Adults Only by Noah Vail

Preface

Long-time readers of TG fiction will remember the controversy
provoked by the publication of "Little Maid" and "Paper Boy." The
slender vignettes featured a precocious preteen crossdresser
whose sexual mores so offended respectable TG readers that
metaphorical torches and pitchforks were assembled, and an angry
mob shouted for her banishment. A sequel, "Adults Only," written
in response to the censorious onslaught, was also denounced by
strait-laced fans of tranny fiction. At this writing, the first
two stories were still widely available. "Adults Only"  is
reproduced here.

Adults Only

I was eighteen years old when I discovered sex. Up until then my
innocent boyhood had been protected by the law and the morality
of the just, upright, decent society in which I grew up. I knew
the kid next door was a sissy, and his mom, who had a bad
reputation, called him "Tammy," but I had no idea what they were
really up to. I wasn't allowed to see any pornography, since I
wasn't eighteen, and of course the naughty stories on the
internet that kids today find while searching for their favorite
Disney characters (Snow White shows up in the weirdest places)
were not yet in existence. I did read "Lolita" at the public
library, but of course it just seemed like a kinda weird story
about a crazy guy driving around the country with a girl about
the same age as me and then shooting some other guy, for some
reason. When I turned eighteen, I suddenly started masturbating
and realized that that Humbert guy was a paedophile and that
Dolores Haze was really hot. And of course it was suddenly all
right for me to see porn, and read sexy stories where everybody
was over the age of eighteen, like me. That was how I found out
just how weird and depraved my neighbors really were. Of course
they had long ceased to be neighbors. "Tammy" had run away from
home years ago. She was rumored to live some kinda glamorous life
in the big city. "Her" mother was in jail.

When I read the stories about them in "adult" magazines, I could
hardly believe it. Tammy's mom was a whore! And dressed her kid
up like a girl! So men could fuck him! It couldn't be true. But
gradually, as I reread the stories over and over, I started to
think about how thrilling it must have been to dress up in sexy
clothes and wear makeup and be kissed and fondled by older men
who told you how pretty you were. My eighteen year old cock
started getting hard at the thought of it. I remembered the
slender little mop headed kid next door with the sparkling blue
eyes and pixy smile who had so suddenly vanished, years ago. I
realized that I missed him, and wished I'd been kinder and
friendlier, instead of joining in with the neighborhood bullies'
taunts. Yet I remembered too how cheerful he'd seemed, despite
his loneliness. I wondered if his childhood, weird as it was, had
been so much unhappier than mine. I found myself looking in the
mirror, imagining myself girlish, cute, desirable. And I was, in
fact, quite feminine looking. Dreamily I gazed, and suddenly
there I was, stripped, preening in front of my own image.
Caressing my hairless torso and gently teasing my nipples with my
soft fingertips. Pretending I had breasts. Feeling a man holding
me in his strong arms, nuzzling me, kissing my neck, his swollen
hard member hot against my soft round buttocks, probing for
entrance. His huge calloused hand encasing my stiff little rod as
he stroked me. Oh fuck. I jerked off furiously as I imagined
myself little Tammy, taking it up the ass.

Soon I was regularly fantasizing about being a girl. A tranny. A
cute little crossdressing slut. I bathed luxuriously, wallowing
in hot soapy tubfuls of scented water that grew tepid before I
finally emerged, pink, soft, and glistening. Painstakingly, I
shaved every vestige of wispy hair from my eighteen year old
nether regions. Made sure my face was smooth and soft. And
started wearing lipstick.

My mom was very understanding."Your father and I have known you
were gay since you were eight years old and playing with dolls.
Now that you're eighteen, it's perfectly okay to be the person
you really want to be." My dad suggested it was time I got out of
the house and found a job. It was more than the stigma of
nepotism that kept him from getting me hired me at the pulp mill,
I think.

No matter. The bright lights of the big city beckoned, and I was
eighteen, on my own. Soon I was cruising gay bars, selling my
barely legal body, seeking my fortune. Gradually, my tranny
persona blossomed. Taught by clients and colleagues, I went from
femmy boi (18+) to princess (adult), to full-fledged queen. I
tottered on heels, a short tight skirt clinging to my shapely
("callipygian," was the word used in that book in the public
library) buttocks and revealing glimpses of lace trimmed panties.
The panties were crotchless and my four inch eighteen-year-old
cock poked through and peeked about, twitching in naughty
curiosity, brushing deliciously against the satin of my skirt and
the soft flesh of my thighs. My chest was as flat as a child's,
but I still looked cute and girly, with pony tail swishing and
hoop earrings dangling, eyes heavily shadowed, lips painted,
full, pouting, and parting to show small, evenly spaced white
teeth. Men's cocks hardened when I smiled. Their pants and their
eyes bulged, and my little blue pupils twinkled. Lust tinged with
teasing irony. Coy, avid.

I loved cocks. Loved my own little cock and loved the big cocks
of the men I sucked. Loved being down on my knees, feeling large
fingers in my tangled hair guiding my head forward as I swallowed
the pulsing shaft of warm, hard flexible flesh. Tasting, licking,
savoring the salty moisture, gagging as it erupted into starchy
spurts of warm semen flooding my mouth and throat, spilling out
and running down my chin, smearing my pretty face, filling me,
covering me, making me a sexy cocksucking whore. And I loved
being fucked. The first time I thought it would hurt, but the guy
coated my little rosebud with vaseline, and his hard cock went in
with a thrilling jab, a faint stab of pain that instantly turned
to sublime, epiphanous ecstasy. I knew that for me, this was
Heaven. My little cock might have spurted, but I held it in,
wanting my lover to thrust to a shared climax. I wanted him
inside me deep and hard, wanted his hot cum in my little bum.
Then I came, squirting with spasms of pleasure, gushing and
dripping hot cream.

For a while I had a sugar daddy, and life was good. Still, I
missed the rough, furtive encounters in bars and alleys that had
been my initiation into prostitution. I was a possession now, an
ornament and an exclusive toy. Dressed in expensive lingerie,
pampered and petted. Kept. I ran away.

Back on the streets, I revelled again in the debauched freedom of
a sexy young whore. Easy come, easy go, and I was "free, white,
and twenty-one," as Helen Vinson said, in an earlier, less
politically correct, and no less injust era. Inevitably, the
novelty and the thrill of selling sex on the street palled. The
money stopped coming quite so easily. The sex got rougher and
more sordid. I heard about a well-run house that might give me a
sheltered living. I knocked on the door and introduced myself to
a tall, elegant, young woman. I heard giggles and shrieks of
mirth from within. Politely, diplomatically, the woman explained
that I was too old for the niche market she supplied. As I turned
away and drifted back into the street, I reflected on the
strangely familiar face of the elegant woman. It wasn't until
later, sitting alone in a seedy bar, pensively nursing a drink,
that I realized it was Tammy.







