everything to me that I do to you -- okay?"

Bidding me to stretch out fully, Monica turned around, then climbed on top of me - placing her lips above my toes. She began sucking and blowing through my stockings, and I gingerly followed suit, carefully tonguing her moist, painted toenails.

Inch by inch, we worked our way up each other's legs, sucking, kissing and caressing through nylon until we finally reached our groins. Here, surely, all such tit-for-tat titillation had to end? For here, I had oh, so little to offer!

But darling Monica had other ideas! Twisting her neck inwards, she began lapping around my bum-hole; rimming me for dear life as I twisted in spasms of pure ecstasy. And as I eagerly returned the favour, drops of her warm pre-cum began to drip-feed onto my boob-tube, as her throbbing chopper stretched teasingly towards my tender nipples...

Eventually, Monica could wait no longer for succour, and presented her cock before my pouting lips. Her endowment was blissfully average, yet I've rarely taken so much pleasure in placing a cock in my mouth - I was more than desperate to please such an incredible friend!

In turn, she took my flaccid and pathetic tackle between her cheeks and, through miraculous manipulations, managed to persuade it to cough up some warm, salty cream just as she was pumping her own, delicious cum into the back of my throat!

Turning around to face me once more, Monica passionately kissed my lips, and began sluicing my cum with her own, until our collective cream had been mixed, gurgled and swallowed. I guess that ritual was a sacrament to our friendship - because we never felt the need to do it again.

At length, Monica sat up and lit a cigarette, while I cradled her bosom, rubbing her implants softly against my cheek. "What's with the tattoo?" I asked eventually. I was referring to the scrawl on her right butt cheek, which I'd spotted whilst rimming her. It had kind of alarmed me!

"Try not to borrow money off Kurt," Monica replied testily. "That's how I got my boobs done, only I couldn't make the repayments -- so he had me tattooed!"

"I see!" I replied, and went on to explain how Kurt had agreed to settle Gerry's gambling debts, in exchange for my working for him. The more I talked about the deal, the more Monica squirmed.

"It's the way Kurt adds interest to his loans," Monica confessed. "No matter how much you pay him, you can never clear the debt! Right now, I owe him twice what my boobs cost in the first place -- and I haven't got a penny to my name. That's why my tattoo says what it does - he literally owns my ass!"

Monica's tattoo reads: © The Tranny Master

Taking a big draw on the cigarette we were sharing, I determined to look on the bright side. I knew deep down that Gerry loved me, so surely he'd never be so stupid and selfish as to sign me into penury?

But then I began wondering where he was exactly -- what on earth had happened to him? I hadn't actually seen Gerry for a couple of days, as he'd not bothered turning up when Kurt collected me from the hostel.

I resolved to track him down -- and fast. Just in case there had been some kind of awful misunderstanding...