F4: Life in Suspension

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(Author’s note: This story is an entry into FAWC (Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge), a collaborative competition among Lit authors. FAWC is not an official contest sponsored by Literotica, and there are no prizes given to the winner. This FAWC was based around the theme of music, with four songs given to choose from. The song that inspired this story was mostly “Tomorrow We’ll See” by Sting but to challenge myself, I added bits of all the others.)

* * * *

Hello. My name is Alexus Mano Leia, and this is about me, but at the same time not about me.

It can be said that in this world, you owe your existence to many external factors. Every decision made, not just by you, but by all those you come into contact with plays a part in your life.

In my case? I own my life to the drink the Mai Tai.

Well, to be exact, about eight of them. That was how many it took to make my mom lose all her inhibitions and decide that my dad was not only handsome, but so fuckable she couldn’t live without him between her legs.

Mom’s a boofer. At least that is what dad probably called her behind her back. A young black woman in Hawaii had to attract some attention. I’ve seen pictures of her back then. Mom was hot in an eighties, princess of the ghetto, kind of way.

She was on vacation from college, with some richer-than-sin friends she had met at Georgia State and who were paying her way, when in the dregs of one evening she met my dad. He was tending bar/busing tables at Germaine’s LuAu. Probably just trying to make a buck from what I know of him.

Anyway, the rum did flow and she sat there talking with him while chomping on Curacao-soaked pineapple wedges. Till, as she tells it, “The best hung man in the world found his way into Heaven.”

The less I can go into that, the better, I think. Anyway, Mom, drunk off her ass, had her wild night in some bed somewhere she can’t recall, with a guy she hardly knew, and then went home. Probably walking bow legged, but with a big grin.

I imagine that smile faded when she found out that the nausea she had started to feel in the mornings, was going to have to be named.

I was born in Macon, Georgia in my grandmother’s kitchen, of all places. My butt slid out and hit green, marble-patterned, linoleum. Granna cleaned me up in the sink with dish soap. Then they drove my Momma to the local hospital. I was left nursing on my Aunt Dorenda’s boobies. Aunty D’s, as I would come to call her, had just had a girl about a month earlier.

My second cousin, BethAnn.

I guess you could say that I was a normal child. Given the time and place where I was raised. Normal as any half-Hawaiian in South Georgia could be anyway. That I was teased through-out school is a given. I didn’t much look black, but I surely didn’t look white. It was just before the Mexican invasion of the south, so I wasn’t mistaken for a “Mexi-Can’t” as the local rednecks called them.

Didn’t really matter. I still got beat up on a regular basis.

I was, unfortunately, not built like my dad. I had taken after mom in the size department. I never got to the six foot mark everyone else seemed to reach so easily. Hell, BethAnn was five ten, by the time we left high school.

Me? A scrawny five-seven. I… I was also pretty. A boy shouldn’t be called pretty. Handsome, rugged, masculine those are the names he seeks.

Pretty Boy, was about the nicest of the names those “looks” got me.

“Just ignore it,” I was told. “They’re just stupid,” I was told.

I suppose, that given the way I looked, that the idea I should have been born a woman would get into my head at some point. I would look at my second cousin BethAnn, my other cousins, hell, even my mom and see such beautiful women. With features that I could find in any mirror I wanted to look into.

I don’t know how old I was the first time I got it in my head to try on make up. I know the house was empty. Everyone else was gone for a fish fry. I can’t eat fish, it tastes too… fishy. Anyway, I had just finished taking a piss, when I stopped to wash my hands and I saw my face in the medicine-cabinet mirror.

The sink, like any house with that many women living in it, had a thousand kinds of makeup surrounding it. I picked up a bright, gold lipstick. One of Aunty D’s. For some reason, I just decided to try putting it on. Oh, I’m sure, looking back on it, I made a mess of my mouth with it, but that brassy shade of gold against my dark mahogany skin looked incredible.

So did the matching eyeshadow.

I never got caught, but playing with their make up became my secret hobby. Obsession. Then their clothes. I looked not scrawny, weak, or sissified, but beautiful in those clothes. I began to wish. To pray even that I would go to a doctor, and they would tell me that a mistake had been made. That I was really a girl.

There was of course no money for college, so when I left high school, it was to work in a nearby plant. A ladies’ clothing plant. I was too small to haul the big bundles of fabric. Or push the wheeled adana escort carts with two hundred shirts per side. So I cleaned. I was a broom pusher.

It was, at that time, that I found an old magazine in a back storeroom. The pages where bent from too much handling. It was the images that caught my eye, not the mangled cover.

There were guys dressed as girls being fucked by other guys! My jaw hit the floor. These guys had tits! My broom resting idle, I turned page after page with a innocence of the contents that was unmatched. I had heard of such things but only in whispers.

Laughing whispers, mostly about me.

When my shift ended, I had that magazine with me as I clocked out. I read it, looking at every page like it was a bible. Pouring over the silly advertisements even. Night after night I looked through that ragged thing, devouring every angle, every curve, every breast, with those not-quite-right nipples. My eyes would wander from body to body as my hand instinctively sought to end the ache I felt. My cock hurt… from looking at theirs.

Often at the moment I would cum, I would want to throw the magazine from me. To be rid of the filthy thing. What was wrong with me that I wanted to look at other men?

I felt so alone…

But I wasn’t. I wasn’t alone. It took me going to Atlanta one weekend to find that out.

“The streets of that big city are filled with people lost to dark-and-dismal Fate’s cruel hand,” my Granna had told me. “A place of sinners and the few saints trying to save them.”

That was what I had thought to find there when I went. A modern day purgatory filled with the lost. But… no… oh, no that is not what I found.

Atlanta was alive!

It was a living, breathing thing filled with images and wonders that a simple country boy like me had never thought to see. Buildings that touched the clouds, full of lights that made the stars dim in wonder at their power. Music filled the night, spilling out the doors of hundreds of nightclubs. Most filled beyond capacity with people celebrating. I asked one of them what the party was for. He said life. Just life. Then he handed me a drink I wasn’t legal to have, and ushered me in past the doorman.

I danced, if you can call what I was doing dancing, for hours. Hardly able to breathe the press of people was so tight, we moved against one another in predatory groups that surged with the time of the music. The thunder beat that made my ribs hurt. The smell of perfumes giving way to the musky scent of human sweat.

And the hands. They were every where. They touched, caressed, pinched, grabbed, and mine were not idle that night either. My drunken friend vanished, but was replaced with a half dozen more, just as drunk, before the night was over. I had men, women, and, more often than not, both pressed hard up against my chest. In my arms. Feminine, masculine. Perfume, cologne. Hard bodies, soft. As the hours passed, it no longer mattered to me the gender of the person I was dancing with. I was not me. I was simply a part of this living, breathing city.

And then the doors closed for the night.

The streets were cold and a little damp with a early morning mist, as if the very buildings were crying that the music had stopped. Atlanta silently mourned for her now quiet heart.

That was when I met Gabriel.

She was standing on the corner, down from the club, a vision of lace, and sateen. Long, straight hair, as black as the cold night sky, that danced across the cheeks of her ass when she moved. And oh, how she could move. I found myself just standing there, looking at her, the way a tourist in a museum would look at the art of the great masters. I could see the hand of a great sculptor had been at work to make a body that incredible.

When I found my courage to go talk to her she told me the name of that sculptor. A Dr. Jason Pullman, MD, plastic surgeon, specialist. He had remade Gabriel. Remade her, from the man she had been born, into the woman she had always known she was meant to be.

I loved Gabriel.

I was in love with her within very seconds of meeting her that night. But to love Gabriel was to rent her. She was not for permanent sale, as she jokingly told me. But I loved her none-the-less, even if I could not afford to have her.

So that forbidden-by-cost love made me do what nothing else could have. It made me become the one I loved… or more like her to some extent. It started that very night.

It began with a car so expensive God could have only afforded two. It pulled up next to us, and Gabriel smiled. She leaned into the window when it opened.

“Hello, Mitchel. Looking for the normal weekend of fun?” she asked, with a sassy twitch of her hips.

“Yes, but who is your friend?” he asked looking me over.

Gabriel looked back at me and grinned.

“This is Alexus. Want him to come along? I know how much you like to drive a Lexus.” She smiled at him while she ran her hand over the side of the car. “Susan eskişehir escort will love him as well.”

That must have sold it to him.

“Alright, an extra two grand. Hop in.” He touched a button, and the doors popped open on our side.

Why did I get in? I can’t say looking back on that just what was going through my head. I was excited, scared, panting, but so hard it hurt to move in my tight pants. Would I do that? Sell myself to a stranger for money?

By that time in my life I had sampled sex just once. It hadn’t been to my taste, but then the silly girl that took my cherry had been more concerned with me not cumming inside her than with me enjoying it.

I hadn’t yet tried it with a boy… a man. The thought to give that a try had been building in me all night as I had danced. Any one of the men who had rubbed their hot bodies against me could have simply asked, and I would have done whatever they wanted. But this? To be paid to have sex with a man? And with a woman too, if I heard Gabriel right.

The man in the car saw my hesitation and grinned.

“Come on. It’ll be fun. I promise.” From the inside of his pocket he pulled out a money clip that was as thick as a paperback book. He ran his thumb across the bills. “I’ll more than make it worth your while.”

Gabriel grabbed my arm and dragged me into the car. She was stronger than I by far. I sat nervous the whole way to the monstrosity of marble and glass that was this man’s home. My head was filled with thoughts of what was going to happen. What I was going to be asked to do. Could I do it?

Would I enjoy it?

I did. I enjoyed that night more in fact than any night that I can think of before and many since. I learned things. Pleasure. Lack of guilt at tasting that pleasure. I learned that even pain can feel good when you have been brought to a certain point.

Oh, I felt pain. I was taken by him, more than once. Then his wife had me as well, with a piece of hard plastic that was shaped like a man but had none of the nerves that make a man be careful. It hurt. I screamed in pain, cried in agony from it. Begged them to stop…

Then begged for them to never stop when they did.

I learned the taste of a woman, of a man, of myself and of passion-given seed. I was caressed, spanked, whipped and even beaten, by the descriptions some would give of my bruises the next day.

And I loved it. I loved them. But by far I loved Gabriel.

I got to have her that night, for the first time. I was paid to have sex with the woman I was in love with. For me the money was not even a factor. I was simply there to enjoy what I was doing, and what was being done to me.

For Gabriel it was the money. Well mostly for it. She told me later, when we were at her place sitting on cushions eating breakfast, that sex was her drug of choice. Why would any addict pay for their fix when someone was offering to buy it for them?

I moved in with Gabriel by the end of that week. She took me shopping for clothes in the most expensive stores in Atlanta. I could afford it after all. I had a job.

* * * *

Standing in the normal evening drizzle on the side of Kalakaua Avenue. with my feet killing me in these red, five-inch heels, and my lacy, white thong trying to crawl past my gaff, around my cock and up my ass, I’m thinking about Gabriel. She and I spent years together, living in her little apartment there in the suburbs of Atlanta. Then I had followed her to L.A. to a much bigger place, more sex, more parties, more glam. By far more money.

That was my bad time. The surgical scars healing, the delight of having breasts coupled with the pain and discomfort of getting used to them. Those were the early hormone years as well, when my body began to readjust. I hurt in places that I didn’t want to have.

It was also the times when I had to come to decisions about me. Who I was, what I was, where I was going?

Gabriel was there for me through all of those times. I loved her still, but like always, to love her was to pay her. She would walk into the bedroom, smile, take a c-bill out my purse, then fuck me like a prom queen virgin.

I learned more about being a woman from someone that hadn’t been born one, than I did from those gifted with the standard equipment. She cared for me. That’s what she would tell me in the wee hours of the morning as we laid cuddled together, bodies spent, emotional highs spiking from the hormone injections we both took.

She cared… just cared. Not loved, not cherished, just cared.

It was that fact that drove me from her side when the offer came. That and a desire to maybe meet my father.

The offer was simple. The escort agency would fly us out to Hawaii for two months, during the busiest time for tourists. We would share a big house while we lived and worked there. The agency would get their travel money back, plus twenty percent for lodgings and commission. I laughed when I heard it called that way.

Commission. sakarya escort Like I was a car salesman. Well, I did have some wonderful lines, a nice set of after factory additions, and I was still, given my age, low mileage.

And there was now nothing I would not do.

After all, what is there new under the lights for someone walking the wet streets of Waikiki? Nothing is perverse to a person that wants to do it. I have been paid to do things I hadn’t even heard of before I left Georgia. Some of them I loved and would do again in a moment. Others, I would only do if the money was very good.

And the money here was always very good.

The island would be thronged with Asian and American tourists that come with more money than they knew how to spend and a lust to experience something new.

Well, Alexus Mano Leia could be new for them. I knew how to be anything they wanted me to be.

The man that walked up to me in the drizzle was probably Japanese. Not that it really mattered where he called home. He was here. His money was here. His new experience was certainly here.

“Hello,” he said in very stinted English.

“Konbanwa,” I told him with a soft smile. His eyes lit up.

Yes, his place of birth was Japan. He was delighted that I could speak to him, nearly fluently. He loved my hair, my eyes, the color of my skin. From his eyes I could tell he loved my tits, and the curves of my hips.

His name was Yoshi. Yeah right. I’ve been fucked by more Yoshi’s than there are grains of rice in a sushi platter.

I took Mr. Yoshi to a local home where every type of pleasure you could want to buy is for sale, including me of course. The agency rented us space in several places around here like these. Mr. Yoshi wanted to be sucked, what man didn’t, so I took him to one of the rooms filled with pillows and cushioned, beanbag-style, chairs.

Kneeling on the cushions I looked up at him and smiled. He was nervous. A lot of the guys I bring here are. Afraid of the law or afraid this is a trick of some kind. That’s not a silly fear, there are people here and in may other places that would take a “Johnny Yoshi” like this one and, while I distracted him, put a steel baseball bat to the back of his head.

He would never wake up from that.

To me that’s killing the cow that’s still giving a lot of milk.

As his cock fell out of his pants, I moved my fingers to around the base, tightening them slightly. A gentle tug and I felt the blood flow increase. So did the panting of his breath. He began to harden in my hand, to thicken. I’m here to tell you from experience that the urban legend of Asian men being small is just that. They are, like most men really, the average size of six to seven inches.

I’ll leave it to the ones that care to measure those half, quarter, eighths and sixteenths of an inch.

To me it’s a cock. I’m more concerned that it’s clean. Which I’m happy to say a lot of my customers are. Imagine that. They will clean their cocks before going to a hooker. Nice of them.

Not that it would stop this money train from rolling along if he wasn’t. I would simply grab a wash cloth and take care of it before I got started.

I placed a kiss on the head, then a second, then lipped the end. I let my tongue lick the little hole only once, just to make him jump. Opening up, I let him slide in. The days of me feeling any kind of guilty emotions after doing this with a man, for money, vanished before I ever left Georgia. Across the tongue, brushing the roof of my mouth right to the top of my throat and he stopped. My lips pressed against his sack, my nose in short black hair. Clutching him, I made him go just a bit deeper by burying my nose into him. He clutched at my head, his hands in my “hair” I let my teeth press into the base and he turned me loose. I scraped them down the length of him till I caught the head between my teeth and applied pressure. I let him pop out of my mouth.

Looking up at him, I smiled.

“You yank my wig off, I’ll bite the end off. Understand?”

“Hai,” he said nervously.

“Then we are good. Enjoy.”

Back into my mouth, back down to the base. I think the threat actually made him harder. I worked at the length of him letting the saliva build so my mouth slid easily. I could tell that the sound of my mouth really had him turned on. To me I sounded like a pig but he seemed to like it.

My mind drifted back to Gabriel then, as it often does when I’m sucking cock, to the many nights when I would do this for him. Then he for me. He taught me to make a man scream with just my mouth. No hands or fingers around the shaft the way some do this.

“It’s a Blow Job for gods sake. It’s suppose to be your mouth,” she would tell me, as I worked on him. Gabriel had a wonderful method of teaching. A real hands on. He would tell me how to do something, and if I couldn’t get it right he would show me what he meant. I’ll admit to not learning as quickly as I could on occasion.

Even as my mind was bringing back memories of a hot night in L.A… when I dropped two grand in his lap and spent the night showing him all that he had taught me, I felt Mr. Yoshi’s cock jump and his hands clamped down over my ears. Having an ear-ring get driven into the skin behind my ear wasn’t pleasant, so when he began to cum, I just let him rather than sucking to pull more out.

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