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Big Flipping Deal Ch. 01

By: IanSaulWhitcomb



[Author's note: This is the longest thing I've posted to Literotica yet, 60,000 words that I'll be dividing into 7 or 8 chapters. It's also got the lowest proportion of sex scenes in any of my serials. I very nearly put it in the "Romance" category, because it's as much or more a love story as a work of erotica. But I figured fewer of the readers in that category would be interested because of the transgender element. So if you're looking for something like "Contrast" or "Gloria's Daughter" where the majority of scenes are packed with fucking, this one may not be the story for you, or you may want to skip directly to the last chapter where there's a little more naughtiness as a payoff. As usual, I'd like to thank DonnaBeck for her advice and encouragement as my beta reader, and I'd like to thank everyone else for being readers in general. I hope you enjoy this one ... I'm pretty happy with it.]

* * *

I certainly didn't go into the reading of Mrs. Pinobscott's will thinking I might score with a trouser-burstingly hot blonde in a microdress and black calf-length stiletto boots. I mean, maybe I had some fantasies about Mrs. P's lawyer being a vision in heels and a too-tight suit skirt. And maybe I daydreamed the old lady would leave me a mint so I could cash in on some gold-digger action and improve my sex life. 

But realistically what I expected to get was her cat. So when I walked into the law offices of Donovan, Donovan and Furnier, the only pussy on my mind had claws and hairballs.

The receptionist who greeted me in the front office had a nice smile, too many freckles, and a wedding ring. Her outfit would best be called "frumpy." And when she led me down the hall, there were no sizzling young interns or professionally dressed paralegals with lipstick just a few shades too brightly red. It was a perfectly dull place full of perfectly dull people doing the kinds of things that would never appear in a prime-time legal drama, or even a law-firm sitcom. 

We zig-zagged past some bland grey cubicles and filing cabinets, and then the receptionist opened a conference room door for me, and I walked in, and –

Clonk. Scrrraape.

That was the sound of my jaw hitting the floor and dragging along as my legs kept moving me forward into the room.

Two people sat at the conference table, which had room for maybe six. At the far end of the table, a balding middle-aged guy in a bowtie straightened and re-straightened a stack of papers in front of him, obviously the lawyer. But I barely saw him because in a seat much closer to me sat ...

Okay, so every guy has a dream-girl, right? Well, I hope it doesn't say too much about me that my dream-girl has always been kind of boringly stereotypical: blond-haired, blue-eyed, long-legged, scarlet-lipped, and blessed with copious breasts and dark, fluttery eyelashes.

This girl's looks picked that dream-girl up, slapped her a couple of times, and threw her out a window.

For starters, a dream-girl can't look right at you, shoot you through with a realization that you've just seen a shade of blue you didn't even realize existed, like a sky made of sapphire, but alive and focused and sweeping over you, measuring you up. And no matter how good a daydreamer you are, a dream-girl's smile is always going to be big and beaming, made of one part happiness and one part sexiness mixed together and leaving nothing to guess about. But the woman looking at me now had a lush-lipped, barely curved hint of a smile, faint and a bit wry, subtle, secretive, maybe not even a smile at all but just the way her head was tilted and the way the light hit those red, red, red lips. Glossy red. A red that begged for her tongue to peek out just enough to wet them, though it didn't.

"Mister Donovan," said the receptionist, "this is Nick Chalmers."

"Oh good!" said the bow-tied lawyer, looking up from his papers. Something relieved in the man's voice made me pretty sure he'd been awkwardly arranging and rearranging those documents for several minutes in a deliberate attempt to avoid staring across the table at ...

Now, dream-girl breasts can get pretty good. I've got a lot of practice at imagining them, and it's one of the areas I like to concentrate on when I'm thinking about a dream-girl. But I'd never gotten my brain to kick out an image like this. Inside her skin-tight white micro-dress – the kind with those little sleeves that barely peek out over the shoulders – she had two perfectly formed, swelling, curving, pert, perky, proud, please-let-me-put-my-hands-on-those breasts. They filled out the silky alabaster fabric of her dress just shy of bursting, and cozied together within its low, low neckline to all but suck the eyes from my head with a fertile valley of cleavage like I'd never seen before.

The lawyer was saying something, I couldn't really hear what, and then I realized I wasn't hearing him, and I blinked and tore my eyes from that incredible bosom to find her looking dryly at me with one fine blonde eyebrow very slightly raised.

"I'm sorry," I said, blinking some more and pretty sure my face had just turned as red as her lipstick. I looked over at the lawyer, desperate not to see what kind of scathing look she was about to give me for staring at her tits. Mister Donovan's lawyerly face held a surprisingly sympathetic expression. I repeated myself because nothing else came to my brain, "I'm sorry, what?"

Donovan's mouth opened, but the woman stood from her chair and offered me a graceful, long-fingered hand with perfectly trimmed nails the same color as her lips.

"Lindsey Moss," she said. The blue of her eyes held me until I realized her face had taken on an amused look, and I took a half-step forward and shook her hand. She had a firm, quick handshake – but then her fingers lingered as she released, drawing briefly along my palms and my own fingers before breaking contact.

I felt myself sweating.

"Nick Chalmers," I said, straightening the collar of my polo shirt with one hand.

Lindsey glanced toward the doorway, where the receptionist still stood. "Yes, that's what she said."

It took a profound act of will not to look at her breasts again while her gaze turned away. I managed it by swiveling to face the lawyer, then walking over to shake his hand.

"Yes, Martin Donovan," he said with a weak smile. "Now if we'll all sit down, I believe we can get through this relatively quickly and painlessly. That will be all for now, Mrs. Anders."

The receptionist nodded and left, closing the door behind her, and for the first time, Lindsey's incredible poise faltered, just for a moment, as she straightened in her chair and looked from the shut door to me to the balding Martin Donovan.

"This is it?" she asked. "What about the rest of the family? It's just me and this guy?"

Donovan cleared his throat as if to gain time, then uncomfortably nodded me toward a chair, since I still hadn't sat down. I took one closer to his end of the table than Lindsey's, not wanting to look like I was invading her space and also because I could then pay attention to Donovan without her in my field of view where I might embarrass myself staring again. It did surprise me that we were the only two heirs, since Mrs. Pinobscott had talked endlessly about her various family members whenever I went over to clean the catbox for her or run Mister Whiskerdoodle to the vet. And she hadn't ever mentioned a 'Lindsey.'

"Well," he said, "as it happens, my client specifically requested two separate readings, one for the majority of her family and friends, and the other for Mr. Chalmers and you, ah ... Miss Moss."

Lindsey snorted and rolled her eyes. "The black sheep reading, huh? You my aunt's sugar boy, Nick?"

"What? No!" It came out a bit of a squawk, but I couldn't help it. From the pictures around Mrs. P's house, she'd actually been pretty hot up into her sixties. But she was eighty-five when I met her and almost ninety when she died.

Lindsey laughed, making it clear she'd been joking. Because it was such a low, sexy laugh, sultry and golden like her hair, the sound made my throat dry in a way that kept me from feeling insulted.

"What's the story, then, Mr. Donovan?" she asked, looking back at the attorney.

Shuffling through his papers, he found two manila envelopes, checked their labels, and passed one to each of us. "By the terms of the will, I am instructed to give each of you these personal letters written by Mrs. Pinobscott. After you read them, I'm to reveal what disposition of property you're each to receive."

I noticed Lindsey seemed a little hesitant to take hers, and that she opened it more slowly than I did mine. But I was curious what Mrs. Pinobscott would want to say to me, so for a few moments, I quit paying attention to my fellow heir and focused on my own letter. It said:

Dear Nick, my favorite and sweetest neighbor. I hope you don't mind wrinkly old Mrs. Pinobscott putting her nose in your personal business, but you know I have always been so confused that a nice young man like yourself should stay single. And not even have a girlfriend since that Carmella left! So I have decided to play matchmaker for you.

What the fuck!

I'm pretty sure my eyes went as big as Lindsey's tits when I read that. They definitely shot up from the paper to Holy shit, Mrs. P couldn't possibly ...

No, the idea was ridiculous. Mrs. Pinobscott's vision was always bad, but not bad enough to think a merely kinda good-looking guy like me would have a chance with a raging-inferno-hot goddess like her niece. I mean, just look at her! And then look at me! Hair color: mud. Eye color: mud. Hair texture: unmanageable, nothing to do but keep it short. Okay shoulders, totally average height. Supposedly, I have a good smile. A little too much forehead – not enough to make me look like Edgar Allen Poe or Frankenstein's monster, but put it together with my no-recent-time-in-the-sun skin, and I came out pretty geeky. And in contrast, this woman came out –

That's when I realized Lindsey had the fingers of one hand up over her mouth and was staring at her letter with a swell of tears in her eyes. I quickly looked away and felt like crap. Mrs. P was dead. Yeah, I'd liked her and she could be funny and I was sad about it, but I'd been expecting her to kick off anytime for the last three out of the four years I'd known her. And Mister Whiskerdoodle was kind of a pain in the ass to help take care of – I hate catboxes. And the old lady almost always wanted to talk about twenty minutes longer than my capacity for neighborhood gossip.

So I wasn't really broken up about her being dead. Instead, here I was in the same room with a woman who'd lost somebody she obviously really loved, and instead of being respectful, my head had decided to run away into stupid daydreams of Mrs. P trying to set me up with a smoking blond sexpot ten thousand percent out of my league.

Just read your letter, dipshit.

But when I did, my eyes widened back up again ... because I was right.

I really can't tell you all that much about Lindsey, we haven't been close for many years. But of all my nephews and nieces, when they were children, Lindsey had the best heart. Headstrong, yes, and one of those people who march to their own drummer. In fact, after college – oh gosh, listen to me, I'm going to go on so long I'll die before I even finish this letter. Anyway. The family hasn't been as good to Lindsey as we should have been, me included. So I want to do something for her and I want to do something for you and maybe it will turn out just perfect the way none of my plans ever do! 

You'll understand when Mr. Donovan reads the section of my will that's for you two. It's no guarantee, but I think it will give you a chance at showing her what a nice young man you are, and even though she certainly doesn't look it, I think you'll find that there's a very nice, shy person inside of her too. But for heaven's sake, don't let on to her that I've told you all this! If there's one thing Lindsey has always hated, it's people trying to make her be something according to their own ideas. Just act like as far as you know, the whole inheritance thing is a crazy old lady's demented whim!

Thank you, Nick, for spending so much time with me when you probably had all kinds of better things to do. I'm sure you thought you were just being charitable, and I know I talked your ear off way too often. But you really made a difference for me these last few years. You're a good person.

Now it was my turn to get teary-eyed and sniffly. I blinked a lot and focused on fitting my letter back into its oversized envelope. By the time I got that done and closed the brad on the envelope's flap, though, I'd glanced up at Lindsey a couple of times, and my amazement had crept back in.

Damn, Mrs. P, what in the world do you think you have up your sleeve?

Lindsey was doing that thing women do sometimes when they're about to cry and don't want to, where they look at the ceiling and open their mouths like they're yawning or something and blink really fast and rub at one cheek right by the eye with one thumb. She pulled it off pretty well. I didn't see any actual tears get all the way out onto her cheeks. Also, it was hot as fuck. When she finished, she glanced at me like she was annoyed I'd been looking, so I turned away in a hurry.

At the end of the table, Mr. Donovan appeared ready to do business, holding a couple of papers in front of him between both hands. Seeing us both looking his way, he adjusted his glasses and turned his eyes down to the legal documents.

"I hope the letters were satisfactory," he said, "because the pertinent section of the will is quite brief. It reads as follows. 'Pertaining to the cat, Mister Whiskerdoodle, possession and ownership shall fall to Nicholas Scott Chalmers.'"

Great. No surprise there. Is Lindsey for some reason desperately attached to Mister Whiskerdoodle and now she's supposed to ask me for visitation rights?

"'Pertaining to the property at 17299 Widdershins Court, the accumulated equity shall be divided equally between inheritors Nicholas Scott Chalmers and Lindsey Wyndham Moss. Should the inheritors so choose, Donovan, Donovan, and Furnier, P.L.L.C., shall upon notice immediately execute the sale and disposition of the property and remit to each inheritor one half of all proceeds, net any mortgage balance remaining unsatisfied. Alternatively, from the deceased's previously declared allocation of cash assets for charitable donation, a trust fund for remodeling expenses may be established in the amount of twenty thousand dollars, to be managed by Donovan, Donovan, and Furnier, P.L.L.C., at the equal direction of both inheritors, and full control of the property shall transfer equally to the inheritors upon exhaustion of the fund."

Oh. So that's better. I just about halfway thought I understood what all the legalese meant, but I knew it sounded like an improvement over just walking out with an old, puke-prone cat. Luckily, my fellow "inheritor" jumped in right away to clear things up.

"So she's giving us her run-down pit of a house," Lindsey said, "and we can cut and run for whatever equity she's got in it, or we can fix the place up and she'll give us twenty grand to do it."

Donovan nodded, set those papers down, and shuffled in his stack for some others. "That's exactly right. Now, presuming you'll want to be informed in your opinion, here are the current statements of account on the mortgage lien against the home and the latest property valuation from the county tax assessor."

He slid a set of copies over in front of each of us. I tried to puzzle through mine to find the right numbers and figure out exactly what kind of money I was looking at, but once again, Lindsey was way quicker with the statements and the math than I was.

"Whee. If we can get what the county says it's worth, minus the amount she still owes, I make it out to be about ten grand each."

Damn, Lindsey's obviously doing pretty well for herself if ten grand is only worth a 'whee' from her. As I watched her, she leaned back in her chair, hands behind her head, looking up at the ceiling, her gorgeous face wavering between annoyance and distaste. The position showed off the smooth ivory hollows of her armpits fantastically, and lifted and accentuated her boobs even more than the dress already did. Fuck, dude, of course she's doing well for herself. Look at her – the hairdo, the dress, those boots, the little designer handbag. And she's obviously smart as hell. Is there some reason you'd expect her to be just scraping by the way you are?

Her blue eyes came back down from the ceiling to land on me like a load of bricks intended for a mural of the entire ocean.

"Okay, sugar-boy Nick," she said, "you ever do any remodeling?"

"Uh ..." Did I want to tell her about replacing my own toilet when the bowl cracked and I couldn't afford a plumber? I decided to be vague. "A little, sure."

Her mouth twisted to one side, and I could almost see her make the decision to take me at my word instead of laying into me with a sarcastic question about what exactly "a little" meant. The mind behind those sharp blue eyes was moving fast now and apparently didn't want to get slowed down.

"Because if we have contractors do everything," she went on, "twenty grand won't get us shit. But I do interior design, and I know where to get the materials, and if you can put in your share of the labor, I think we can get twice as much out of the sale as throwing it straight on the market would do."

"You mean, twice the ten grand you said we'd split?"

Her eyes rolled. Gorgeously. "No. Twice what the county has it appraised at."

"Holy shit," I said. "That would be ..."

"Yeah, a lot. Don't get your hopes up too high, but we might be looking at forty or fifty each, net."

At the end of the table, Donovan tapped his stack of papers against the surface to square them.

"I take it you'll be wanting us to set the trust up, then?"

Lindsey gave me a look that said if I wanted to chicken out, I'd better do it right that very second.

Ten grand, guaranteed, and I look like a putz to the most beautiful woman I've ever had a conversation with, and totally bomb out on any chance with her. Or a couple months of hard work and getting to see her and talk with her about it all the time, and then I totally bomb out with her.

It wasn't a very hard choice. "Sure."

She nodded at me and looked Donovan's way as she folded up her letter and put it in her handbag.

"I think it's what my aunt would have wanted," she told the lawyer, although not with tremendous enthusiasm. "Let's do it."

* * *

Lindsey and I walked out of the office together into the hot Dallas sun of late summer. I didn't try to make it happen that way; it just did. The trip down in the elevator was silent and uncomfortable. Lindsey was tall, probably almost my height even bare-footed. The walk across the lobby filled my ears with the click of her boot-heels, taunting me with the desire to glance down at the sleek black leather of those boots and the soft smooth pale calf-to-thigh stretch of legs that ran from the boots to her skirt hem. But I managed to keep my eyes to myself, even when I stepped ahead and held the door for her. She went through to the parking lot unselfconsciously, fishing for her keys in the handbag as if daring me to look at her perfect ass. Just before I broke down, she found them and turned.

"You're her neighbor, right?" she asked, pulling out a pair of sunglasses too and slipping them on over those fantastic blue eyes. "I haven't seen the place in a couple years. How about I meet you there and we give it a walk-through."


Big Flipping Deal Ch. 01



Donovan had given us each a door key to Mrs. P's place – now our place ... holy crapola, I've got an 'our place' with this chick? No, that's a really bad way to think about it – but while we could get in, there was a major problem with Lindsey's suggestion.

"Uh," I said, scratching the back of my head and feeling the color rise across my face.

"What?" she asked, hand on hip. "Look, I get it, you're intimidated by me. Get over it. We're going to be spending some time together on this project, but it's no big deal, and nothing's going to happen. So do you want to check the place out together or not? If you're too chicken to even do a walk-through with me, we better go back in and have Donovan unload it for us."

"No, no, it's not that," I said, embarrassment beaten down by panic at the thought of Lindsey changing her mind. "It's just – my car's out of commission right now. I rode the bus here."

Her lips pinched together in what was either a moue of pity or an attempt to hold back a judgmental smirk. With her eyes hidden behind the sunglasses, I couldn't tell which. She turned away and gestured for me to follow using a nod of her head.

"I'll drive then. Over here."

I followed her across the parking lot to her car, a little white BMW roadster with the top down. Uh, yeah, Mrs. P. I can really see your matchmaking magic here, the guy who rides the bus and the chick in the cha-ching convertible. This is totally going to work.

The walk did give me a couple of good glances at Lindsey's ass, though, round and full inside the tight white skirt of her microdress. I decided that was worth the embarrassment of admitting I had no wheels of my own at the moment.

The car chirped at the click of Lindsey's key remote, and I opened my door and slid into the tan leather interior.

"Nice car," I said, then tried not to wince at sounding so lame.

"It gets me around," she replied, settling that ass into the driver's seat and stretching those glorious legs out under the dash to the pedals.

"Well, that's one advantage it has over mine."

She laughed at that, then twisted the key in the ignition and growled the engine to life. I realized absently that she had her left foot on the clutch, which meant it was a manual transmission ... and which also meant I was still staring at her legs. Luckily, her hand had gone to the back of my headrest as she twisted to look behind us and reverse out of the spot. So there was at least a chance she hadn't noticed me gawking.

We roared out of the parking lot onto the access road of 35E South, and Lindsey clicked the stereo on, loud. Between the wind across the open top, the performance rumble of the engine, and the thumping dance beat of the music, the chances of conversation shrank to nothing, which frankly I found myself really grateful for. Less chance I'd embarrass myself.

But apparently it really had been a while since she'd been to her aunt's house, because I had to point out the exit to her and holler, "Hey, that's us!" so she wouldn't fly past it. She whipped us over a couple of lanes and braked smoothly down the ramp to the light, where she stopped and glided the gearshift into first.

Then, speaking up over the music, she asked, "What, you surprised I can drive a stick?"

I blinked and said, "No, no – I just ... well, you've got pretty hands."

Her eyebrows went together. "Really?"

"Yeah. Graceful." It was true. She had long, long fingers that made me wonder if she could play the piano. Mrs. P had been a piano teacher back in the day, I knew. She'd probably have given her nieces and nephews free lessons.

"Thanks," she said. Then she smirked and said, "Guys are usually surprised I drive a stick."

"Uh, well ... guys can be jerks," I said, not sure I sounded convincing.

"What about you?"

"Well, I don't think ... I mean ..." I felt the burn climbing my cheeks again and decided to just be honest, "... shit, I guess so. You've probably caught me looking at your legs and your boobs a couple of times already. Pretty jerky. Sorry."

"You're cute, Nick," she said, revving the engine as the light changed and going left under the highway. She made the next couple of turns without needing further directions, and got us into the neighborhood before she said anything else. Turning onto Mrs. P's street, she went on, "Look, you know nothing's going to happen between us, right?"

My heart lumped downward a couple inches and I looked out my side of the car at the houses going by. "Sure. Of course not. I mean, look at you."

"That's not what I meant," she said, and I turned back to her. We passed my place, then the Morregans', and then she zipped us into Mrs. P's driveway beneath the sycamore tree that dominated half of the property. She killed the engine and the stereo, pulled her sunglasses off and locked her lovely blue eyes on mine. "I just mean I try not to come across like I'm on the market. It doesn't have anything to do with you, or how you look, or how I look, or my car, or you riding the bus. That's just not where my head is right now – relationships. I'm usually pretty good at getting the vibe across. I just want to make that clear before I say this next thing."

"Okay, sure." I shrugged. "Good to know it's not just me, I guess. So what's the next thing?"

She smiled, a little lop-sided, and her eyes flicked down to my crotch for just an instant. "You're obviously nervous as fuck, and you've had a massive boner the whole time we've been in the car. So if it'll help calm you down, and you understand it's a one-time offer, I'm totally willing to blow you. Right here, right now, quick and dirty, and then we can get on with this house shit."

I could only gape at her for a second. Boner? I don't have a ... But I totally did, a cast-iron erection that was almost painful now that she'd pointed it out. She can't be serious though ...

My head jerked around to the street behind us. Mrs. P's place has a detached garage set back behind the house, and a thick row of shrubbery between it and the adjacent property. So we sat with the house to our left, the garage in front, and the shrubs to the right. Only someone right behind us would be able to see, and the house on the far side of the street had been empty and for sale since August.

"Here? In the car? It's broad daylight ..."

She shrugged, then lowered and raised her eyelids in a deliberately casual blink.

"One-time offer. Yes or no?"

I looked around again. Holy fuck. Maybe it's some kind of test. Am I a pig who'll take any chance for a blow-job? Or does she want a guy with the balls to live dangerously?

The only thing I could be completely sure of was that if I said no, I'd be burning with cowardly embarrassment the whole walk through the house and would go to bed tonight kicking myself for chickening out.

"Okay, what the hell," I said, undoing my seatbelt and then the buckle of my actual belt.

Lindsey grinned and rubbed her hands together. "All right, so you do have some backbone."

I got everything undone and pushed just far enough down for my cock to spring out at attention, the tip already glistening with precum. She got hold of it and worked her wrist a little, one eyebrow up and the twist on her mouth wry.

"Not a bad handful. Now, once I get going, don't hold back or try to last. Seems quiet around here for the moment, but sooner or later someone's going to come by walking their dog."

"Okay," I said, trying to play it cool like I'd have any choice in the matter. The way my hard-on felt in her hand, it was almost a wonder I hadn't come already. "If you say –"

She turned, twisted, bent, and engulfed me with those amazing ruby lips.

"Oh, shit!" I said, then clapped a hand over my mouth. How loud had that burst out? Lindsey laughed around my cock, sucked her cheeks in, and descended all the way to my root, making me groan. "Jesus Christ ..."

"Mmmm," she murmured, vibrating my dick with the sound. Her tongue curled and glided around me within the plush, wet trap of her mouth. I could feel the pressure building in my balls before she even bobbed her head.

And then she bobbed her head.

"Ohmygod," I gurgled. It was like life had decided to educate me on what a blow-job really was – her cheeks sucked in tight along the top and bottom of my shaft, her tongue working lavishly around practically the whole circumference, and all of it gliding up and down, slowly for a trip or two, then faster, and faster, and faster. "Lindsey ... oh god, that's so ..."

One hand reached up to put a finger to my lips as she worked. Then it descended to shift her glorious golden hair behind her right ear and across to the far side of her neck, giving me a full view of her carmine lips sealed around my erection, the hollows of her vacuum-tight cheeks, the taut muscles in her neck, her squeezed-shut eyes with their eyebrows low and fierce in concentration, and most amazingly of all, the glistening wet length of my cock disappearing and reappearing in fast, sweeping strokes as her beautiful face plied me with pure oral genius.

I squeaked and bit my lip to keep from saying anything else. My pulse roared in my ears almost as loud as the sweet, liquid noise Lindsey's mouth made around my dick. "Hhhhhh – ahh – aahhh ..."

The smell of my crotch and her saliva and the leather seats of the car and the woody overhanging sycamore scent churned together in my head while pleasure sucked and licked and nibbled its way up and down my penis. Lindsey's breathing had turned fast and rough, like an athlete starting a hard sprint for the finish line. She must have been able to feel my cock swelling in preparation for orgasm, because she dialed it up instead of slacking off. The hot, hormonal machinery of my groin responded instantly, and when it did, she seized me hard with the vice-like ring of her mouth and rammed all the way down, rolling her neck to put some crazy, 720-degree spin on my cock, never for a second letting up with the writhing movements of her tongue.

"Shit, Lindsey, oh my god, shit!"

My hands clawed at the sides of my bucket seat, my head smacked back against the headrest, something green and dancing whirled across my vision like a kaleidoscope – the canopy of the sycamore tree if I'd had the brain-power to figure it out at that second – and up and out of me burst a flood of cum that felt strong enough to put an eye out if I'd been facialing her. Lindsey's mouth pulled seemingly endless blurting waves of pleasure out of me, her throat working to swallow what felt like a liter or two of semen.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," I gasped. The orgasm just wouldn't stop, and Mrs' P's niece wouldn't stop either. Her lips massaged my root. Her tongue coaxed more and more expulsions from me with its lashing trips along the underside of my shaft. Her neck kept working, rotating her head with my cock as deep down her throat as it would go. "UUHHhhnnggg..."

Finally, when I had groaned my way almost unconscious, the throbbing ecstasy subsided and Lindsey withdrew her face very slowly from my crotch. I just sat there panting with my eyes shut until a squeeze of her fingers into my thigh brought me around.

"Settled down enough to do this house thing, then?" she asked, wiping at her lower lip with one finger and then hooking her thumb over her shoulder toward Mrs. P's front door.

"Uh," I said dazedly. "Sure."

* * *

It felt weird walking up Mrs. Pinobscott's front steps with someone else – and it would have felt weird even if that someone else hadn't just given me a public-exposure blow job just an hour after I'd met her.

It also felt weird watching that someone put a key in the door and open it.

And it felt weird knowing Mrs. P's voice wasn't going to greet me as I came in, and wasn't ever going to greet me under any circumstances again.

Lindsey walked through into the foyer, where a little half-wall separated the front hall from the living room. Setting her handbag and keys down on the half-wall, she stepped into the large empty space where her aunt's sofa and armchair used to sit facing glass-walled hutches full of china.

"The carpet's for shit," she said, picking at it with one needle-like boot heel. "Definitely have to tear all that out."

I nodded. If there was a single square inch of the house that hadn't been on the receiving end of a Mister Whiskerdoodle hairball, I'd be surprised. And although I always tried to clean the worst of the stuff up when I came over to clean the catbox and let Mrs. P ramble at me, he'd been hacking the grisly stuff up for years before I moved in two houses down.

With the furniture gone, the whole place felt hollow. I didn't follow Lindsey into the blank, empty space of the living room where she examined the baseboards. It didn't seem right that the old lady's couch wasn't there, with its doilies on the back cushions and her knitting basket next to it gathering dust because of her arthritis. I stepped farther down the hall, which seemed safer. But when I clicked on the hall light, I found that the paint showed a menagerie of mismatched bright rectangles where the collection of family photographs once hung.

Damn, they even carried off that one of her from the fifties when she was smoking hot. I would have liked to keep that picture, of the sassy-looking young woman I'd never known but who'd somehow turned into a sweet, shriveled senior citizen whose back and knees and walker wouldn't let her get down to scoop the crap out of her cat's litterbox. It made me wish I'd been a little higher priority and been given the opportunity to go through the house with the rest of Mrs. P's heirs. Of course, then I wouldn't have gotten the blow-job of my life ...

As I looked away from the blank spot that had once held my neighbor's beautiful, youthful black-and-white, though I spotted one frame still hanging low on the wall just past the door of the guest bedroom. Thinking I might take consolation in a shot of Mrs. P during her cougar years, I walked over and lifted it from its hook. It was the one of her and that little tow-headed elementary-school kid, an amateur photo probably taken by a family member circa the late 1980s, with Mrs. P all wrinkles and granny-glasses, glare off the lenses hiding her eyes. But she had that smile on, the one that had stayed lively and encouraging even after the lips that formed it had thinned to almost nothing.

Without warning, I found Lindsey standing beside me, and I flinched and held up the photo reflexively, trying not to look like I'd been trawling for her dead aunt's former hotness.

"Uh, they left one, whoever took down all the pictures." I held the frame out for her to take, like that had been my plan all along. "I guess this was a neighbor kid or one of her piano students or something." Mrs. P had given piano lessons for several years after she retired from teaching school, before she retired for good and gave the piano to her sister.

Lindsey peered blankly down at the photo and let out a little breath through her nose. "Yeah. That crew would definitely have taken it if it was anybody they knew or cared about."

"You going to keep it, since it's the last one?" It wasn't even a very good picture, but suddenly I wanted her to say no, so I'd have something to remember my neighbor by. Something other than her puking cat, that is.

She shrugged, though, and said, "Sure, why not. Here, put it by my bag for me, would you? I'm going to use the can. Hopefully another thing they left was the toilet paper."

I took the picture and headed back where she'd left her things, while she went a door farther down the hall into the guest bathroom.

Well that sucks, I thought. But looking at the picture a little longer, I realized it really didn't. It was a crappy picture. Imagine how you'd feel if they'd left behind that drool-icious fifties photo and then she said, "Sure, why not," and walked off with it like it was nothing.

After a few minutes thinking about Mrs. P and staring at the carpet on which Mister Whiskerdoodle had coughed up enough hairballs to build a dozen more cats, I glanced down the hall, past the still-shut bathroom door, to where the kitchen opened up at the far end of the house, reminding me that there had been more pictures hanging beside the refrigerator.

Maybe there's a good one there, I thought, walking that direction. Of course, if it's a good one, Lindsey will probably want it too. Or maybe she'll take it instead and I can have the shitty eighties one.

As I came abreast of the bathroom, though, my ear caught something that cut off my stupid photograph hunt: a little half-choking, half-coughing sound. The sound someone makes when they're crying and trying not to let anybody hear.

And once again, you asshole, Nick, her aunt is dead, not just some old lady she sort of liked to help out. I felt like a total prick for begrudging her a lousy old photo. Especially since my actual prick was still in that spent, sated state from the orgasm she'd sucked out of it.

So instead of scrounging in the kitchen for a picture that probably wasn't there anyway, I backtracked quietly to the foyer and waited.

And waited.

Fuck, she must really be crying her eyes out.

Eventually, I got genuinely worried and went back down the hall, where I hovered, and hesitated, and finally said, "Hey, Lindsey, are you –" right when she opened the door and came out. Her eyes looked a little red and puffy, but either she'd reapplied her makeup, or she was wearing some waterproof, run-proof stuff. I guessed it was the latter, since her handbag was still on the half-wall by the foyer.

"Look, Nick," she said, a little hoarsely, "I'm sorry ..."

"Jesus, Lindsey, you don't have to apologize for crying a little, that's –"

"No," she said firmly, locking her bloodshot blue eyes on mine, "I'm sorry I gave you that blow-job. I'm a mess – it was completely the wrong thing to do."

"Uh ... well, damn ... I mean ... I thought it was kind of awesome."

"Yeah, I'm the queen of giving head," she said – bitter, not proud. "But you're a guy, and no matter how much a girl tells a guy, 'This doesn't mean anything,' if she blows him, he thinks it means something. And trust me, you don't want to think it means anything. You don't want to have anything to do with me in that area, I promise you. I just didn't expect – the letter, the one Neena wrote me –" She started to choke up again, then struggled through it and went on. "Anyway, I could see you were intimidated by me, and sucking a guy off is a power trip, right? So I was a shit and I used you to make myself feel like I was in control when I should have just let it out and cried. So I'm sorry, okay?"

She had tears rolling down her cheeks by the end of it, and I really just wanted to give her a big hug – a one-person-hugging-another-person hug, not anything sexual. But everything about her posture and everything she'd just said told me I probably shouldn't.

So I shrugged instead and said, "Yeah, fine. Don't worry about it."

Her eyes closed, and she took a couple of deep breaths. I couldn't help thinking how fucking beautiful she was. When her lids opened back up again, that beautiful face held something awkward or embarrassed ... or grateful. Or all three.

Which made something come over me, and with a mock scowl, I pointed a finger at her and said, "Just don't let it happen again, all right?"

She laughed and nodded and sniffled and rubbed her nose.

And then we kept looking through the house.

* * *

At home, my first step was to get a beer out of the fridge and drink half of it. My second step was to look around and make sure Mister Whiskerdoodle hadn't died on me or coughed a hairball onto anything important. I found him in the bedroom, curled up right in the middle of my spot on the bed. It didn't look like the comforter had any puke stains on it, so that at least was good. He lifted his frazzled white head a centimeter or two and gave that gargling little meow, then went back to his rough schedule of being a cat.




Big Flipping Deal Ch. 01



My cat, I thought. Even though I'd had him for three weeks – since the last time Mrs. Pinobscott went in the hospital – and even though his owner had been dead almost ten days now, and even though I'd been ninety percent sure no one was coming to get him and that she'd probably leave him to me in her will, I had still been thinking of him as her cat, just here with me temporarily. Well, still just temporarily for me, considering he's old as fuck and barely moves anymore. But it's permanent for him now.

We'd spent about an hour, Lindsey and I, wandering through Mrs. P's house, with her pointing out all the stuff that needed upgrading or fixing or replacing and me nodding and trying to keep my eyes above neck level on her. I'd asked if the twenty-grand trust fund would cover everything, and she just laughed.

"If I had my way, it wouldn't even cover the bathrooms," she'd said. Then she took me back through the house pointing out all the things she thought we could do ourselves – tearing up the carpet, laying down Pergo in its place, pulling all the toilets and installing nice ones. Maybe tiling the bathroom floors. Definitely painting. Refinishing the kitchen cabinets. "It's a crapload of work, but a couple of hours a day and full days on weekends over two or three months, and we'll save enough in contractor fees to make the place pretty posh even on our budget."

I can't say it surprised me that she expected my calendar to be open for that. Obviously, a guy who doesn't have the money to get his car fixed probably isn't out living the wild life after work and gallivanting around town all weekend. But it did surprise me that she would say "we," and imply that she might be putting in as much time as I would. Weirdly, none of it came out as a question. Lindsey just started talking her way through the house, listing everything off, and all I could do was follow her around agreeing.

Maybe I was just stunned at the idea of spending "a couple of hours a day and full days on weekends over two or three months" with her.

Back in my own house, having a beer around the time I'd normally be having my afternoon coffee in the office, that idea really sank in. I tried to imagine her with her hair pulled back and a sports top on, shoulder to shoulder with me, wrestling at some carpet or a toilet. Sweat beading lightly across her forehead and the bare upper reaches of her chest. The image made me take a couple more large swigs of beer.

Since I'd taken the afternoon off for the will reading, I now had two hours back in my day that would ordinarily be owed to my taskmasters at the graphic arts company where I worked, plus a third that I didn't have to spend riding the bus. I knew what I ought to do with them – put in some extra freelance time on my moonlighting stuff. A friend of mine had hooked me up with this low-level educational publisher that needed lots of computer-generated art pieces for mathematics worksheet books they put out – triangles and pyramids and rectangular gardens with question marks around their circumferences. It was total monkey-with-a-mouse shit, no actual art talent required, but I could do a half-dozen of them an hour at five bucks apiece, which only put me about sixty or seventy hours away from getting my car's engine fixed.

Ugh, I thought. Screw that.

It was Tuesday, and the worksheet publisher cut checks based on what got turned in by each Friday by noon. So I had all week to crank through my current allocation of a2 + b2 = c2 Pythagorean Theorem diagrams and parabolas on coordinate grids. Meanwhile, I was about to lose all my spare time to remodeling Mrs. P's house, which meant no time for watching cable or surfing the net or playing around with my Yamaha keyboard and the composition software I'd bought for my computer just before the car blew its gasket.

I took this as vacation time, so dammit, I'm vacationing.

My beer had just about disappeared by this point. I looked at my computer workstation in the corner. I looked at Mister Whiskerdoodle curled in the middle of my bed. I looked at the TV on the wall.

But none of them quite got the image of Lindsey out of my head – dressed for manual labor, sweating and rubbing her forehead with the back of one hand while she worked ... her arm lifting, the pale hollow of her armpit showing beneath it. A damp dappling at the center of her back making the stretch fabric there a little darker than the rest of her top.

Even though it hadn't been much more than an hour since that amazing blow-job, I suddenly felt compelled to whack off. Probably the smart thing would have been to find some porn on my computer and use it to push my house-flipping partner out of my head. But instead I got some lotion and tissues from the bathroom and headed down the hall to the living room couch, since I didn't want to be masturbating next to the sometimes-farty Mister Whiskerdoodle on the bed.

So I kicked my shoes off and stripped out of my pants and underwear to relax into the sofa, where I closed my eyes and put myself in Mrs. P's house, maybe a week or two into the future, with the carpet all torn out and sawdust everywhere for some reason, air-conditioning off to maximize the sweat even though I didn't know why we'd need to turn it off unless we were just trying to be cheap on the utilities. Whatever we were doing needed gloves and safety glasses – chipping at something on the walls with some kind of tools, really hot, hard work that made us need a break and a drink something fierce.

"I'm going in the kitchen for a water," Lindsey said, stripping her gloves off and putting the goggles up on her forehead. "You want me to bring you back one, or ..."

"Nah, I'll come too," I said casually. "I think I could use a sit-down for a couple of minutes anyway."

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

We went toward the kitchen, where we had some folding fabric camp-chairs and a cooler full of bottled water and sports drinks. Lindsey was wearing shorts – the way her ass kinked back and forth as she walked down the hall got me hard as a rock before we'd gone a half-dozen steps.

Well, the imaginary sway of her ass and the grip of my hand on my cock got me hard anyway. I worked my erection a little with my thumb and forefinger, not pumping yet or reaching for the lotion.

At the cooler, Lindsey bent low with her legs straight, pushing that fantastic round bottom directly toward me as she got the top open.

"Water or Accelerade?" she asked. 

I pulled my gloves off and dropped them on a counter, eyes never leaving her posterior. "Water for me."

Digging through the ice chest, she found a bottle and tossed it to me, then rummaged some more. As I unscrewed the cap and took a big drink, Lindsey stood up and dropped the lid closed on the ice chest. 

"Hey, that's the last one," she said. "You mind sharing it?"

"Sure, but it'll cost you," I replied, handing her the open bottle.

She lifted it to her lips, those bright red lips touching where mine had been just a moment before. Touching, sealing, her head tilting back, the muscles working in her throat as she swallowed.

"Oh, yeah. That's good," she said, handing the bottle back and raising one eyebrow challengingly. "What's it going to cost me?"

"Pff, I was just joking."

"Really? Because I was sure you were going to say it would cost me another blow-job."

"Uh ..."

"I mean, this is really good water. It's got to be worth something."

She was moving toward me now, a heat in her eyes like the summer heat trapped in this un-air-conditioned house. And my hand was moving faster on my dick, still not pumping, but the thumb and fingers rotating the skin back and forth on the rigid, straining shaft.

"We've been working pretty ... hard," Lindsey said, her hand reaching forward to cup itself against my crotch. She rubbed up and down, leaning her face in close to mine. I could see the sweat and stickiness of the day's work on her skin, but somehow it made her more attractive, not less. Her gaze stroked back and forth from one of my eyes to the other, hungry, expectant. "Maybe we need more than just a water break?"

"I could definitely use a nice long break," I said.

"I could use a nice long one too." Her hand gripped me tight through my pants for emphasis, encircling as much of my cock as the fabric would let her. Then she closed the gap between our mouths and kissed me.

"Uhhmmm," I said out loud, now jacking my erection with a full-fingered grip, just as I imagined her doing there in that thick-aired, sultry kitchen. "Lindsey ..."

Her mouth felt almost as good to my lips as it had to my cock when she blew me in her car. As if on cue to give me a direct comparison, she slid downward to her knees, slowly, nibbling along my neck first, then teasing with her teeth at one of my nipples through my shirt, then planting a firm kiss right on the fly of my jeans as she undid my belt and button.

I opened my eyes long enough to pop the cap on the lotion and squeeze one palm full of it, then set the bottle down and leaned back into my fantasy.

"Ooh, look here," she said, getting my jeans down far enough to reveal the bulge in my boxer-briefs. "It's like ripping up carpet in an old house – sometimes you find hard wood."

I groaned, then groaned again as she tilted her shoulders and head so that her wide-spread lips could embrace both sides of my cock through my underwear. I had the fingers of my un-lotioned hand right at the spot I pictured her using her mouth to massage me, and I tightened and loosened their grip to mimic her nibbling.

"Mmm," she said, pulling back with a smack of her lips. With the thumb and forefinger of each hand, she pinched the very top of my boxer-briefs' elastic and then tugged them steadily lower, revealing my pubic hair, then my root, then inch after inch of my shaft, until finally she hooked them downward far enough to get them past the tip and let my cock lever itself straight up and out. "Yes! Just what I like to find on a project like this. Something that shouldn't be covered up."

"Well," I said smoothly, "there is one kind of carpet that would look good all over this hard wood."

"What's that?" she asked.

"Shag."

"Booo!"

"You started it," I pointed out.

"Then I'd better cut that off and start this." And without breaking eye contact, she opened her mouth and wrapped it around me all the way to my pubes.

"Ahhhyyeah," I moaned, slicking my lotion-coated hand down around my swollen erection. "Yes – oh fuck, baby, yes, suck it like that ..."

She started doing that thing with her tongue again, like in the car, except that this time instead of coming at me from one side, she was taking me in straight on, so the movement lavished her tastebuds' attentions directly to the underside of my cock, rolling up first one side of the shaft and then the other. With her cheeks drawn in tight around me, she began bobbing. Slowly – unbelievably slowly.

"Mmm-hmmm," she hummed around me. Though her lips held my dick within a tense, pillowy ring of flesh, I could see the smile at their corners and in her eyes.

"You really like – doing that – don't you, babe?" My words came out uneven because the sensations bathing my erections kept making me catch my breath.

"Mmmm-hmm," she repeated, and her lips parted momentarily in a grin, her head frozen in place and her teeth gently holding my rod about an inch from its base. Then the circle of her lips swept back into place, and her jaw widened to get the teeth back out of play. Now she sped up her movements, and I moaned and gasped to encourage her.

"Ooooo-whhhh – uh – nggh – yeah – yeah –" Matching the pace I imagined her using, my hand ran up and down my shaft in a sweet, milking glide. Liquid sounds squished out with each stroke, distant cousins of the noise Lindsey's mouth would make wetting my cock with every slide along its length. I'd hit on almost the perfect amount of lubrication – just enough lotion to keep everything sleek and smooth, not so much that it clumped or dripped or coated me so thick the sensation was reduced. It felt terrific on a purely physical level, and when I added in the miraculous visual of Lindsey's face – perfect, focused, intense and intent on pleasing me – terrific turned to incredible.

"Oh shit, Lindsey, I'm going to come ..."

As soon as I said it, she stopped moving and gave me that smile through her blue, blue, blue eyes. I held my hand still, cock thickened to the very edge of blasting out its fountain of white wonder. Still kneeling, head and neck motionless, she ran both hands up my belly and under my shirt, fingers curled over so that the backs of her nails skated cold and resilient against my flesh.

"God, Lindsey, that's just so good ... don't move – don't move ..."

Her thumbs swirled in circles around my nipples, fingernails pressing into my pectorals higher up. The soft, wet stillness of her mouth stayed jacketed around my entire length, a warm and luscious oral embrace that could probably get me to orgasm with only a hair's breadth of motion.

"Hnnnhhh – mm ... hold it ... hold it like that ..."

Pulsing at the very edge of orgasm, my hard-on begged for that last little push of stimulation to send it into eruption. I had to open my eyes and look up at the ceiling for a few moments in order to pull back and make things last at least a little longer.

"What I really want is to come in your cunt," I told her, still breathing hard. She slid backward and popped her mouth off of me.

"From the sound of things a minute ago, I'm not so sure you'd last long enough to get me anywhere." She said it with a grin, though, not a frown.

"I know," I said apologetically. "It'll be like one or two strokes, tops. But I really want to, and I promise I'll eat you out afterwards or something."

"Sure, why not," she said, giving me a shrug and a naughty smile. "I'm always game for getting my pussy licked. Come on, there's that roll of new carpet we haven't put down yet in the guest bedroom."

As we hurried down the hallway of my imagination, I went back to stroking my cock in real life. I had no idea why the fantasy had gone this direction – usually I imagine I'm some kind of stud and fuck the girl until she screams in ecstasy. But for some reason, the notion of pushing into Lindsey and immediately fountaining my load out into her cunt drew me like a magnet.

We got to the guest bedroom, and Lindsey lay down on her back, her golden hair spreading out like a halo against the roll of blue carpet – almost the same blue as her eyes. (Not that it made any sense for the blue part to be on the outside of the roll, but I wasn't exactly going for realism here.) My partially recovered cock responded eagerly to the treatment I was giving it. I got on my knees between her long, flawless, perfectly smooth legs.

"Why don't you get these off of me, hmm?" she asked, patting her shorts with both hands. The offer drove me crazy, and I accelerated the sweeping pumps my hand made along my shaft. Grinning, I undid the button of her shorts – she didn't have a belt on. The zipper opened easily at my tug ...

"Oh god, yes – this is going to be so good, Lindsey ..." The harbinger engorgement of near-orgasm swelled my cock in my fast-moving hand.

Just as she had done with my underwear, I brought her shorts and panties down with a steady, deliberately slow pull meant to heighten the anticipation. Her lower belly appeared, then the upper fringe of her blond curls.

"Fuck –" I suddenly realized I'd gotten too far ahead of my fantasy self. If he didn't yank those clothes right off her, he wasn't going to get in her before I squirted. The rush of ejaculation was already shouting at me from my balls ...

Grabbing her shorts, I got ready to yank them all the way off in a single move so that –

"Hurk-hurk-hurk – HuuhhuuAACCKKK!!!"

My eyes flashed open in a panic.

"Fucking shit, Mister Whiskerdoodle!"

The fantasy disappeared in a disgusting cloud of hairballs, but there was no stopping the orgasm. Almost in time with the rhythmic feline heaving that echoed out of my bedroom, the explosive pulsations of my cock blew a series of splattering blasts out of me and into the tissue – or mostly into the tissue: the first couple hit so hard and at just the wrong angle that they ricocheted over the edge and arced downward, one landing on the carpet by my foot and the other on the couch cushion between my legs.

Even as the weaker gushes filled up the tissue in my hand, I was leaping up and running for the bedroom, hoping but knowing there was no way I'd get there in time to stop the old cat from barfing all over my comforter.

I didn't manage to get there in time. But I did manage to spill several more globs of cum on the hall carpet along my way.

By the time I cleaned everything up, I was in no mood to try again.

Well, whatever, I thought as I put away the carpet foam and brush and damp rags. Lindsey's pretty obviously jack-off-fantasy gold. I've got plenty of nights ahead of me to imagine fucking her any way I want to.

And there were a whole lot of ways I wanted to.



Big Flipping Deal Ch. 02



[The story so far: Nick has inherited one half of a house from a sweet old lady neighbor, the now-deceased Mrs. Pinobscott. In a posthumous attempt at matchmaking, Mrs. P left the house jointly to Nick and her niece, Lindsey, a smoking-hot blonde whom Nick quickly becomes infatuated with, despite Lindsey's insistence that he doesn't want to get involved with her romantically. The will specifies that Lindsey and Nick will get a $20,000 renovation budget if they work to remodel the house together, after which they'll be able to sell it at a handy profit. But so far, Nick has had difficulty keeping his mind on the renovations... ] 

I woke up the next morning and went to... 

The... 

... longest... 

... day of work... 

Ever. 

No overtime or anything like that, and I even got to take a lunch break, but I spent the entire day, lunch included, absolutely steaming for five o'clock to roll around. I made every attempt possible to focus my attention on the job, but my current task provided no help - schematics for an instruction manual, more dead-boring crap with no creativity involved. 

So all day long, Lindsey kept popping into my head - her face, her eyes, her lips, those tits, her legs (over and over again, her legs!), her ass, and... 

The things she said after having her cry in the bathroom. "I'm sorry... " "I'm a mess... " "You don't want to have anything to do with me... " It surprised me how clearly I remembered it all. And even more surprising than remembering it? Getting just as big a boner from those memories as from thinking about her figure or the way she'd looked going down on me in her car. Lindsey had a tough exterior, but Mrs. P had been right in that letter: there was something sensitive inside this woman, and something really decent and nice, or she wouldn't have been crying in the bathroom and she wouldn't have apologized to me for doing what she saw as the wrong thing. 

Late in the day, about the fourth time that memory popped back up, I finally asked myself, So why is sensitive, decent and nice giving me such a fucking hard-on? 

The question answered itself pretty easily. Carmella hadn't been any of those things, and she hadn't been nearly as hot as Lindsey, and I'd still invested a year of my life in a relationship that ended up with me being thrown away like a piece of chewed gum, without even a hint of apology or regret. Whatever Lindsey thought was wrong with herself, could it possibly be as bad as what I'd put up with from my ex? I didn't see how. 

And that meant that my stupid, schmucky brain went pretty quickly from thinking I might have a shot at fucking Lindsey to thinking I might have a shot at actually being with Lindsey. 

Once I realized why "I'm sorry" and "I'm a mess" were giving me such a woody, I tried really hard to throw cold water on the idea: the rest of the day at work, the whole bus-ride home, the whole time I was feeding Mister Whiskerdoodle, changing into shorts and a t-shirt, and walking from my place to Mrs. P's, where we had agreed to meet at 6:30. I could deal with being sexually frustrated by working right next to a girl so hot she could absolutely cremate me - even if she never touched me again, I had a bottle of lotion and a pretty good imagination to let me enjoy the fantasy of plowing Lindsey until we both came, as often as I wanted. 

But there wasn't any lotion that would work if I got so caught up in her that I started imagining us together, romantically. 

By the time her car pulled into the driveway, I had myself pretty well convinced. She had told me as plain as day she wasn't looking for a relationship and she had no interest in me. Beyond that, she was totally out of my league. Beyond that, I had no money for dating right now, and neither one of us was going to have time, once we got up to our necks in the renovation work. Beyond that... 

She got out of the car, and I realized I was totally fucked. 

Oh my god, she's hotter in jeans and a t-shirt than she was in that skin-tight dress. They weren't even very tight jeans. If anything, they looked like she'd picked them out purely for comfort and practicality - which, duh, she probably had, since we were supposed to be getting down to work. But the very fact that they showed off nothing made it all the more impressive that her curvy figure could still bug my eyes out, loose jeans or no loose jeans. Same with the t-shirt: no hint of the cleavage that had put my saliva glands in overdrive the day before, but her tits still looked amazing in it. And that face...  

She had on makeup, but not much, and its simplicity made me realize how vamped-up she'd been yesterday. And her hair, pulled back in a tail instead of loose and wavy, performed the exact same trick. 

A woman who can be gorgeous without trying does something to you that all the tight dresses and makeup in the world can't do. I found my heart suddenly beating like crazy and my mouth dry and an idiotic idea bouncing back-and-forth in my head: that when Lindsey wasn't trying, she was probably just as gorgeous inside, as a person, as she was on the outside. And, even more idiotic: that maybe she didn't know it. 

So when she came up the walk and said "Hi," with a smile, and I said, "Hi," back with a dopier smile, and we started up the stairs, I was thinking ninety miles an hour and also not thinking at all. 

And when she put her key in the door and turned the knob, this is what came out of my mouth: 

"Hey, Lindsey, listen," I said, managing to speak very casually while a freaked-out interior voice begged me to shut up before I made a complete fool of myself, "I know you're not looking for anything, and I'm not trying to push it, but you kept saying yesterday that you're a mess and a wreck, and I just want to tell you, if that's all you're worried about, then you shouldn't be worried at all. You wouldn't have apologized to me if you weren't a good person, and that's all that really ought to matter. And when you blew me yesterday, are you really sure it wasn't at least partly because you wanted to be nice to me? I don't think that makes you a mess." 

She stood there looking at me the whole time I was talking, and midway through I saw her breathing speed up, but then by the end it slowed back down again, and her face went from unreadable and blank to... calm. Or settled. Or maybe resigned? But then it looked a little pinched or pained as she gathered herself up to speak. 

"Nick," she said, taking a deep breath after my name, "I'm transgender." 

"What?" 

"You know, transgender. My boobs are implants, and I've got a dick just like you." 

Blinking, I flashed back to that incredibly bizarre conversation I'd had with my mom fifteen years ago. Then I hurried on to keep from thinking too much about that. "No, uh, I know what it means. I mean, when I was a kid, I had this aunt - not that I knew at the time, but... anyway, that was more of a reflex 'what' than a question." 

She looked at me, waiting. 

"Really?" I asked, stupidly. I tried to see it in the shape of her face, tried to call up a memory of dowdy, odd-looking Aunt Elise and figure out what was the same about them, but the answer was, nothing at all. "That's not just a line you use to get rid of guys who want inside your pants?" 

Nodding at the door with one eyebrow up, she reached for her belt buckle. "You want to see? Let's go inside." 

"No, I trust you - sorry," I said, raising both hands. "It's just... you're really good looking. I'd never have... " 

Shit. So last night I really did fuck up my only chance to fantasize about getting into her pussy. 

She shrugged. "I've had some work done, and I always had kind of girly bone structure. People who know say I'm lucky, but sometimes I almost wish the truth was more obvious. Then I wouldn't have to deal with this kind of thing -" She waved a finger from me to herself and back again. "- or at least, not as often." 

"Sorry," I said. I could feel my face burning. What a crap situation to put someone in - especially when I knew what people's assumptions and stereotypes had ended up doing to Elise. 

Lindsey shook her head, though. "No, it's what I deserve for giving you head. That was really wrong, and I knew it, and I did it anyway. I told you you didn't want to have anything to do with me, right? And now I've got to be extra sorry because you probably feel like you got blown by a guy. A guy who was lying to you." 

Actually, I didn't feel like that at all. I just felt... let down. Of course that fantasy wasn't really going to happen. 

Why in the world would I think it might? I mean, the first second I laid eyes on her, I knew she was out of my class. And my first thought when Mrs. P's letter talked about matchmaking was that she couldn't possibly be talking about Lindsey. And when it turned out she was talking about Lindsey, my next thought was that the old lady was bonkers. And when Lindsey told me nothing was going to happen between us, I totally believed her. Even while she was blowing me, I still believed her. Mostly. 

So why did her crying and apologizing and repeating that she wasn't relationship material somehow make me think I might have a chance with her? 

Because I was an idiot. An idiot who thought something beautiful might just drop in his lap like that, despite a crapload of prior experience to the contrary. 

Really it made total sense that Lindsey had a dick. Some incredibly sexy girl who was willing to suck the orgasm of my life out of me an hour after we met - and whose aunt called her "shy" and "nice" - why would she ever be interested in a guy like me? There had to be something wrong with that picture. 

"Nick?" she asked, bringing me back to Mrs. P's porch. "Are you all right?" 

I shook my head. "No. I think I need to go home and get my head straight. Is that okay? Can we skip tonight? I'll be fine tomorrow, I promise." 

"Sure. Sure, no problem. We can just... yeah, that's no problem." 

"But look," I went on, seeing the concerned look still on her face, "don't worry about feeling bad. I do this kind of shit to myself all the time. I mean, not this kind of shit, but stupid shit." 

Lindsey rolled her eyes and gave a single nod. "You and me both." 

* * * 

I had more beers than I should have. Then I sat on the bed watching more TV than I should have, with Mister Whiskerdoodle in a lump on my lap cleaning himself - or, as I thought of it, reloading himself for the next hairball. I don't think I could have told you the plot of a single show I watched, but periodically the cat would purr and add to the numbing effect of the beer and the television. 

Eventually, bedtime showed up. I didn't think it was going to work, but I got myself ready and lay down and turned off the light anyway. 

The lameness of thinking I had a shot with Lindsey settled over me as thick as the comforter and as heavy as Mister Whiskerdoodle, curled in the center of my abdomen. Even worse, pretty quickly some bonus lameness joined it: not only had I raised my sights higher than I had any business doing, but I hadn't even kept it together enough afterwards to stick around and treat Lindsey like a person. 

As I lay there under the covers, my fists started clenching, because I thought of Aunt Elise, who was probably the only reason I hadn't totally wigged about my dream girl turning out to be a she-male. 

People doing shit like you did tonight killed her, I told myself. It was melodramatic and a piece of pointless self-bullying, but it was sort of true. 

Elise had been my favorite aunt when I was a kid. She was sweet and kind and always brought me candy when she visited or baked me cookies when I went to her place. She sucked at baking cookies, but I always pretended to like them. I was super sad when she moved away my freshman year, and even sadder two years later when she died. How could that have happened? I asked my mom what it was, an accident, or cancer, or...? And she sat me down and told me Elise killed herself. She'd always had really bad depression, Mom said, partly because people treated her like crap. That confused the hell out of me - Elise was the nicest person I knew. 

But... she had been born male. 

I always figured she was just kind of a funny looking lady. Funny looking runs in my family, sometimes. But no, Mom said she'd had hormone therapy and operations because she felt like it would make her into the person she ought to be. The problem is... it did. And then a lot of people started treating her like a freak because of it. Turning into who she wanted to be got her shunned in her church and banned from my grandparents' house. Eventually, she decided the problem was Texas, and she moved. But I guess there were plenty of assholes in Maryland too, and after two years there, she decided she'd had enough. 

So congratulations, dickweed. You just added another straw to Lindsey's back. How many will it take to break her like Elise got broken? 

I got up and went to the bathroom to wash my face. Mister Whiskerdoodle bitched at me for making him move, but I was obviously not falling asleep, and somewhere in there I'd started crying about Elise, and my face felt all puffy and sticky. So I splashed cold water on it and scrubbed it dry with a towel and looked myself in the eye in the mirror and said, 

"Tomorrow, you're going to do better, Nick." The guy in the mirror didn't look like he entirely believed it, so I went on. "You're going to be totally cool with it. You're going to treat her like she's just a person, not a she-male, and not a female firecracker whose pants you want to get into. You're going to treat her like it doesn't make any difference at all." 

Except I realized that those last two didn't even faintly go together. 

If I didn't know, if I still thought she was a chick, I'd be eyeing her the whole time. Yeah, I'd be sneaky, but she'd get it. She'd know I was hot for her. 

Fuck. 

If I really wanted to do right by Lindsey, I was going to have to figure out how to be a drooling pig over her. Because that's what would have happened if she'd never told me. Maybe not a total pig... a shy, embarrassed pig who didn't want to get caught ogling but did it anyway when the chance showed up. My fantasy from the night before came back to me. I looked at myself in the mirror. 

"You know what, Nick?" I asked. "Stupid as it sounds, the right thing to do is to whack off right now, fantasizing about plowing into her cunt." 

I definitely thought I now sounded like I'd had way too many beers. But I still scowled at myself in the mirror and dropped my pajama bottoms and sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of the toilet. 

Remember, I told myself, you don't know. 

The house. The torn-up carpet. The two of us chipping at the walls with whatever those tools were. Heat. Sweat. 

Lindsey stripping off her gloves and saying she was going to the kitchen for water. Me following her. 

That ass. 

Oh my God, that ass. 

I started getting hard. It was surprisingly easy, considering that I knew that ass was following along behind a crotch that had a - 

Shut up. You don't know, remember? 

The cooler, with Lindsey bending over, those long, strong, flawless legs straight and mouth-watering. 

"Shit, that's so fucking hot." I pumped my cock in one fist now, skin sliding over rigid, erect flesh. 

She gave me the last bottled water. Not that I was supposed to know it was the last one. I opened it and drank, my eyes locked on her perfect round bottom as she dug in the ice. I started thinking about what it would feel like to step up behind the straining cloth of her shorts and grind myself against the soft swells of that ass. 

"Here's what it would feel like," I muttered, jacking myself faster. The rhythmic back and forth of my hand obviously felt nothing like rubbing into a woman's glutes, but it felt pretty damn good. Precum started leaking out of the tip of my cock.  

"That's the last one. Can we share?" 

"Sure. Is there anything in it for me, though?" 

She took the bottle, drank, licked her lips. "No. I mean, unless you can think of some other fluid I'd like better than this water." 

"Um... " 

"Mm-hmm, yeah... " I had a really tight grip on my dick now, rolling my wrist to work more of that glistening, viscous flow up and out of my glands. With stroke after stroke, more precum followed the first, to drool down my shaft and wet my fingers thickly. 

Lindsey knelt again. Unzipped me again. Gripped me again. 

"Oh God." I tightened my fist as if it were her taking hold. Then I made a circle of my thumb, index, and middle finger and rolled them around the throbbing, sensitive, precum-slicked head of my cock as I willed it to stiffen further, then let it relax, again and again, so that as much gleaming fluid as possible would leak out and lubricate things. And when I'd gotten everything as wet as I could... 

She took me in her mouth again. 

Heaven. 

Slippery, sucked-in cheeks. Masterful serpentine tongue along the bottom of my shaft. The back of her throat, angling, opening up, taking me all the way in. 

"Fuck, I'm getting close already... " 

"Do you want to come in me?" she asked, her head pulled back, mouth right in front of my pulsating tip, hand on my spit-wet joystick. 

"Are you kidding?" 

"No, you've got me totally hot for it. Come on, let's go in the other room." 

The roll of replacement carpet. Lindsey shucking her top and sports bra, those wonderful, pale breasts bouncing free, beckoning me. Deep, tongue-dueling kisses. My hands clutching the soft wonder of her tits. Both of us edging to the flattened-out carpet roll. Lindsey lying back, legs parted, chest bare. I kissed my way down her form, stopping to suckle at each nipple, pulling gasps from her with my tongue running circles about the areolas. 

"Oh, God, Nick. That feels so good... ooh!" A louder gasp as I suck one soft brown nub up into my mouth. "So good, but... so horny - get my shorts off and fuck me... God, Nick, I need you to fuck me so bad... " 

Tonguing my way down to her navel as my hands undid her belt. The button underneath. The zipper. My cock waved with each beat of my heart, my hands trembling as I got hold of her waistband and pulled down, down...  

"Yes, get them off me and hammer my cunt!" 

My hand flew up and down with an absolutely magical rhythm. The burgeoning heat at the low end of my pelvis said it wasn't going to take much of this soon-to-be-revealed, glorious vagina to make me explode. 

I licked my lips and gave the final tug. And there it was! 

Her cock. 

My eyes jumped open, and I grimaced and almost let out a curse the neighbors would have heard. And then I thought, Damn it, you're supposed to treat her like it doesn't matter, right? 

Lindsey pushed up on her elbows, looking embarrassed. "Oh shit. I would have sworn I had a cunt. I'm really sorry about this... " 

Her hands went down to cover the small, pale worm of her penis, but I told my own cock it was going to have to do the right thing. 

"No, don't worry, we'll just - we'll have to make do. It's not a problem. Could you... I don't know, roll over?" 

"Okay, sure, if you don't mind... " 

Somehow, my cock hadn't gone limp. In fact, it still felt really good, tugged and massaged by my precum-slicked hand. 

She slid her legs from the carpet roll and rotated around to present that ass to me. With her face glowing red, she reached down and covered her cock and scrotum with one hand, pulling them forward, cupping them into invisibility so that I saw only her beautifully painted nails pointing up to her asshole. 




Big Flipping Deal Ch. 02



"I've fucked girls in the ass before. No problem." 

So much precum had leaked from my tip that I found I could easily brush its thick lubrication into the dimpled hollow around her sphincter, making it gleam damply. 

"Uhh, yes... Nick, that feels so good. Push it in. Push it in me!" 

The anus itself had a little bit of a taboo excitement to it, but what I really marveled at was the wonderful bare beauty of her ass-cheeks to either side of it. Lush and clean and feminine...  

My cock throbbed fiercely, warning me that it was getting ready to do something. 

I pushed. 

"Oh God, yes," she moaned. 

I pushed harder. Her flesh sunk inward with the pressure of my cockhead, and then...  

"Oh, FUCK!" 

The tight ring of her asshole opened up around me and took me in. Swallowed me. Clutched me...  

"Nick, Nick! Yes, Nick, Jesus!" 

"Lindsey... oh, yes - unghh - take it -" 

In, and in, and in, all the way in. Snug and deep as far into her as I would go, my hands on her waist pulling me forward with every ounce of strength I had to bury my whole shaft and - 

Cum spouted up from my tightly gripped cock with an immense and pulsing glory. 

"Oh God - UHH, fuck!" 

My eyes opened to see the blurting white streamers, one, two, three - even the third one shooting up over a foot into the air. And then I closed them again. 

And leaned forward gasping atop her, kissing her along her neck as she cooed and rotated her hips in satiation, my still-pulsing cock easing slowly down from orgasm. 

"Jesus, Lindsey. That was so good." 

She smiled at me. 

"Sorry about the cock thing." 

"It's okay." 

I slumped back against the bathroom wall, panting. There was cum everywhere. I'd need a new set of pajamas before I went back to bed. 

But I felt curiously peaceful and even... a little proud of myself. 

Like I always had after eating Aunt Elise's terrible cookies. 

* * * 

Thursday morning, Lindsey called me at work. 

Oh, shit, I thought, seeing her name on my phone. Something in my brain reflexively assumed that the first thing I said, she'd know I had whacked off thinking about her last night. Don't be an idiot. How's she going to know that? 

"Hey, this is Nick," I said. Who else would it be answering my cell phone? 

"Nick," she said, her voice the same combination of feminine boldness and allure that it had been before. But... without the visual of her face and body, maybe it rang a little deeper than I would have expected a girl's voice to? Or maybe I was just imagining it. "Is your car fixed yet?" 

That ratcheted my defensiveness up more than my jackoff fantasy did. I tried to keep myself from scowling even though she couldn't see me. "Well, no. Why?" 

"My afternoon's clear," she said. I could hear now that her phone was picking up wind. Must be on the highway in her convertible. "How about if I save you the bus trip and we can get started a little sooner today? Since we didn't get anywhere last night." 

Maybe you didn't get anywhere, but I ... oh goddammit, shut the fuck up! 

"Look, I'm really sorry about that. I shouldn't have -" 

"Don't worry about it. I didn't mean to bitch you out, just offer you a ride," she said. It sounded impatient, though. "If you want one." 

"Uh, sure." As quick as that, my brain had me sitting in the leather passenger seat of that BMW, Lindsey beside me in her sunglasses and skin-tight dress. Instant erection. Fuck. "Yeah, that would be great. I can work through lunch and be off at four-thirty." 

"Perfect. Send me the address." 

I did, and then proceeded to have the hard-on from hell for an hour after we hung up. The day crawled, slower and slower, until somewhere around three in the afternoon, I swear the clocks just completely stopped. That gave me plenty of time to realize I wasn't dressed for DIY remodeling work, and that Lindsey would have to drop me at my place to change before we got started. 

Or stop at my place and come in while I changed. 

The hard-on from hell came back. I tried to reason with it. Look, I told it, I know I said we should act like we didn't know, treat her like the hot chick we thought she was... but you're taking this too far. 

In kind of a throbbing penile morse code, it replied, Fuck you. I got blown in that car, dude - maybe it'll happen again. 

It's not going to happen again! 

Could it? 

At four-thirty, I shut my computer off, bolted down to the front entrance, and, looking through the revolving glass door, spotted Lindsey already pulled up to the curb and waiting. She had on another t-shirt, hair in the same ponytail as yesterday, sunglasses dark but glinting. As I spun through the door into a hot afternoon breeze, she looked over and tilted her chin up in greeting. Some Katy Perry song was sleazing its dancy way out of her speakers. 

"Hey," she said, hitting the button to pop the lock on my side. 

I tried to open the door casually, slide in casually, and casually say, "Hey," back. Something about her smirk made me think I hadn't pulled any of the "casually" part off. 

"So anyway," I said, looking into the shiny twin darknesses of her sunglass lenses, "you made things awkward giving me a b.j., and I made things awkward trying to hit on you -" 

"You were trying to hit on me?" 

My attempt to call the playing field level had been short-circuited. "Well - uh -" 

She laughed and turned and put the car in gear. "I'm kidding. I know you were trying to hit on me, that's why I spilled the she-male beans, remember?" 

"Look," I said, off balance and feeling my face go the color of a tomato, "all I wanted to say was -" 

"I get it, Nick," she said, shoving me back in my seat with a stomp on the accelerator. "You're a nice guy, you embarrassed yourself, and you want to make sure I know you're not a bigot or a creep. Can we be done with this conversation now?" 

Duh. Did you think you were the first guy she's had react like that? 

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to -" 

"Don't be sorry, just say, 'Sure, let's be done with that.'" 

"Uh, sure. Let's be done with that." 

Spinning us out onto the access road, she seemed to relax a little. "Good. 'Cause we've got other things to talk about, you know?" 

"Yeah, of course." For a second, I just held on through three quick lane changes and a swerve through the turnaround. Then my brain started working again. "Are we going somewhere?" 

"There's a tile and bathroom design center up in Plano I like," she explained, accelerating onto the northbound access road and then up onto the highway. The wind and engine noise joined forces with Katy Perry, making Lindsey raise her voice. "We're going to pick some stuff out." 

Parts of Plano are pretty ritzy. "Is that going to be in our budget?" 

"Yeah," she said, throwing me an I-do-this,-remember? look. "They get a lot of business from me and my clients - we won't be paying full retail." 

"Oh. Okay." 

We got up on the highway, then took the exit to the tollway. Lindsey's head moved with the music in a subtle, unconscious bob. I didn't say anything because so far today, saying things hadn't been my strongpoint, and she seemed distracted anyhow. On either side, the green part of the tollway streamed by, bridges passing over us for Inwood and Mockingbird Lane, until eventually the road rose up and crossed over LBJ freeway with the apex of the overpass spreading Plano and the other north Dallas suburbs out ahead of us. Pretty soon we reached Lindsey's exit, whizzed through the toll lane, and performance-braked smoothly to the light. 

"It's a couple blocks over this way," she said, eying the traffic around us and tapping the steering wheel out of sync with both her turn signal and the radio. It occurred to me that maybe she was starting to find me irritating. 

Nah, she doesn't know you well enough to be irritated yet, said my inner heckler. Give her a couple more days. 

I still kept quiet, just in case. 

When we got to the place, I momentarily thought, Well, this isn't so fancy. The building had kind of a plain stone exterior with a not-so-big logo over a horizontal accent over a stretch of window split three ways by vertical steel bands. But by the time the car came to a complete stop in one of the front parking spaces, I realized it was the kind of fancy that doesn't need to be fancy. The front window formed a sort of triptych frame for this classy tile water-sculpture, a stair-stepping set of flat surfaces in about twenty different shades of brown and slate and ivory, with crystal-clear water cascading in fine sheets from one level to the next. Once I got a good look, I realized that everything about the storefront had been placed and proportioned exactly right. The logo wasn't that big, but the natural flow of the building - windows, doors, that accent - all let your eye settle in this way that meant you couldn't help crossing the name with your gaze, and even though the font was simple, it had a bold elegance to it at the same time. 

Biting my tongue against asking, Are you sure we can afford this? I looked over at Lindsey and found her putting her sunglasses away in her purse. 

And her left eye was black. 

"Holy cow, what happened?" I asked, pointing to my own eye before I could stop and think that maybe it was rude to ask. 

She grimaced, wrinkling her nose and then wincing as if the movement gave her bruised eye-socket a twinge. 

"I got in a fight." Her door opened and she stepped out. I sat blinking for a second - long enough that she turned back and glared at me. "Are you coming or not?" 

"Uh, yeah -" I said, but she'd already started walking for the entrance. "Wait -" 

Lindsey stopped and put her hands on her hips and looked at me as I fumbled open my door and scurried to catch up. "I totally didn't mean to pry - it just took me by surprise and I couldn't help -" 

She sighed and held up both hands to me, eyes floating skyward just a second. "Okay... for fuck's sake, is our entire relationship going to be one or the other of us apologizing for something? It's not a big deal. Can we just go in and figure out what we're going to do with these bathrooms?" 

"Sure, sure," I said. "But - I mean - you're okay, right? It's just the eye?" 

"I'm fine." 

I was ready for that to be it. Whatever happened, it wasn't my business. She'd apparently even forgotten about it until she took off the sunglasses and I pointed it out. Getting in a fight seemed like a big deal to me, but maybe it wasn't to her. Or maybe she didn't get in a fight, she's just putting you on or covering for tripping and banging into a wall. Anyway, it wasn't my business, and I made myself drop it. 

But right before we got to the door, she turned again. 

"Okay," she said in an exasperated tone. "Last night once I finished up some measuring and sketching in Neena's place -" After I abandoned you by being an insensitive cowardly shit, I thought. "- I went to this bar I know, and I ran into my semi-ex. I broke up with him a couple months ago, but we keep showing up at each other's apartments and fucking. Twice his fault, once mine. Anyway, I'm sitting at the bar nursing my drink and he sneaks up behind me and gets a hand around on one of my tits and gets his lips in my ear and says how much he needs me. Specifically, how much he needs a certain part of me. I could smell on his breath that he'd already been drinking more than I had, and I didn't have any patience for his shit, and I certainly wasn't in any mood to fuck, so I told him to screw off and tried to pull loose. But he keeps groping me and begging me to go back to his place, and I say, 'You know what, Max? We're done. Yesterday I blew a straight guy in my car just because I could. And it really made it clear to me: I am so over your cock.' And he looked all crushed but also mad, and he grabbed me by both arms and was squeezing hard enough with his fingers that it hurt, saying I couldn't do this to him, et cetera, et cetera, and I flipped and shoved him away and got in his face yelling what a shit he was, and then he said something really, really ugly, and I slapped him, and he slugged me. Totally dropped me back against the bar, I don't know if I was that stunned from the punch or just because I didn't think he had it in him - I've got about three inches and twenty pounds on him. Anyway, his face fell for a second and his fist loosened up, and I could see he knew he'd just fucked any chance he ever had of getting back with me, and then he went all steamed again and stomped off. End of story." 

She stood there looking at me, almost like she was daring me to form an opinion. 

"Well, I mean, he started it, right? Groping you and then grabbing you and not letting go, and then squeezing your arms - I think you were pretty justified, the way he -" 

Her eyes rolled and she waved my lame consolation away. "Who gives a fuck if I was justified? It got rid of him, and this -" pointing at her eye "- was a cheap price to pay. He was a dick, and he wasn't even that good in bed." 

Somebody came out of the tile place and skirted past us on the sidewalk, a middle-aged guy who checked out Lindsey's ass as he went by. 

"Now can we go in and pick out our bathrooms?" 

"Yeah," I said, shrugging. "Sure." 

Inside, the place had aisles and aisles of tiles and tiles, and more aisles of sinks and toilets, faucets, showerheads, tubs and towel racks and I'm sure somewhere a bidet or two. But before we got to all that, the central display room made my eyes pop out with a polychromatic landscape of mock bathrooms in color combinations that ranged from hip, sunny orange-and-blue to classic marble to baroque cherry with renaissance accent patterns running around it in a color that was probably called "parchment" or something like that. 

"Wow," I said. 

Lindsey acknowledged me with a nod and headed through the warren of displays. "They've got nice stuff here." 

"No kidding," I said as I followed her, for once looking up and down something other than her ridiculously shapely figure. "I'm not even sure why you brought me along - It's not like I'm going to say anything here sucks." 

"Duh, Nick," she said, opening her purse as she walked. "You're not here to give me a thumbs-down. They've only got good stuff here, and I only have good ideas in my notebook." 

She pulled out a little spiral-bound pad a little larger than a paperback book, tucked the purse back under her arm, and started flipping through the note-pad's pages. We'd passed through the displays now and were on one of the tile aisles. 

"Here," she said, turning the notebook around and showing me two facing pages. "Your job is to tell me how you feel about what I show you here. Not good or bad, but what it reminds you of - who you think would like it and who wouldn't. And to play eye doctor with me... 'Better like this? Or better like this.'" 

I kind of swallowed a little at the idea of playing doctor with Lindsey. I'm not sure whether she caught that or not, because I wasn't looking at her face. The sketches she put in front of me had my full attention. 

"Damn, Lindsey," I said, taking the pad and staring. "This is amazing." 

"Thanks." 

On the left-hand page, she had sketched the layout of the guest bathroom, the one in the hall (where she'd had her crying jag the night she blew me), both as a two-dimensional floor-plan and as a 3-D illustration. It was done in pencil, with an incredible amount of detail considering the tiny space she had to work in. Facing it, drawn with some vivid colored pens, were two completely different reworkings of the same space, one conservative and solid in wine-colored walls and ivory tiling, the other airy and fun, in gentle oranges and whites and yellows and pale greens that she'd used to build different-sized splashes of color that looked at once random and coherent. 

"Holy cow." 

"Those are the front bath. I did a couple more ideas on the next page, but I think these ones are grabbier." 

I turned the page and found two looser, rougher sketches, one in a variety of large light- and medium-blue tiles, another primarily white with red diamond accents and borders. 

"Jeez, I'd rather live in any of these bathrooms than my house." 

She laughed. It was a really nice sound. 

"So look, you're a guest visiting somebody's house. You've got to take a leak. You go into the front bathroom and it looks like one of these. Whose house are you in?" 

I honestly had no answer, so I just kept flipping back and forth between the four bathroom drawings and said, "Not Mrs. P's, that's for sure." 

Lindsey scowled. "No shit. Nobody wants to buy Neena's little-old-lady house, not for good money. That's what we're trying to fix." 

"Sorry," I said. Trying harder, I pointed at the red-and-white one and said, "This is some tightly wound chick who wants people to know she doesn't take anybody's shit. Or - if they put in some blue towels on the racks, maybe some patriotic military retirees." 

"Better," she said. "What about that one?" 

The sketch in all the different blues didn't do much for me. "Someone boring or depressed." 

"Okay. So let's definitely scratch both of those. How about the first page?" 

I flipped back. "These people either have money," I said, pointing at the wine-and-ivory room, "or they want people to think they have money." 

"Do they have kids?" 

"Huh. I dunno... probably not?" 

"And that one?" she tapped the last one, the one that made me think of dandelions and cantaloupe and honeydew. 

"That one's really hard," I said. "It could be all kinds of people. A couple with kids, some older folks who like to garden. Hell, I'd like my bathroom to look like that - it's cheerful." 

"Perfect." She pulled the notebook away and shut it, making me blink. When I looked up, I saw her grinning. "We're trying to move the place, right? So it needs to appeal to everybody and his dog. Let's find the right tiles to put that one together." 

Following her down the aisle, still half-stunned by her talent and creativity, I thought, Who the hell hits a woman like this? 

Not that I get hitting women in general, but it seemed like it would take a special kind of asshole to lay hands on someone responsible for so much beauty. 

Why would she be with an asshole like that? 

The questions bugged me, and every time I looked at her and saw her black eye, I got a searing anger at this Max guy. But one thing was for sure... 

The whole rest of the time we were in the store, I pretty much forgot about the fact that she had a cock. 

* * * 

After two more stops, we had all the interior paint and most of the stuff for both bathrooms and the kitchen. That is, we didn't have it all, since no way in hell would even half of it fit in Lindsey's little sports car. But we'd ordered it, to the tune of more than ten grand. The tile place let her have everything on account; the paint and appliances she put on a card. When my jaw dropped at the appliance store, she waved the expense away. "I'll stop by the lawyer's tomorrow and have them cut me a check out of the trust fund." 

"But... should we really be buying all this stuff before we're ready to use it?" 

"It's motivational. The appliances get delivered in three weeks, that means we have to get the kitchen painted, floored, cabinets redone and countertops in by then. Otherwise the new stove and fridge and dishwasher have to go in the garage and we end up hauling them in and doing the hookups ourselves instead of having the delivery guys do it." 




Big Flipping Deal Ch. 02



I followed her logic, along with the rest of the scheduling stuff she filled me in on: a friend of hers who did inspections - Bret - would be coming tomorrow to make sure we weren't looking at any disastrous hidden defects, then we'd move the current appliances to the garage and do all the demo work in the kitchen, paint it, resurface the cabinets, get the flooring and countertops in, and be ready for the appliances. After that, pull the toilet and sink from the master bathroom, yank the existing tile, repaint, retile, and install the new fixtures. Rinse and repeat for the guest bathroom. After that would be the paint and floors for the bedrooms, hallways, living room, and laundry room. 

We went over all this at dinner after shopping - Lindsey didn't ask if I was hungry, just said she was and picked a steak place with a steep enough menu I was just going to get an appetizer until she said she was paying and would be writing it off as a business expense. "That's legitimate, by the way. This is a money-making venture, if you remember." 

On the one hand, I didn't like being reminded that our relationship was really just an expedient partnership. But on the other, I appreciated her sense of ethics about write-offs and that she found it important enough to make a point of telling me. 

She dropped me off around dusk and asked if I wanted Friday night off. I told her it was totally her call, and she said she'd pick me up from work at four-thirty again. I walked inside, took my shoes off in the foyer without turning on the light, and immediately stepped in the cold sog of a hairball. 

"Thanks, Mister Whiskerdoodle," I grumbled. But as I hit the light switch and took off the now-wet sock to avoid tracking cat yark everywhere, I found myself curiously unirritated. I'd just spent most of the evening watching Lindsey ping-pong between enthusiasm and mind-blowing competence at the subject in front of us, and I'd gotten in a couple of jokes that she genuinely laughed at, and I felt like the next few months held a lot of promise for uncomplicated, enjoyable interactions with her. 

If anything, having romance and sex off the table took away a huge pressure I'd have felt if I still thought she was a normal girl. The more I thought about it, even while cleaning up cat puke, the better my mood got. 

When my head hit the pillow at bedtime, I found myself looking forward to a better Friday night than I'd had in months. 

* * * 

"Hi, Nick! Nick, this is Max! Max, this is Nick!" 

"Wait," I said, gobsmacked to find the two of them in the bar together, and fucking no less, "I thought - didn't you break up with -" 

Lindsey rolled her eyes. She had her ass on a barstool and her elbows back on the bar, legs up and skirt raised so Max could plunge freely and deeply between her butt-cheeks. "Yeah, I know. But we just keep fucking for some reason." 

"Pleased to meet you, Nick," Max said, taking a hand from beneath one of her knees to offer to shake mine. I ignored it, stupefied. 

"But he hit you," I said, stepping closer to the bar to get away from Max's hand. He shrugged and returned it to its grip on the back of her knee, pushing both her legs farther up and plowing into her harder than ever. 

"I know," she said, shaking her head. "I'm a mess. I suck at the whole relationship thing. He's not even that good a fuck. Look, my cock's just lying there. He's not even touching it while he screws me." 

Max looked surprised, as if he had a perfectly good excuse. "My hands are full of these awesome legs! Why would I let go of them to feel a dick instead?" 

"Because it's just common courtesy!" I said, offended... but also distracted by the sight of his large and rigid cock sodomizing her with abandon, every thrust making her lonely, flaccid penis quiver unattended above her ball-sack. "Lindsey, why in the world are you taking this? Tell the bastard to pull out and get lost." 

"Jeez, Nick, I told you you didn't want to get involved in this part of my life. I'm completely incompetent at it. But don't worry, Max is hung, but he's a lousy lover. It won't take him much longer to be done." 

"UH, God! You said that right!" groaned Max, powering relentlessly in and out of her. "Oh, shit, this ass feels good! Nnf! Uh! Yeahhh... " 

Incensed, I absolutely knew I ought to storm out. But the sight of Lindsey's long, pale legs raised and perfectly poised for sex kept me rooted to my spot, staring, mindlessly entranced by the way both her prick and her tits surged and jiggled at every thrust from Max's lunging tool. Her head lolled back wearily. 

"God, I'm such a wreck," she said. "He's getting to fuck me up the ass, and I'm not even getting jacked off." 

I couldn't believe it. This selfish son of a bitch kept burying himself to the root in the ass of the most beautiful woman I'd ever met, without bothering to even lift a finger to return the pleasure she was giving him. 

"Damnit, Max," I said. "Just let go of her leg for a couple minutes and jerk on her a little. It's the least a decent human being could do." 

"Ooohh - uh, uh, guhuhh. What? Oh, crap, that's some good anal sex right there. Uh-huh, uh-huh, yeah, baby... " He kept slapping it into her and ignoring me, pistoning forward balls-deep, pulling way out, veins standing out in his neck as he gasped and pumped. 

"Max!" 

"Fuck, man, if it's so important to you, why don't you do it? Looks to me like you've got both hands free... ooh yeah, ooh yeah... UH!" 

Embarrassed, I turned to see whether Lindsey had been paying attention. Her lips looked pouty, and her blue eyes were oceans of need, but she said, "Don't worry about it, Nick. I know it's not your thing." 

"No, it's not," I said, grinding my teeth. "... but Jesus Christ, it's not like I don't know how to jack a cock off." 

My hand found her limp, warm length and took hold of it. With a twitch and a surge, the slack flesh fattened itself up and engorged. 

"Oh!" Lindsey said, wide-eyed. "Really, you don't have to, Nick. But... oh!" 

My own cock burgeoned within my pants as I began stroking her. I looked around the bar to see if any of the other patrons noticed that I was getting an erection from rubbing someone else's dick. They all seemed to be busy with their drinks and conversations. 

Max sped up as I jerked Lindsey's dick with hesitant, shame-filled tugs. "Yeah, whack that thing! Dude, that's so hot! MMm, fuck! So good... " 

"Nick... " gasped Lindsey, "I don't want you to... be... oh, that feels nice. But if it's bothering you... ooohhooohoo... oh, please, I don't want you to stop, but... " 

I glanced from her ecstatic, sympathetic face to the swollen knob of her cock, peeking up between my thumb and encircling fingers. The stiff heat of it in my grasp felt uncomfortably familiar, not quite like the feel of my own erections, but close. 

"That's it... that's it... " she whispered. "Oh, yes, keep doing that... " 

Standing there in awkward silence, I kept my hand in motion as Max huffed and humped and Lindsey lay moaning in pleasure. 

"Ah!" she said, her body suddenly tensing. I wondered if she was coming, then remembered that she wouldn't come the way a natural-born woman would - she'd spurt all over me. This was something else. "Nick, I know - close your eyes and pretend you're just masturbating. I'll grab hold of you while you're taking care of me." 

"Uh... " I tried to think of a polite way to ask if maybe she could just take over whacking herself, but before one occurred to me, I felt the teasing trace of her finger run from the base of my crotch all the way up my fly, where she dug for the zipper pull. Instead of making my own suggestion, I closed my eyes and said, "Okay." 

One-handed, she fished out my erection and surrounded it in her tender but confident grasp. 

"Yes!" said Max. "Jerk each other off, both of you! Uh - fuck!" 

Lindsey growled at him as she began milking my hard on. "Shut up, Max." 

She matched my pace exactly, matched my pressure, did everything just right to make her hand feel just like it was mine, like I was masturbating myself and not her. 

But the inescapable difference was, I could hear her whimper with pleasure every time I pulled at the rigid column of flesh in my grip, and the involuntary surges of her cock couldn't be timed to duplicate mine. So I opened my eyes again and ignored Max squeaking and thrusting between her legs and watched her face, that wonderful, sculpted face, trembling between peace and passion, eyes closed, bottom lip sucked between her teeth, brows tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing as we pulled at one another...  

"Oh," she murmured, "oh... " 

"Yes, Lindsey," I whispered. "Come... " 

"Oh... " 

Max's voice tried to intrude, but I barely registered what it said. "Fuck - yeah - gonna cum -" 

Her sweet, lovely face held my gaze completely. Somewhere far away, my dick felt incredible as she pumped it, but all I could think about was that face, and how much I wanted to see it glowing with pleasure and joy. 

"Oh... " 

And there was an easy way to do it. 

"Oh... " 

Heart pounding, I bent and slipped my hand out of the way and took her in my mouth. 

"OH!!" 

She exploded the very instant I sealed my lips. Thick white ejaculate filled my mouth so quickly I gargled and almost choked and couldn't keep it all in. Max was shouting and coming so hard I could practically hear his throbs as Lindsey's spew crashed against the back of my throat and blurted from my lips to run down her shaft and onto my hand. 

"Nick, Nick!" she cried, giving my cock a final, prefect twist that unexpectedly pulled me over the edge into orgasm along with her and Max. I swelled in her hand and unloaded, spouting, spurting, moaning around her pulsing rod...  

And then I woke up, and Mister Whiskerdoodle was purring on my chest. 

"Agh." I looked around and saw that the clock said 2:18 a.m. My head flopped back into the pillow, still fuzzy with dream-stuff but also awake enough to have at least one coherent thought. "Fuck, Mr. W... I think I may be in real trouble here."



Big Flipping Deal Ch. 03



[The story so far: Nick and Lindsey are remodeling a house together after Nick's neighbor (Lindsey's aunt) left it to them in her will. Lindsey is a talented interior designer and incredibly hot ... but, it turns out, transgender. Since he became enormously attracted to her before the revelation, Nick is now conflicted, trying to decide whether it's okay to fantasize about her and having erotic dreams about actions he had never considered taking before ...] 

"Okay," said Lindsey when she picked me up the next day, once again in t-shirt and jeans, "there's good news and there's bad news." 

As we pulled out of the office parking lot, I thought, What kind of news is it that I dreamed I sucked your dick last night? 

But what I said was, "Um ... good news first?" 

She pouted a second like she'd wanted to tell it the other way, and that little compression of her lips made me think, The good news is, those lips were wrapped around my cock a couple of days ago. The bad news is, that's the last time they ever will be. 

"The good news is," she said as we waited at the light, "Bret only found one thing, besides a bunch of cosmetic shit we can take care of pretty easy." 

Wait, am I really wishing she'd blow me again, now that I know? Of course, asshole. You're supposed to be wishing it because you're supposed to be treating her like you don't know, remember? 

I realized Lindsey was looking at me through her sunglasses, waiting. 

"Oh, so what's the bad news?" 

The light changed, and she turned her head forward again. 

"The bad news is, it's the A/C unit. The condenser's apparently nothing but rust held together by twenty years of dust. Bret said he's surprised it's still running. So we probably just lost five grand out of our budget." 

"Five grand?" At last, my brain had something to grab its attention other than my cock or hers. "For a condenser?" 

"The unit's old enough it's got some crap condenser that's not even legal to put in new machines anymore. Freon. Bret says we could save a couple thousand having a replacement condenser put in, but the rest of the unit's not in great shape either. We'll be a lot more marketable buying a whole new system, for not that much more money." 

I started to give a low whistle, but putting my lips in whistling position suddenly made me uncomfortable. "We're not going to put that in ourselves, are we?" 

"Oh, Jesus Christ, no," she said. The glance she gave me had a certain whoa-have-I-stuck-myself-with-a-complete-moron look to it. "Not unless you've got HVAC experience you're not telling me about and some pals to help you." 

"Just double-checking," I said. "So what's on the agenda for tonight?" 

Hooking her thumb over a shoulder, she said, "I've got some tools in the trunk for us to get the appliances out of the kitchen. If it goes quick, we might pull the sink and countertops tonight too, but I don't want to get too ambitious. Probably that'll wait until tomorrow." 

"Okay." 

On the highway now, we had the wind in our hair for a bit before we hit a slowdown - southbound 35, Friday afternoon, people headed out of town for the weekend on top of people leaving early from work. I realized the radio wasn't on today. Lindsey sat watching traffic creep, one hand on the gearshift and the other tapping on the wheel. 

"So ..." I spoke up so I'd have a reason to be looking over at her. Other than trying to see in her profile the features of an effeminate guy wearing makeup instead of a gorgeous woman. A couple of times at dinner the night before, I thought I'd caught a hint of weak male bone structure instead of strong female features. I hadn't been trying then, though, and at the moment any androgyny was swamped by the flow of her hair and the red of those lips. "So, what do you do, when you're not designing interiors?" 

The expression she flashed me said, Really? Eyebrows up high enough to top the rim of her sunglasses. She answered drily. "Read a lot of interior design magazines." 

"Oh, come on," I said. "It's Friday night, I'm in a snazzy car with a beautiful woman, and you're going to hold it against me that I want to make small talk?" 

She lifted her sunglasses up above the golden curve of her hairline and spared another glance from the slow-moving traffic to me. The intelligent blue of those eyes might have wilted me where I sat, except that the purple bruise around the left one gave her a stark vulnerability. 

"Look, Nick, you don't have to prove anything to me. You don't have to pretend anything, you don't have to call me a 'beautiful woman.' You know, and I know that you know. Just relax about it and let's have a very practical, collaborative few weeks together and walk away with our money." 

"Ouch," I said. My mouth opened to say something else, who knows what, but Lindsey's right leg stabbed and her hand blared the horn and the car jerked almost to a dead stop. 

"Fucking asshole!" 

Luckily the angle of her gaze made it clear she meant some guy who'd just cut us off, not me. I sat watching her, watching the flare of anger fade from her features. 

"I don't get it," I said. "Which one do you think was me pretending? Do you think you're not beautiful? Or do you not really think of yourself as a woman?" 

This time, it wasn't just the bruise but the eyes themselves that looked vulnerable. She frowned and lowered her shades and turned her attention back to the traffic. I kept watching her, waiting to see if she meant to just ignore me. As the cars around us started moving again, she found something to say. 

"On my good days, I do," she said. "I put on a pretty dress and the guys stare at me and the women look at me like they're jealous and I feel ... real. But most days, I know I'm a fake, all right? I know if I had the balls to be a woman, I'd go the whole way, have the operation, and give up on enjoying this thing I was born with between my legs." 

"My aunt did," I said. 

"What?" 

"My aunt Elise. She went the whole nine yards. But this was like twenty years ago and everybody acted like she was a freak and basically ran her out of town. And she, uh ..." Fuck, why am I telling her this? Is it supposed to cheer her up? 

"She, 'uh,' what?" 

"Never mind. I don't even know why I brought it up. I was a kid. At the time, I had no idea she used to be a man. I never got to talk to her about it." I found it harder and harder to keep my focus, but I struggled on anyway. "My point is ... ugh. My point is, you have all these amazing things about you - your looks, brains, talent, your sense of humor - sure, it's kind of mean, but you've got one. And then you've got this one weird thing that makes you unusual, and it just - I mean, you can't -" 

I had to look away, out my side of the car. I couldn't really have told you why. And then I felt Lindsey's hand come to rest very lightly on mine. 

"I'm sorry about your aunt, Nick." 

The hand left before I could turn. She had them both on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead as though off somewhere far away, thinking. But then she looked over at me and went on, "You don't have to worry over me, okay? I bitch about myself a lot, but I do have those good days, right? I know I've got it a hell of a lot better than a lot of people in my position. Maybe that's part of what pisses me off about myself. I've got so much, and I still can't figure out how to be happy." 

The traffic picked up speed a bit, and Lindsey accelerated the car with it, carrying her hair back from her face with a breeze. 

"You seemed happy when you were showing me your sketches last night," I said. 

Her mouth wrinkled to one side. 

"I do some painting too," she said. "When I'm not designing interiors. And I bowl." 

"Seriously?" I laughed. "I didn't think chicks as hot as you got into bowling." 

"They don't," she said. "But geeky teenage guys sometimes do." 

Our exit came up, and we crawled mercifully out of the traffic and down the exit ramp. 

"Well, we should go bowling sometime," I said. "I'm terrible, but I was in a couple of leagues in high school, and I still like throwing a line or two." 

She stayed quiet all the way through the light and into the neighborhood. 

But once we pulled into Mrs. P's driveway and she turned off the car, she looked at me and said, "I'll think about it." 

* * * 

I assumed Lindsey had lined up a really unambitious job for us that night. Refrigerator, stove, dishwasher - just three things, being moved out of a room, down a hall, out across the driveway, and into the garage. Yeah, they were big, heavy things, but how hard was this going to be? Especially since we didn't give a crap if the floor got scratched to hell? 

Well, it's a good thing I didn't speak up and tell her I expected it to be quick and easy. 

"The doorways in the kitchen are too small for the fridge to fit through," Lindsey explained when I asked why we needed the little stepladder she'd brought along with her bin of tools. "It's a monster - I don't know what the hell Neena needed that much refrigerator for. So we've got to take the doors off the fridge before we move it, and put them back on once it's in the garage." 

"What's the point of putting them back on?" I asked as she handed me the stepladder and a couple of towels. "Aren't we getting rid of it?" 

"Yeah, in three weeks," she replied, hefting the tool bin and slamming the trunk. "I'd just as soon have something cold to drink while we're working between now and then, wouldn't you?" 

"Sure, of course. For some reason, I was picturing an ice chest." 

"When we've got a perfectly good refrigerator?" 

Why the hell didn't I think about having drinks in the fridge? Oh yeah, because she wouldn't have to bend over and show me that ass and those legs getting a drink out of the refrigerator. 

I shrugged, then unlocked the door so we could go inside. 

Getting the doors off the refrigerator wasn't too hard. You pull it out from the wall, unplug it, turn off the water to the icemaker, take off the front kickplate to get at the water dispenser tube that attaches to the freezer door, remove some protective caps, then unscrew the doors themselves. I pretty much just stood and watched and then held the door and lifted once she got the top screws and the electrical connection out ... then I held the door some more while she unthreaded that water tube. I also got to mop up some ice-cold water with the towels. 

None of this was anything to complain about, though, because when I say I mostly stood and watched, I mean I got to stand and watch Lindsey. Working, focusing, filling out her t-shirt, a rosy pink number with geometric designs in lavender down the front. She almost caught me a couple of times, but I think I moved my eyes just before I got nailed. 

"You really seem to know what you're doing," I said on the second near-miss, as if that explained where I'd been looking. "You take a lot of doors off refrigerators?" 

She gave me a dry look. "I have the Internet." 

In ten or fifteen minutes, we had the thing disassembled. A couple minutes after that, we got it scooted down the hall to the side door and then out across the driveway into the garage - pinching my finger between the fridge and the doorway in the process. Then a minute or two of me sucking my finger and trying to shake the pain out of it, and then another ten to get the doors back on. 

The stove took less time, no more than twenty minutes including the time spent clicking the unlabeled breakers in the fuse box until we found out which ones cut the right power. 

But the dishwasher was kind of a bitch. Water connections under the sink. Water connections under the unit. Electricity hard-wired in instead of delivered by a plug. For the most part, there was nothing for a second person to do. Lindsey talked me through the messier part - the water connections - then sprawled on the floor to mess with the electrical herself. This gave me a terrific view of her ass, which I tried to politely avoid looking at even though I had nothing better to occupy me. 

When I say I 'tried' to avoid looking, I'm not saying I succeeded all that well. 

At one point she had her legs parted far enough to give me a good angle not just on her ass but on her crotch. One part of my brain tried to move my eyes that direction to see if I could get a glimpse of camel-toe. Another part quickly reminded me that if I got any kind of glimpse, it wouldn't be a camel-toe. 

And then another part started itching to look and find out what the glimpse would be. The jeans weren't tight, but they weren't baggy either. How much of a bulge would there be? How exactly was everything packed in there? Were things taped down? In some kind of support underwear? 

My will slipped, and I looked - just a second too late. She'd shifted on the floor and gotten her legs closed again. 

What the fuck is wrong with me? 

Before I could start listing the multitude of answers to that question, Lindsey rolled and turned to look my way. 

"I've almost got this, and then we should be able to lug it out to the garage. You want to order us a pizza or something?" 

Shit yes, I want to order us a pizza or something. "Sure. Delivered here? Or to my house where there's someplace to sit?" 

"Duh, here," she said. "This is a worksite meal. We've put in our first real work on the place. You don't go somewhere else to eat that." 

"Oh, right. Of course not." 

I got on my phone, and she went back to the wiring. Ten minutes later, we had the thing out in the garage next to the stove. 

"So. What now?" I asked, dusting my hands once we set it down. "Are we going to get started on that countertop? I mean, it's Friday night. The pizza'll take an hour." 

"Did you order anything to drink with it?" 

"Doh. No, and I promise that's not a trick to get you to go to my place for a soda." 

She laughed. "Should I tell you I completely believe you'd forget something like Cokes with a pizza?" 

"Sure. I haven't got much ego about my competence, but I like people to think I'm honest." 

For some reason, that made her smile. "Okay, well, I'm going to wash up, and then why don't we just walk to that quick-mart we pass on the way into the neighborhood. We should be able to get there and back before the pizza comes." 

"Sounds good." 

* * * 

We went back in the house, through the kitchen, down the front hall. She broke off into the bathroom and closed the door, doing more than just washing her hands, apparently. As I waited in the foyer, my brain had the insensitivity to wonder if she peed standing up. 

I really need to stop fixating on this, I thought. But I didn't listen to myself. Instead, first I imagined Lindsey working her jeans down past her hips, her ass, her thighs, pulling a pair of soft panties with them - rose colored panties to match her t-shirt - and then gently sitting down on the toilet seat with her cock tucked between her legs so she could piss in a properly feminine position. Then I imagined her standing with her feet apart, dropping her fly, fishing out her dingus, and jetting a stream into the bowl just like I would. Which one was it ... sitting shyly? Or letting go in a man stance? 

Think. About. Something. Else. I paced back and forth by the front door. Good God, the last thing you want is her to come out and find you with a chubby in your pants. 

The thought stopped me in my tracks, because I realized it was true. I didn't have a full-fledged boner, but my cock had definitely swelled mildly erect - that warm, fuzzy kind of erection that's not so hard as to be uncomfortable, but firm enough to make you conscious of how much you love sex. 

Why is Lindsey's dick giving me a hard-on??? I flashed back to my dream, to the moment at the end when I sucked her in, warm and rigid and then instantly jerking and spurting, filling my mouth with heat and viscosity that, because it was a dream, didn't really have any definable flavor. I wasn't worried about it making me gay - I'm pretty confident I like girls. But the way that dream image stiffened me all the way up just baffled me. I like the look of a cock in certain circumstances - slipping into a porn starlet's vagina or pleasure-lavishing lips, or swelling in my hand as I masturbate. I'd just never been aroused by the thought of somebody else's cock, all by itself. Well, Christ, Nick. You've never known anybody who looked like Lindsey who also had a cock, have you? 

The toilet flushed, and I thought about stomping my own toe to see if the pain would make my boner go away. But I didn't have much confidence that it would, so instead, I just took hold of the doorknob like I was waiting on her and angled my body so she'd only see it in profile as she came out of the bathroom. 

When the door down the hall opened, I said, "Okay, you ready?" Then I turned the knob on the front door without awaiting an answer. 

"Sure," she said, heading my way as I pulled the door inward. I stepped back to hold it for her, keeping partially behind it so my crotch wouldn't be in view if she happened to look. 

And why would she be looking? I asked myself. Shaking my head, I followed her out and pulled the door shut after us. Then we were side by side on the driveway, followed by the sidewalk, as we headed back toward the neighborhood entrance and the convenience store on the other side of the road from it. An early evening breeze and the sound of crickets helped me settle into step with her. And twilight made me relax with the knowledge that my slowly fading erection wasn't likely to get noticed. 

"So that one's yours, right?" she asked as we passed my house. 

"Yeah," I said. "Well, not mine, but I rent it. How'd you know?" 

"You mentioned being two houses down, and that's the direction you headed the other night when you scurried off after finding out I was a t-girl." 

I felt some of the blood leave my crotch to work its way hotly up into my cheeks. "Look, I'm sorry about that, I really -" 

She rolled her eyes and waved it away. "You already apologized plenty. Don't worry about it. And I've got this feeling if I hadn't been a teasing bitch and given you that B.J., you'd probably have been pretty cool about it once you found out. I mean, considering your aunt and all." 

I shrugged and said, "I don't know. I suppose I might have been. Assuming I found out." 

We walked a couple of houses farther down the road in silence before she spoke again. 

"I think I would have told you at some point," she said. 

"Really?" 

"Probably." 

Another house went by. 

"You're a nice guy," she explained. "And you'd totally have kept checking me out the whole time we worked on the house, and ... I wouldn't want you wondering why I was ignoring you." 

I snorted. "Trust me, I wouldn't have been wondering." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

Glancing over, I found her eyes looking almost hurt under lowered brows. 

"Well, I mean ..." 

"What? Because I look nice, I'm supposed to only be interested in great-looking guys? It's not like you're the hunchback of Notre Dame, Nick." 

"Yeah, that guy could really sing," I said. Then, when she stared, I explained, "In the Disney cartoon one." 

She shook her head, but gave a little laugh-breath through her nose. "See? You're funny. And not bad looking. You shouldn't run yourself down." 

Unable to think of another self-mocking comeback, I didn't immediately respond. 

"So what's your story, huh? Mine is, I have a knack for picking guys who know how to hide their shitty side just long enough that I get used to having a boyfriend and a steady fuck." 




Big Flipping Deal Ch. 03



I bristled a little at the idea of somebody treating her that way - especially at the idea of more than one somebody doing it. I wanted to say something sympathetic, or maybe something that would display my outrage and chivalry. But I suspected I'd only embarrass myself going that route, so I just answered her question. 

"I have no self-confidence with women. Any halfway decent-looking girl who pays attention to me can use me as a doormat if she plays her cards right. I'm kind of a trusting schmuck." 

One of my neighbors drove by, headlights on. I wondered if it puzzled them to see me walking down the street with this monumentally foxy woman. 

"There's a lot worse things to be than trusting," Lindsey said. We reached the end of the block and turned. "I'm the world's biggest excuse-making machine when things start going bad. 'He's just under a lot of stress.' 'It'll get better - I'll just wait his mood out.' 'Nobody's perfect.' That last one's my big one. And it's the dumbest one. Sure, nobody's perfect. But lots of people aren't absolute dickwads." 

"That's a good point," I said. "I get pretty cynical sometimes about the prevalence of dickwadism." 

She laughed. "'The prevalence of dickwadism ...' I like that. But I try to tell myself it's not so bad. I mean, we're two for two right here in terms of people who aren't dickwads." 

"You might not say that if you knew how many times I've checked out your ass and tits." 

That brought an even louder laugh. "You think I don't know?" 

More color flushed into my face. "Well ... I thought I was being pretty careful about it." 

"And the fact that you tried to be careful means you're not a dickwad. Assholes don't hide it. When I see a guy trying not to look, it scores some points with me." 

"Whew," I said. "I must have scored a lot of points today, then." 

I kept walking two steps before I realized she'd stopped. 

"Today?" 

Oh, shit. She was talking about when I still didn't know she was ... 

"Well, uh ..." 

She started walking again, looking at me with one eyebrow raised. "I guess you managed to get a lot sneakier. Really? You're still checking me out, even now that you know?" 

Up ahead, the stoplight at the neighborhood entrance did an imitation of my face. 

"Okay, sure," I said, figuring it was best to just come clean. "It's not like you're any less hot, and it's not like I have to worry what's in your pants anyway." 

"Huh. That's pretty broad-minded of you, Nick." 

"I guess I'm just a broad-minded guy. At least, when it comes to staring at stacked chicks in smoking sexy outfits. That totally brings out my enlightened side." 

She chuckled. We crossed another side-street, now just a block from the traffic light. Something on her face, the next time she looked my way, made me think she was about to ask me another question. 

But she looked forward again, and we kept on toward the quick-mart. 

* * * 

At home that night, I needed something to get my brain clear of Lindsey's lips, moving nimbly as she bit into each slice of pizza while her body stood propped artlessly against her aunt's kitchen countertop. We'd talked over the plan for tomorrow - Saturday - but once we finished and I carried the half-empty pizza box back to my place, I realized that I remembered absolutely nothing except the look of those lips. Horny and fixated, I decided to surf the net for porn - and began a steady slide in entirely the wrong direction. 

My starting point was a free site I sometimes have pretty good luck on, and I clicked through and into a bunch of videos looking for one I could sit back and let roll all the way through. The only criteria I meant to use was whether the scene had a hot chick getting screwed. I clicked indiscriminately at first, a brunette here, a redhead there, a blonde here, an asian girl there. Then a blonde here, a blonde there, a sandy-haired brunette here, a blonde there. Something about every video fell flat ... picture too grainy, angle all wrong, all the action shot from a medium distance with no closeups. This blonde's breasts too small, that one's too fake and inflated. This one too many tattoos, that one too many piercings. 

Finally: a gorgeous woman with soft, pale skin and red lips, blue-eyed, golden-haired, vamped up with eyeshadow, starting off the scene in a tight white dress that I told myself wasn't part of why I picked her. Just like her overall similarity to Lindsey wasn't why I picked her. It was all because she was really hot and the picture quality looked good and the preview image showed her getting reamed with her legs up and an incredibly sexy expression on her face. 

So I watched and whacked, made it through the warm-up blow-job without shooting my wad, and got ready for the good stuff as she settled onto her back and her partner crawled into place, lifting her legs, tapping her clit with his dick as she moaned and took in several deep, sultry gasps. 

And then, when he shifted and positioned his cockhead and thrust forward to penetrate her, I thought, I wonder what that would look like if he was fucking her ass and she had a cock. 

What ... the fuck. 

Concentrate, Nick! Look at that smooth, luscious pussy getting filled up with cock. That could be your cock. She's taking it. She's taking your cock. 

"Take it, baby, take it ..." I murmured to the screen. The porn chick strummed her clit and sucked her lower lip between her teeth as the guy kept pumping her and I kept stroking off. But what if, instead of strumming her clit, she was ... "God damn it! What is wrong with me?" 

I wasn't getting anywhere. I stopped the video. 

Okay, so ... what? What are you going to do now? 

I'd already banged off while imagining myself in Lindsey's ass. I'd already dreamed of sucking a giant load out of her dick. What the hell, why not just satisfy my curiosity and go to the she-male category and see what it looked like? 

I moved my cursor over to the sidebar and scrolled down. The hyperlink to "She-male" highlighted itself. One of several categories I never expected to check out. Would I click it? 

"Dude, it's a total win-win, right?" Either I'd be grossed out and have my heterosexuality confidently reaffirmed, or I'd find it hot and be able to get off. 

I pushed the mouse button. 

And there I found myself, in front of a screen full of preview stills that featured long, glossy-haired figures with all different sizes of breasts - and all different sizes of penises, usually flopped toward their bellybuttons while a slick erection had itself jammed up their asses. For some reason, there were surprisingly few blondes, and as long as I was in for a penny, I might as well go in for a pound and find someone as close to Lindsey as I could get. 

Click. No. Click. No. Click ... ehhhhh ... no. 

Some had faces way too manly for me to take. Others started right off talking in flouncy gay accents that would never come out of Lindsey's mouth. Breasts too fake, shoulders too broad ... ass too flat. 

Then I found one who looked close. I crossed my fingers and clicked through. Watched her unzip a guy's pants, fish out his tool and start licking, lapping, enfolding, bobbing. So far, it could almost be any hetero porn, except that the corner of the girl's jaw had a little too square an angle. And sometimes when her head tilted a certain way, the curves of her forehead and brow came off a little too strong. She could damn sure suck, though, and that let me put myself back in Lindsey's convertible, sycamore leaves waving overhead as she went down on me. I worked my cock experimentally. It felt pretty good. 

On and off and on and off the guy's pole, she slurped, leaving him gleaming with her spit when her face retreated. He moaned and encouraged her, speaking in the low porno poetry of Iamdick prickjamminher. But I didn't need it to be Shakespeare. I just needed it to be ... 

"Lindsey. Yeah, suck it, Linds. God, you're so good at that ..." 

I don't think I ever had a surreal porn experience before, but that word exactly covers it: surreal. I felt disembodied, almost like I was watching myself watching the screen. This is so fucked up. I should not be enjoying this. My dick mostly disagreed, though. By this time, it was leaking silky beads of precum from the fully expanded, swollen head. I fingered the slick fluid and rubbed it around, pretending my newly slippery fingers were the she-male's tongue licking at the underside of my shaft. 

"Lindsey ..." 

Onscreen, the transgender starlet popped her mouth free of her co-star's engorged prong, a strand of saliva bridging the fresh gap between her lips and his cockhead. She stared up at him a moment, then licked, and the strand fell free. "You ready to fuck me, baby?" she asked. "Yeah," he said suavely. 

Standing, she turned and moved to the bed, slithering out of her dress as she went. The guy followed her in that awkward way you see in cheap porn where the shot isn't framed up right and the couple for some reason goes in single file even though in real life the guy would just find his own path across the room. But in porn, you can't have him blocking the camera's line of sight to her, so single-file it is. 

With her panties and lacey bra left on, she still looked very feminine, curved in the right places and showing soft spots of body fat where guys don't usually get them. The camera followed the two of them as she crawled backward, rubbing her crotch provocatively, and he got onto the mattress on his knees, his clothes peeled off along the way. The teasing caress of her hand alternately concealed and emphasized the way her panties mounded downward more fully than a regular girl's would. I had my hand going strong on my dick now, with that burn of forbidden temptation hovering between the top of my heart and the base of my throat. In a second, I would be masturbating to a view of someone else's cock, no vaginas in sight, and right after that I'd be whacking off to anal sex between two sexually male individuals. 

Really fucked up. 

The blonde got on her back and clutched and kneaded her breasts, tongue extending to run slowly around her parted lips. The guy took hold of her panties. She lifted her hips, and he gradually brought the frilly lingerie down - until a cock came out of it. 

"Geez. Well, that's kind of small," I said, my hand slowing and loosening slightly but not stopping. 

She lifted her legs, to make it easier to get the panties all the way off them, and the movement made her smallish, pale prick loll up to point at her bellybutton. The scrotum beneath it looked almost miniaturized. 

My eyebrows furrowed. Is that what you look like, Lindsey? 

In a close shot of her face, the she-male gave her partner a look of hungry enticement. Then the camera backed off again to show him rubbing his tip at her asshole, right below that dainty little ball-sack of hers. I noticed he had a condom on now - they must have taken a break for that and maybe some lubing up before cutting to her face? 

My whole chest felt like steam. 

Is that how things went with you and that Max asshole when you fucked him? 

The guy pushed in. The t-girl groan-squeal-grunted as the condom-covered dick moved steadily forward, gliding, filling her up, plowing its thickness deep into her rectal recesses. "Uhh, yeah, put that in me - put that in me!" 

With a ramping acceleration, he began humping her - barely moving out and back in, then easing slowly in each direction, then faster, then faster. Both of them grunted and moaned. 

I squinted a little to keep my focus on her and on the cock lunging into her ass. My own dick filled my hand with rigid pleasure as pumped it. In a whisper, I said, "Yes, Lindsey, you like it, right? Take me in." 

They were really going at it now, her legs up over his shoulders, his hips pounding and jamming, the power of their sex rocking her breasts and still-slack penis as she gritted her teeth and made staccato fuck-sounds through them. On and on they screwed, changing positions after a few minutes to let him doggy-style her, hands grabbing her waist as he pummeled her butthole. Her bra had been pulled free of her tits by this point, and they dangled and swung with every thrust. Periodically, the angle showed her little cock making a pendulum of itself to the same rhythm. 

I was getting close. But ... 

You're just so much prettier than she is, Lindsey. And that wasn't any insult to the porn actress, who had it going pretty well herself. So much prettier, Lindsey ... 

The scene made one of those random cuts then, and she was on her back again, legs up all the way to her shoulders, his prong slamming repeatedly into her as she whacked herself off with rapid-fire jerks. Finally, her cock looked at least semi-erect, and big enough for the head to poke out between her thumb and forefinger while the base sat at the bottom of her fist. 

Holy shit, yes! Come on your own tits, baby! 

My dick swelled in my hand. I slowed my pace a little, wanting to squirt at the same time she did. 

"Come on, Linds ..." But it was getting harder and harder to see her as my house flipping partner. "Damn, I wish she was as pretty as you ..." 

The she-male jacked away with a vengeance. I did the same. The guy lunged and pushed and stuffed himself into her like a piston. 

I bet your cock is bigger than hers, too, Linds. 

Really? Why in hell did I go there? 

"Come on, come on ..." 

But the longer the shot went on, the more obvious it was she wouldn't get there. Her whacking was desperately fast but mechanical. Her groans of pleasure had taken on that forced, over-the-top quality that tells you porn stars are faking it. Then the scene cut to her kneeling in front of him as he worked toward masturbating his load onto her face. 

I grabbed the mouse and backed the scene up a couple of minutes. 

"Come on, Lindsey, we're going to make you come. Let's do it, let's make you come. God, your ass feels so good - I'm going to shoot my load in it ... come with me, come on, baby, let's get you there ... here, damn it, let me take over!" 

And I shut my eyes with the image of his dick penetrating her asshole, made it into my dick within my head, gently brushed Lindsey's hand away from stroking her cock and replaced it with my own. 

"Yes, so much bigger than that porn chick ..." 

Then I was jacking myself and jacking my house-flipping partner at the same time, while porn groans came out of my speakers and I fucked her in the ass and felt her tensing up and saw the uncontrollable tension of ecstasy twisting her beautiful face. 

"Yesss, Lindsey, cummmm!" 

The orgasm hit me, and in my mind it hit her too, and we both groaned and spurted, me deep inside of her, her in great, arcing jets that drenched her tits and belly in the white milk of desire. 

When I opened my eyes, the she-male in the video had just gotten her wide-mouthed face jizzed all over by the guy, which somehow seemed lame and sordid even though I'd just totally gotten off on the idea of Lindsey with semen spewed all over her front. I wiped my hand and X-ed out of the browser window before it made me feel any cheaper. 

Well, I was imagining her coming on herself, not me coming on her. 

That wasn't really exploitive, was it? I mean, I just came all over myself, right? 

Yeah, but I agreed to be in my masturbation fantasy, and Lindsey didn't. 

Why in the world I would bother with an internal debate about this, I had no idea. I mean, I must have used hundreds of different women for my masturbation fantasies without worrying about whether it was rude or opportunistic. And then, just as quickly, I did have an idea. In fact, I knew exactly why: to avoid thinking about the fact that I'd just whacked off to what most people would think of as gay porn - and the fact that I was dangerously close to getting a crush on a woman who had a cock and no vagina. 

Close to? I asked myself. 

Yeah, it was pretty clearly worse than "close to."



Big Flipping Deal Ch. 04



[The story so far: Thanks to an unusual provision in his neighbor's will, Nick finds himself renovating a house with gorgeous transgender interior designer Lindsey. Both her looks and her personality magnetize him, so much so that he begins to fantasize about her and experiment with watching she-male porn while masturbating. 

SPOILER ALERT! There is no sex at all in this chapter! If you're not here for the characters and the story, please jump to the next chapter to save yourself some frustration.] 

***** 

Lindsey rang my doorbell the next morning. 

I went to answer it in just my pajama bottoms, because I'd barely gotten out of bed, and it obviously couldn't be Lindsey - she wasn't due to meet me at Mrs. P's for another forty-five minutes. 

But it was Lindsey. Standing on my porch, distorted by the fisheye of my front-door peephole lens. 

Shit! What the fuck! 

"Uh, hey," I said through the door. "I'm not quite dressed yet, so, uh ..." 

She held up a bag and a cup-carrier. "Sorry I'm early. I brought coffee and donuts. Should I take it over to Neena's?" 

Yes! No! My brain couldn't figure out whether to panic more at missing the chance to get her inside my house, or at what she'd think if she came in and saw my house. I looked around the front room. It's not that bad. Not really. 

"Let me get a shirt!" 

I dashed back down the hall to the bedroom, where Mister Whiskerdoodle gave me a good-morning grumble from the bed. Grabbing a shirt from the closet, I raked a comb through my hair and returned to the front door. 

"Hang on," I said, clambering into the t-shirt. "Just a second ..." 

Shirt on, hair smoothed down, heart pounding, I opened the door. 

"Hey. Good morning." I attempted a relaxed tone, but I'm pretty sure I failed. 

"Hey," she replied with a hint of a chuckle. Her shirt today had a deep v-neck but nothing adorning its plain white cotton fabric. Khaki shorts and tennis shoes rounded things out, the shorts fitted enough to conform to all her curves. I resisted the temptation to see what curves showed in the crotch region. 

With the door held wide, I stepped out of the way and let her through. "Come on in. Kitchen's over there. Probably better to eat at the table than on the fleabag couch." 

"Oh, yeah, no way is my ass touching that couch." Before I could blink my way into being fully offended, she went on, "It looks way too comfy - I slept like crap last night. Put some donuts in me while I'm on a couch like that and we'll never be able to get my butt up." 

"Well, thanks. 'Comfy' is probably the nicest thing you could say about that couch. I got it second-hand after my ex moved out and took the one we bought together." 

"Hm." I couldn't tell if the little noise meant, You let the chick walk all over you like that? or if it meant, Fucking exes. 

She headed the direction I'd pointed, got to the kitchen, set the breakfast stuff down there. 

Putting a thumb over my shoulder toward the bedroom, I said, "Just give me minute to throw on some pants and shoes. You can start without me." 

"Nah, I'll wait. Where's Mister Whiskerdoodle?" 

Ahah! said the neurotic, ego-undermining part of my brain. That's why she came over - she wants to see her aunt's cat. 

"He's ... in the bedroom," I said. I tried to remember if I'd left the lotion next to the computer or anything embarrassing like that. I'd made the bed the second I got out of it, to keep my hairball-hacking friend from moving over to my unmade side and endangering the sheets and mattress instead of just the comforter. So that part was okay. "You want to come visit him? I can change in the bathroom." 

Smooth, she's not here two minutes and you're trying to get her in the bedroom. Too bad you wouldn't be brave enough to do that if she had a pussy instead of a penis. Oh, fuck it. It's not like she's going to think you're hitting on her. 

Lindsey shrugged. "Yeah, it's been a couple years, but I always liked that cat. She got him when I was in middle school, I think. Kind of hard to believe he's made it this long. Is he doing okay?" 

I made an eh gesture with one hand as she followed me down the hall. "About as well as when I moved in here and first met him." 

Predictably, Mister Whiskerdoodle raised his head and said, "Reh-eh-ehh-eh-ehh," when we walked in. Then, way less predictably, he got up, stretched, and padded toward the corner of the bed as Lindsey approached. 

"Hi, Mister W," she said, bending and reaching down to scratch him under the chin. He gargled and started head-butting her fingers. 

And if I'd thought there was no way she could get more attractive - leaning over, v-neck dangling to reveal cleavage and a flash of bra-cup, legs so perfectly toned and smooth - she proved me wrong by smiling at him as he started to purr. It was a smile I hadn't seen on her before. Innocent and happy, no sign of worldly wise cynicism or sarcastic wit. The smile of a teenage girl petting her favorite cat. 

Teenage boy, I reminded myself. She wasn't a girl when Mrs. P got Whiskerdoodle. 

"I'll, uh, just finish getting ready," I said, breaking away much later than I probably should have. 

In the bathroom, as I shucked my p.j.s and put on new underwear and a pair of shorts, I chastised myself. Or maybe she was, inside, even if she didn't have tits or girl-curves. People don't pick that, right? You are or you aren't. 

This moment of progressive open-mindedness helped keep me from being disappointed that I wouldn't be masturbating this morning, which I'd expected to have time for based on our originally planned meeting time. Or maybe it made me relieved that I wouldn't be masturbating, since my she-male porn adventure the night before still hovered in the back of my head ready to suggest a repeat. 

When I finished dressing and opened the door, I found Lindsey sitting on the bed with Mister Whiskerdoodle in her lap. 

Really, Mr. W? He almost never sat in my lap. 

Before I could mention that, though, Lindsey said, "So you're a musician too? I thought you were just the graphic arts type." 

Her nod toward my computer and keyboard took my gaze over there, and I felt self-conscious when it came back. "It's more of a toy, really ..." 

"Expensive toy!" Her eyebrows went way up. 

"Don't remind me," I said. "It was the first splurge I managed to save up for after Carmella left me on the hook for the whole rent on this place, and my car broke down just a couple weeks later. Really bad timing." 

She gently eased Mister Whiskerdoodle aside and stood up. Amazingly, he didn't complain at all. "I guess. But at least you've got something you love out of it, right?" 

I blinked a little and headed for the kitchen. 'Love' seemed like a really strong word. "It's fun to plunk around with, sure. But I can't really play. I quit piano lessons in seventh grade, and by the time I got interested in music again, I was too busy and too lazy for lessons or a lot of practice. I just dial the tempo on my composition software way, way down, play some stuff in really slow, and once I've got enough tracks layered together, I speed it back up so it sounds semi-decent." 

"So you're actually writing music?" We reached the table, and she pulled a chair out for herself and lifted a coffee from the cup-carrier. "That's a hell of a lot better than me. Neena gave me lessons all the way up to college, and I was pretty damn good, if I say so myself. But I don't do shit with it anymore. You'll have to let me hear some of your songs sometime." 

Sure! How about now? "Okay. One of these days when we need a break ... why not? But don't get your expectations up too high. It's no Beethoven or Keith Emerson." 

"Who?" she asked, dumping a couple of sugars in her cup. "Emerson, I mean. I know who Beethoven is, duh." 

We ate a few donuts and drank our coffee and I went into a couple of the keyboard players and groups I liked, prog bands like Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Yes, Dream Theater. She'd heard of a couple of them, but had no idea what kind of music they played. 

"I like ditzy crap," she admitted. "I put a Katy Perry CD in and just let it repeat for a week or two whenever I'm in the car." 

The conversation wrapped up with me saying Katy Perry was actually more tolerable to me than most of the stuff on pop radio these days, then wondering if I'd just made a totally backhanded compliment. 

Lindsey didn't seem offended, though, and since we'd had our fill of donuts, we picked up our coffees and headed for Mrs. P's. 

* * * 

The day turned out to be long and crammed full of way more than I expected. Apparently, I really should have been listening better when Lindsey was telling me about it over pizza the night before. 

Before we even got started, we had to unload Lindsey's car, which she'd packed to the gills with borrowed tools and twelve-packs of soda, bottled water, and sports drinks. I also had to fetch my ladder over, since we'd need it to get the doors off the higher cabinets and to paint later. 

By the time we had everything inside and the drinks in the garage refrigerator, my watch said 9:00, the time we'd originally planned to meet and get started. Job One was pulling the sink and countertops, which required us to shut off water to the faucet, decouple the plumbing, mop up the spillage with a towel, lift the sink out (heavy and awkward), unscrew a bunch of L-clamps holding the countertops to the cabinets, and then heave the counters loose and carry all the crap to the garage. I asked Lindsey if we were going to get one of those little dumpsters for all the trash we'd be generating. She said yes, but that she only wanted to shell out for one ten-day rental, so it wouldn't be delivered until later in the renovation. Then she told me that we'd gone over all this the night before. 

"I guess you were even tireder than you looked." 

After that, we removed all the cabinet doors and drawer fronts - a snap using power screwdrivers, but there were dozens of the things, and the whole job took longer than I'd have expected. By the time we'd finished, my stomach was growling for lunch, which took the form of delivery Thai food that Lindsey called in for. 

Spaced here and there through the morning, several non-food deliveries arrived - the laminate flooring, the kitchen veneer, the new cabinet doors, drawers, and hardware. We also took a few breaks for drinks, though at no point did Lindsey suck my dick or have sex with me on a roll of carpet like I'd fantasized earlier in the week. 

But we did talk. 

I learned that she'd gone to UT a year ahead of me, and I made a joke about being surprised I didn't remember her. Then I freaked and hurriedly explained that I meant it as a crack about there being 50,000 people at UT, not about the likelihood that she'd looked different in college. She laughed and said that college was when she'd ditched her old gender, paying extra for a singleton room in a co-ed dorm and wearing dresses and makeup full-time, except when holidays rolled around and she went home. 

"I hadn't had my nose done yet, though," she said. Then she gave her boobs a little two-handed lift and continued, "And I was still stuffing my bras by hand. So you might not have recognized me anyway." 

I took a quick drink of Accelerade so I'd have a reason to swallow that wasn't related to that boob heft. Then I shifted subjects to some of the courses I'd taken and whether she'd had any of the same professors. 

We spent the afternoon painting the kitchen a rosy color that would go nicely with the veneers and the tile combination Lindsey had picked out, after which we divided up the boxes of flooring and moved them to their target rooms. The instructions said they should sit in the boxes in the room of installation at least three days before being opened and laid down. Something about acclimating to the temperature and humidity, which could make the slats expand or contract. 

It hadn't sounded like that much work, but when quitting time rolled around a little after five, I was beat, hungry, and paint-spattered. Lindsey had managed to avoid too many paint drips, although a day of manual labor and hauling trash to the garage in Dallas summer heat had left her looking slightly less than her best. 

That is, a few hairs out of place and a hint of sweat gloss, which meant her hotness still far exceeded anyone I'd ever dated. Especially since some of the sweat appeared down in the v-neck of her shirt. 

Apparently, she felt dirtier than she looked, though, because instead of suggesting another end-of-day pizza, she told me she needed to head home for a shower. I said I planned on doing the same, then winding down to an early bedtime. 

"Good plan," she said. "It's another full day tomorrow, so you don't want to be up till all hours making music on that computer of yours." 

I laughed and agreed, but inside I was thinking, No, I for sure will not be up late using the computer for music. 

Definitely not for music. 

* * * 

Sunday was another coat of paint in the kitchen, sanding down the cabinets, and cutting and applying veneer, which turned out to be a bitch. I ruined several sheets measuring wrong or getting the angle of the saw wrong. Lindsey had a couple of misfires gluing the flats down, and ended up growling that she should have just coughed up some of her own money and paid for a whole new set of cabinets to be put in. The job trailed over into Monday night and Tuesday night before we finally got it done. Wednesday and Thursday we hung the new cabinet doors and installed the new drawer fronts and hardware. Thursday night, she informed me she needed Friday as a break, and I didn't complain because I was behind on my graphic arts moonlighting. 

And then came Saturday, a week and a half since I'd met her. 

Our plan for the day was to strip the kitchen linoleum in the morning and re-floor it in the afternoon. We got most of the way through the first part, slicing with utility knives, peeling up strips of vinyl flooring, scraping and cleaning away the glue that held the crap down to the concrete subfloor. I got a motherfucker of a headache near the end and went back to my place for some ibuprofen. (Lindsey had acetaminophen in her purse, but for some reason it never works on me.) 

When I walked back, head still throbbing, I found an enormous black pickup truck along the curb in front of Mrs. P's. 

Some friend of Lindsey's, dropping off more tools? 

No. 

As I climbed the steps to the open front door, I heard her raised voice coming all the way from the kitchen. 

"- you doing here? How did you even know I'd be here to let you in?" 

Max, her ex-boyfriend, maybe? I went in and started down the hall, my step a little faster. How in the hell would he have found out where Mrs. P's was? 

Turns out, he wouldn't. 

A masculine voice answered her, deep enough I could never have imagined it being Lindsey's ex - not because I expected Max to sound gay or effeminate, but because its resonance and thick East Texas accent simply didn't go with my picture of lousy-fuck, girl-hitting Max. 

"Hell, Leonard, I've got my own damn key to the place. It didn't make a shit's bit of difference to me whether you were here or not." 

"Well, you shouldn't have your own key," she replied, not quite yelling, but with an almost-unhinged fury in her tone. "This isn't Neena's place anymore, it's mine. Mine and -" 

I showed up in the kitchen doorway. 

Lindsey and a big, beefy guy looked my way. If I'd thought her voice sounded mad, her eyes made me worried things might get violent here. Maybe that had more to do with the hint of fading bruise she still had around the left one than with her expression. But her expression was pretty bad. 

"Oh, is this the pansy boyfriend?" 

I guessed the guy to be early or maybe mid fifties, dyed-black hair slicked back from a heavy, furrowed forehead, bags under the eyes. His mouth seemed to have been made extra-wide by the forces of nature in order to give it plenty of room to display all the contempt he could possibly muster at once. 

Taking just a single step into the kitchen with them, I cautiously asked, "What's going on, Lindsey?" 

"Leonard," the guy corrected me, as if it were obviously his place to do so. "And what's going on is, there's stuff in the attic my wife got in the will, and I came over to get it. But Leonard's all pissed I didn't knock and say 'can I please come in' or some shit, right, Leonard?" 

Lindsey just stood with her hands in fists at her side, eyes blazing. I couldn't blame her - the way the dick kept calling her 'Leonard' made me want to throttle him myself. 

"Look," I said calmly, holding up both hands. "The attic's empty. I carried everything down for -" 

But I didn't get to explain that Mrs. Pinobscott, who couldn't possibly have gotten up the ladder herself, had asked me to move the stuff from the attic to the garage years ago so she could go through it. 

"'Oh, look, the attic's empty,'" said the beefy prick, in a mocking, mincing voice. "Carly said the stuff was there, so I'll have a look for myself, you little faggot. But thanks anyway." 

"Dude," I said, starting to really simmer and unable to help myself. "It's 2015. Nobody goes around calling people 'faggot.' It's -" 

"Nick -" Lindsey said with what was probably a warning in her tone. I didn't hear it, because the douchebag rolled his eyes and went on spewing crap. 

"Oh, don't start this bullshit with me," he said. "You think I haven't heard it all from Leonard for years? Fucking faggots. Jesus Christ, why the hell Neena would leave you her place and have a couple of fags sucking each other's dicks under her roof is beyond me." 

"Listen, you asshole," I said, now pissed that he was dissing Mrs. P on top of Lindsey, "I'll suck her dick wherever I goddamn want to. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?" 

"I'm his father, you stupid bone-smoker." His voice dripped sarcasm thick as sour milk starting to clot. 

I blinked and glanced at Lindsey, but she was staring at her father like she might vomit on him at any second. 

"Do you even know what an idiot you sound like?" he rattled on, stepping toward me as if to bear me down with his looming, massive bulk. "'I'll suck her dick'? Earth to queer-bait, girls don't have dicks." 

Out of nowhere, I had a flash of Aunt Elise downing a whole bottle of sleeping pills in her Maryland bathroom before going to bed for the last time. I completely snapped. 

"Some of them do, ass-wipe! Some of them have bigger dicks than you! And bigger balls too, I'll bet." 

Just like that, I was lying on my back looking at the ceiling. My headache had miraculously disappeared, replaced by a completely different headache that throbbed in a totally different way. I could hear a distant voice screaming through the slow rotations of the room: "- the fuck out! I swear to God, I will call the fucking cops on you! GET THE FUCK OUT!" It sounded like Lindsey, but I had no idea why she'd be so mad at me. But then her face floated into view above me, and she wasn't mad at all. A door slammed somewhere. Her eyes were so blue, so beautifully blue and full of sympathy and concern, and I felt her hand on my cheek and her other hand on my shoulder, and I watched her beautiful, lush lips moving. "Nick! Nick, are you all right? Nick?" 

The obvious thing to do was to kiss her, so I did. I lifted up on one elbow and put my other hand behind her head in that rich golden hair and I pulled her to me until our lips met and her eyes fluttered closed for a second. 




Big Flipping Deal Ch. 04



And for that second, she kissed me back. Her lips moved surely and softly against mine - parting, clasping, coupling, warm and embracing, reassuring, needful, speaking truth and trust in the language of an unambiguous caress. Becoming, briefly, everything I ever wanted. 

Then the astonishment of it cleared my head. Reflexively, I let go and dropped back and watched her eyes snap back open and her lips slowly close. 

"Oh my gosh, Lindsey, I'm sorry - I don't know - Jesus, I didn't mean -" 

Something between relief and amusement and wistfulness settled over her features until it decided to be a faint smile. 

"I guess he hit you even harder than I thought," she said. Then she held up one hand, thumb across the palm and fingers spread. "How many fingers am I holding up?" 

"Cleveland," I answered. But instead of laughing, she lowered her eyebrows, so I rushed to say, "Four! Four fingers." 

Her face relaxed. "Can you sit up?" 

"I think so. Ow! Shit!" Levering myself up from the ground sent another shot of pain through my head, which I reflexively grabbed with one hand, only to find the touch hurt even more. "Fuck!" 

"We should get you to a hospital. That was a serious fucking punch." 

I opened my mouth to argue with her, then realized how wobbly I still felt. And what are you going to do if you don't go to the hospital? Get back to work? Obviously not. Go back home and leave her working by herself? Even worse. 

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, we probably should. Your dad can fucking hit." 

The concern on her face blanked into something else. Then she just said, "I know." 

And then she helped me up and out to her car. 

* * * 

The Parkland ER can take forever on a good day and longer on a bad one, but it was close, and they say it's the place to go for trauma, and my head felt pretty traumatized by that punch. 

So Lindsey and I spent the rest of our Saturday there. 

The wait to see the triage nurse actually wasn't too bad. But after he'd asked me his questions and checked my vitals and basic responses, we had to head back to the main waiting room and prove that they'd named it right. Being made to wait in the ER is probably more good news than bad news - you don't really want to be in any condition that makes the triage nurse think he should leapfrog you over all the other people who got there first. 

And in my case, other than the insane amount of pain my head gave me, I was just as happy to wait. 

It meant more time with Lindsey paying close, concerned attention to me, apologizing for what a rat bastard her father was, and eventually telling me a little more about what it had been like for her, growing up, figuring herself out ... and then trying to get her family to accept it. 

"I had to wait until I was done with college," she said, the grim necessity clear in her face. "I knew if I wasn't already out on my own, I'd get thrown out the second I told them. I didn't want my little brother to see that. As it was, Dad banned me from the house, and Carly - that's my step-mother - apparently took to reading the appropriate chapters from Leviticus to Matty every chance she got. Not that there was any reason for her to - Matt was as square-jawed and straight as you can get. But Carly made it her personal crusade to keep him from following in my footsteps to homo-hell." 

"Did he buy into it?" Just from the tone of her voice, I could tell her brother was important to her. The idea of him being turned against her made my head throb that much more. 

Lindsey shook her head and took a minute to swallow some unpleasant reaction. 

"He got diagnosed with brain cancer six months after I came out." 

"Oh shit. I'm sorry -" 

"Yeah, he was sixteen when they found it, and he only lasted another year after that. If I'd known, I'd have kept my mouth shut until he was gone. It would have saved him some stress and I would've gotten to see him more often." 

Not only did she have to deal with her brother dying, but apparently her mad-cow stepmother insisted that the whole thing was a punishment from God for "Leonard's" perversion. By the time the ER let me into the back where they had a bed for me, the pain in my head felt like nothing next to what Lindsey must have gone through for the next several years. Cousins, Aunts, Uncles ... her whole family took the same line as her dad and stepmom. 

"Except Neena," she said. "She was my mom's sister, and she always said Matty and I took after her side of the family. But ... I confused the hell out of her, and she was more sweet than strong. She'd been raised Southern Baptist, never really had any reason to question any of what she'd been taught. So it was a struggle for her, standing up to the rest of them when they got going about Leonard the Sinner." 

At some point in her story, the doctor came in and did an assessment - a bunch of "follow my finger" tests, shining a light in my eyes, more questions. A tall, slender black woman, she had a certain precision that I found comforting even though she didn't do or say anything particularly personable. 

"You're probably fine," the doctor said when she'd finished examining me. "I don't see any issues. But the fact that you don't remember the punch - that's what we call a change in neurological status. So I want to do a CT scan just to be sure." 

The 'CT' apparently stood for 'Ceaseless Tedium' ... another protracted wait for the tech to come and fetch me, thirty minutes inside a whirring, grinding plastic donut, then more waiting back in the room for the results to come in and tell me I was fine. Oh, and more waiting for the discharge clerk to process all my paperwork. 

In the meantime, I told Lindsey a little more about Aunt Elise, and then we moved on to less depressing stuff - how I'd bounced around to three different cities since college, how she'd built her reputation and client base here in the metroplex. Eventually the Parkland bureaucracy let me go, Lindsey drove me home, and with the motor still running while we sat in my driveway, she told me how much she appreciated me standing up to her dad. 

"It was really brave," she said, looking me in the eye with her solemn blue gaze. "And it made me feel ... less alone. No, less like a victim. He's been treating me like that my whole life, and even now that I can stand up to him, it still - I don't know. But it was brave. I'm sorry it got you hit." 

I shrugged, then winced because it made my head hurt more. "Ouch. Probably more stupid than brave. But I don't let people talk to my friends that way." 

Her eyebrows wavered downward, then up, and her mouth gave an uncertain twitch that changed into a soft smile. "Thanks, Nick." 

"Also, it totally gave me an excuse to kiss you without having to worry about whether it made me gay." 

She laughed. "Well, you're a good kisser. But next time, find a better excuse, okay?" 

"Sure," I said, opening my door and getting out. "Maybe getting hit by a car or shark-attacked. Are we back to work tomorrow?" 

"Do you think your head will be up to it?" 

To be honest, I had no idea. But I didn't want to lie around the house tomorrow and not see her. 

"I think so." 

"All right, then come on over whenever you're up to it. I'll show up around 9:00 and get started on my own." 

"Cool." 

Putting the car in gear, she gave a just-fingers wave and turned to reverse out of my drive. I watched her go, waved myself, and received a full-hand wave before she sped off. 

Then I went inside, trying to decide whether the pain in my head had been tuned out more powerfully by "you're a good kisser" ... or by "next time." 

* * * 

Lindsey was at Mrs. P's working already when I showed up at nine the next morning. My head still ached like a sonofabitch from that punch her dad smacked me with, and it hadn't been helped any by the sound of the alarm clock waking me up. But for whatever stupid-ass reason, I'd set the buzzer the night before. Oh, I remember why - it was so I could make sure I was dressed if she showed up with coffee and donuts like the week before. No such luck, though, which left me trudging over to Mrs. P's at nine feeling like I had a rusty see-saw stabbed through my head. 

Even better, I heard what Lindsey was working on before I got there: the sound of her borrowed power-saw shrilled through the Sunday-morning air to let my skull know it needed to up its pain game. 

She had the garage door raised and two sawhorses supporting one of the sheets of three-quarter-inch plywood that had come in a delivery earlier that week. I didn't worry too much about the sound of the power tools upsetting the neighbors - most of them were churchgoing types and would already have left for Sunday services. But I could see she was already on the second of the two countertops, so I wondered just when she'd arrived and gotten started. 

As I made my way up the driveway past her car, one end of the plywood clattered loose, the saw whined to a stop, and Lindsey looked up at me, raising her safety goggles. With her blond hair pulled back and the goggles up, she looked very industrious - despite the attractive way she filled out her blue t-shirt and white denim shorts. 

"Hey, Nick. How's your head this morning?" 

"It's good," I said. Then, not wanting to be a liar, I added, "Well, it's better than it was most of yesterday. When did you get here?" 

"Early," she said. "I woke up at four and couldn't get back to sleep. Insomnia. I gave up tossing and turning around six and headed over here to take care of the last of that linoleum adhesive." 

"Did you get it all?" I didn't know if I wanted the answer to be yes or no. We'd struggled with the stuff Saturday morning, using a vinegar solution to soak it and heat guns on the globs that stayed stubborn after that. The prospect of more bending and scraping sounded terrible to my head - although I also didn't like the idea of her having to finish the chore by herself. 

"Clean as a whistle," she said. Thankfully, the gratitude and relief from my skull swamped any guilt about Lindsey doing all the work. "I gave the concrete a last mop-up a while ago and came out here to get the counters started while it dries. You want to give me a hand?" 

"Sure," I said. "Looks like you're almost done, though." 

"With these, yeah." She gestured at the half-done countertop and the finished one propped against the garage wall nearby, then nodded in the direction of two heavy grey flats along the other wall. "But I've still got the cement backer boards to do. 

"Right. What are those again?" I pointed at the aching left side of my face and said, "Maybe you told me already, but I got hit on the head with a coconut and I barely remember my own name." 

"Hilarious," she said. Then she patted the countertop base in front of her. "The backer board holds the tile. We fasten it to the plywood base and then fix the tiles to it." 

"But only after we've put the plywood on top of the cabinets, right?" 

"There you go - it's coming back to you. Have you figured your name out yet?" 

"Give me a little longer." 

We took until lunchtime measuring, cutting and installing the layers of the countertop, making a template of the sink, then using it to cut the holes after the plywood base was on the cabinets. More Thai food came for lunch. I told Lindsey she'd done a really good job getting the concrete subfloor clean of linoleum glue. 

The afternoon was all tiling, which Lindsey said she'd watched plenty of before and helped out with on a couple of prior jobs. We laid everything out for position, then applied the mortar to the backer board, then put the tiles down using vinyl spacers to make sure they lined up straight. By the end of it, we were speckled with mortar, but the tiles looked pretty good. All they needed was a little grout, which would be tomorrow's job. 

As we packed things up, Lindsey asked again how my head was doing. 

"Lots better," I said truthfully. I hadn't thought about it hurting for a couple of hours at that point ... although the moment she mentioned it, I realized a dull ache was still asserting squatter's rights where I'd been hit. 

"Good," she said. Then she pointed to her own yellowing shiner. "Too bad my dad didn't come over a few days earlier, though. We could have been a matched set." 

* * * 

Monday was grout and learning how to install the laminate wood flooring. Tuesday was finishing off the kitchen floor. Wednesday we installed the new sink, which went surprisingly quickly. The next thing on our schedule was painting, though, and Lindsey wrinkled her nose at the idea of starting that night. 

"Well, let's put it off till tomorrow, then," I said. Then I said what I'd been trying to work up the courage to say for several days: "We could take the rest of tonight off and go bowling." 

It came out about as laid-back as I might have hoped, and Lindsey said: 

"Sure. Why not?" 

So we went bowling. She kicked my ass even though we stopped at my house to get my ball and shoes and she made do with the bowling alley's loaners. Bowling's not a high-conversation sport when there are only two of you - somebody's up on the lane bowling while the other person watches from the seats, and then vice versa through all ten frames of the game. But you get to high-five if there's a strike or someone picks up a tough split. 

And I got to watch Lindsey bowl. 

She had incredible form - and I don't mean her figure, I mean the measured way she controlled every step, swung the ball, and ended her approach with a perfect release, one toned leg bent to support her weight, the other angled out behind her, and her throwing arm following through to point at the ceiling after she released the ball. Frame after frame, she turned into this perfect sculpture every time she threw the ball. 

None of which meant I was ignoring her figure ... the legs pale and clean, the waist narrow, the hips flaring. A couple of times I thought I caught glimpses of a bit more fullness at the crotch of her shorts than should have been there. It gave me that dry-mouth of taboo and made me growl at myself to focus on her bowling. 

We took a break after two games for beers and traded stories about our high-school league days: my pal with the 160 average who through a complete freak of luck came within two balls of a perfect game; her teammate with bulging biceps who never broke 180 because his only interest was throwing the ball as fast and as hard as he could, accuracy be damned. 

After a couple more games, we'd both had enough, and she drove me home. 

"This was nice, Nick," she said - maybe with a little surprise in her voice? "We should do it again sometime." 

"Yeah, that would be great," I replied. 

I think I kept my face clean of the itch I felt to lean over and kiss her before getting out of the car.



Big Flipping Deal Ch. 05



[The story so far: Nick and Lindsey are renovating a house together thanks to the unusual provisions of Lindsey's aunt's will. Nick has grown progressively more attracted to Lindsey, despite the fact that he's straight and she's a pre-op MTF transsexual. Lindsey has been trying to keep Nick at arm's length. But then Lindsey's bigoted father shows up at the house, and when Nick tries to defend her against the man's insults and verbal abuse, he gets punched hard enough that Lindsey takes him to the ER to be checked for a concussion. After that, Lindsey's barriers begin to come down ...] 

Thursday at work, my cousin Sam called. I saw it was him, and I knew why he was calling, and I thought about letting it go to voicemail, but decided to face the music instead of being an asshole. 

"Yeah, Sam, hi," I said, hoping my tired tone would give him the hint. 

"So are you coming or what, Nick?" His tone said he was tired of me trying to give him hints. 

"Sam," I complained with a sigh, "my car's still out of commission. Plus, I haven't gotten a present." 

"Dude." He only said the one word, but I could hear the other three in his voice: don't be a dick. Then he gave his own sigh and tried another tack. "Okay, look, let's work it this way, then. Come to the bachelor party, be our designated driver, you can drive Pete's car home and bring it to the wedding Saturday. I'm telling you, you don't want to miss this wedding. Seven bridesmaids, all single, all fucking hot except Denise, and she's our cousin so you wouldn't want her to be hot anyway. You need to get off the shelf and back in the action." 

I really didn't want to go to Sam's sister's wedding, and I even less wanted to go to her fiancé Pete's bachelor party. So I gave the first excuse that popped into my mind. "Sam, I don't need to be hitting on bridesmaids. There's kind of someone I'm already interested in." 

Why the hell did I say that? 

"Even better! Bring her Saturday and maybe she'll catch the bouquet. She catches the bouquet, you're gonna score for sure." 

Oh, fuck. I literally could not even respond. 

Then Sam pulled out the big guns. "Dude, Aunt Kim told my mom she's making the drive from Houston. You really want Kim to go back home afterwards and tell your mom you skipped? Because you know she will. It'll be the first thing she says when they see each other at church." 

My fate was sealed. I told him I'd go and asked when he'd pick me up for the bachelor party. 

"That's the spirit. Seven o'clock." And before I could agree and hang up, he added, "And bring this chick you're seeing to the wedding. Seriously, that bouquet is an aphrodisiac." 

* * * 

That night: painting the front hall and living room. Right at the start, I told Lindsey I'd only be able to work until 6:30 Friday because of the bachelor party, and only until 4:00 on Saturday because of the wedding. She was totally cool with it. 

And right at the end, when we'd sealed up all the paint cans and were about to head out, my mouth opened itself and asked her about the wedding. 

"Hey, listen, do you want to go on Saturday? The bride's parents are loaded. It'll be open bar and a hell of a spread at the reception." 

Her face made a start on two or three different expressions, settled on one I'd call here-comes-the-sympathetic-apology - and then stopped itself when her eyes met mine. They rested there, looking into me with their perfect, penetrating blueness, and then her mouth kinked to one side and she said, "Sure. Why not." 

When I got to my front door, I was still blinking, and I didn't even remember walking home from Mrs. P's place. 

* * * 

Saturday we tore out the front hall and living room carpet, spent several hours getting padding and tack strips up, then put down the laminate flooring. I installed the floor in the hallway while Lindsey did the front room, so we wouldn't be in each other's way as we clicked the interlocking flats into place. Over the half-wall that divided the two spaces, I gave a brief description of the bachelor party, which was really more of a pub crawl with stops at some strip joints. It had been a pretty boring night for me as everybody else got steadily more plastered and I drank soda. 

"Well, at least you got to see some boobs at the strip joints, right?" She sounded distracted as she said it ... pretty much how she'd sounded ever since we got there that morning. 

Probably trying to figure out a way to back out of going, I thought. Aloud, I just said I'd never really been into that sort of thing. 

"Strip joints, I mean," I clarified. "I'm generally into seeing boobs, just under more natural circumstances." 

Oh, great. Way to remind her her boobs aren't natural. 

By two we'd gotten the flooring done and split up to get ready for the wedding. If she'd been working up the courage to cancel, she didn't manage it. Instead, she just said she'd see me in a couple of hours. 

Plenty of time for her to back out by phone. 

But as of 5:00, no last-minute cancelation call had arrived, and after parking Pete's car at the Reunion hotel where he and my cousin Sandy would be spending their wedding night, I made my way through the underground connecting tunnel to Union Station, the venue for both the wedding and the reception. Up on the second floor, I signed the guestbook and then loitered outside the hall in my blazer, slacks, and tie - a collection of navy and tan that made me feel like the poor relation I was as Sandy's more affluent family and friends arrived. 

And then there she was, coming up the stairs, and my mind had lots of other things to do besides being self-conscious. 

"Hey," she said with a slight smile and up-tilt of her chin. She had on a pale green satin evening gown that went asymmetrically over the right shoulder and gathered in a subtle flower design at the left side of her waist, falling in elegant curtains that hinted at the amazing legs beneath them with every step she took. "You clean up pretty good, Nick." 

Undercutting the compliment a little, she reached out and straightened my tie as she got close. I swallowed. 

"I'm glad you came," I said. 

"Sure." Her eyes swept across my face and landed on the left side of it, where I still had the bruise from her dad hitting me. "Only you look like you got beat up at the bachelor party. Come on, let's fix that." 

Looking around, she led me to a nook down the corridor where we could step into the shadow of a high column. There, she fished a little compact out of her handbag and quickly patted some foundation around my eye. 

"Not great," she said, examining her work when she'd finished. "But it'll do unless somebody's looking really close." 

Which they won't be doing as long as I'm standing next to you, I thought. Aloud, I just said, "Thanks." 

We made our way into the hall, a huge, vaulted space that had once been the waiting area for the train station. The usher led us to the bride's side, where we sat midway back as the place filled up. 

"You look amazing, by the way," I told her. 

She laughed. "I'd better. This fucking dress cost me enough." 

She smelled really good too - something faint and sweet and floral mixed in with the scent of fresh-washed hair. But I didn't say anything about that. 

"You didn't buy a new dress just for this, did you?" 

The question brought a frank expression from her. "Do I look like the kind of girl who passes up an excuse to go dress-shopping?" Without giving me a chance to answer, and with her eyes wandering the venue and the guests, she went on, "So tell me about this cousin of yours who's getting hitched." 

I gave her a bit of a rundown on Sandy and how I was really closer to her brother - Sam being a year older than me and Sandy a few years younger. The conversation passed the time until things started happening up at the wedding arch and the whole hall quieted down. 

Weddings give me mixed feelings. 

I can get pretty sappy about the idea of romance and true love. And being in a room with so many women dressed to celebrate those ideas, to commemorate a supposed example of them - it usually fills me up with a combination of hope, anticipation that something similar could happen to me, and envy of the bride and groom and of the husbands and dates of every attractive female in the room. Plus, there's the music. The bridal march almost always really gets to me. 

But today, all those yearnings and jealousies and joys slunk quietly into the background, because my brain couldn't escape the fact that I was sitting next to the most beautiful woman in the entire room and I didn't even know if I should technically be thinking of her as a woman at all. 

At least, I didn't know until Pete and Sandy said their I do's and I heard Lindsey sniff, just once, and looked and saw a tiny well of tears in the corner of her eye. 

God, I am so fucked, I thought as I turned back to watch the happy couple receive the minister's go-ahead to kiss. My own eyes did their best to turn on the waterworks as the celebratory fanfare struck up and Pete and Sandy made their beaming, ecstatic way down the aisle past us. Thankfully I got it turned back off by the time the wedding party finished exiting and the rest of us had to vacate our seats so they could rearrange the hall for the reception. 

At this point we had a couple hundred people stampeding for the open bar that Sandy's dad announced when the wedding party had gone. I asked Lindsey if she wanted anything. 

"Yeah, I could go for a White Russian. But first I have to hit the ladies room." 

So I headed for the bar line and she made her way toward the hall exit. On my way to the bar, I had two different near-misses with other guests because my head was turned trying to watch Lindsey weave through the crowds. Then I got in line, and it became a little safer to spare a glance away from the people in front of me, though it turned out Lindsey had almost made it to the far door. I don't know why I felt so compelled to grab every glimpse I could of her, but I did, and I felt disappointed that she was almost out of sight. 

Luckily, though, my cousin Sam bumped into her and stopped her to chat. That gave me several steps up in line to observe her hair, the way she stood, the way that pale green dress flowed down her form, off one shoulder, delicate and splendid. Then a cluster of other wedding guests walked between us, breaking my line of sight. 

The line moved pretty briskly, all things considered. They had several bartenders behind the counter, and clearly good ones. Still, it was a lot of people to serve, and my wait crept on for a couple more minutes before someone gave my shoulder a squeeze from behind. 

Holy shit, was that the fastest women's room line in the universe, or did she go to the guys'? But when I turned, it was Sam, not Lindsey. 

"Oh, hey, Sam," I said, trying to keep the smile from flattening out on my face where it would be obvious I expected someone else. "Beautiful ceremony, right?" 

"Yeah, gorgeous," he replied. But his expression looked less than enthusiastic. "Listen, Nick, about this girl you're dating ..." 

He'd stepped in close to keep his voice down. I didn't like where this might be going, so I said, "I didn't really say we were dating." 

"Whatever, you brought her to a wedding." He looked around and stepped even closer. "The point is, she's an interior designer, right? Well, Pete's aunt and uncle apparently hired her a while back, and she's not really a she, she's a he. Pete's uncle was sitting next to me before the ceremony, and he said, 'Who's that with the she-male decorator?' Some gay friend of the aunt's recommended this person, and anyway, let slip that she's ... he's ... whatever's a transsexual. I thought you should know."  

Trying to keep my face blank, I said, "Wow. Thanks for telling me, I guess." 

"Look, I'm sorry, dude," he said with a consolingly masculine slap to my back. "I've got to say, it's no wonder you were fooled. He's fucking hot. Better you find out now though, right?" 

My tongue itched to tell him I already knew. It itched even more to tell him not to call Lindsey 'he.' But I didn't have the balls. I told myself it wasn't like he'd really badmouthed her - he was just being ignorant, not nasty. But it still felt like I wasn't sticking up for her the way I should be. 

The best I could manage was, "Sure. No harm, no foul. Could you not spread it around, though? I don't want the Bible-thumper part of the family looking down their noses." 

"I gotcha." He made a lip-zipping motion, then said, "Don't worry, though. I'm sure even the Jesus-crew will give you the benefit of the doubt." He used the Spanish pronunciation to make it rhyme - Hay-soose crew. 

At least he's being equal opportunity offensive, I thought. 

Sam disappeared, I made it to the head of the line, ordered two White Russians, then found a corner from which to watch the venue crew expertly replacing the rows of seating with dining tables. Eventually, Lindsey showed up at my elbow, looking annoyed. 

"So ... your cousin tells me you're straight," she said. "I think he needs to work on his conversation skills. 'Hey, are you Nick's date?' 'Your name's Lindsey, right? And you're a decorator?' 'You do know Nick's straight, don't you?'" 

"I'm sorry. He's not usually such a dick." I handed her drink to her. She took it and sipped, then dismissed Sam with an eye-roll and a little wave of her hand. 

"I've had lots worse." 

"You don't want to go, do you?" Just asking the question made my heart rate go up from stress. 

"Fuck no," she said, sipping her drink. "Open bar, free food, and as much as I paid for this dress?" She looked at her glass. "This is a damn good White Russian. You tip the guy?" 

"It was a girl," I said. "But yeah, I tried to. She and the other bartenders were turning tips away, though. I guess they're paying them well enough to keep the bar open-open, not just open-plus-tips open." 

"Well that's nice." 

We wandered a bit, working away at our drinks. A couple of cousins, aunts, and uncles bumped into us, and I introduced Lindsey to them, then told her any funny stories about them I could once they'd passed out of earshot. 

When everything was ready and they seated us for dinner, we had the bad luck to end up next to that aunt and uncle of Pete's. They gushed about Lindsey's design work and how amazed everyone who came to their house was, and at no point did the conversation veer toward the aunt's gay friend or Lindsey being transgender. But knowing that they knew kept me tensed up all through the meal, expecting some kind of bombshell to drop. With the size of the guest list, tables got served in waves, and ours had to wait a bit, so we hadn't finished eating when the DJ started up the music for dancing. That took some edge off my nerves; the sound system would keep any embarrassing revelations from reaching too many ears. 

Finally, dessert rolled around, and because the aunt was diabetic and it was getting late, they excused themselves to say their congratulations to the new couple. 

Lindsey had the tiramisu, and I had the dark-chocolate-marbled cheesecake, and before she'd made it three bites in, she pointed her fork at her dessert and said, "Damn, we should have had Gus and Wendy order theirs before they left so we could double up. Is your cheesecake as good as this is?" 

"You want to try it?" I asked, cutting a bite loose with my fork and holding it her direction. She glanced around, then said, "Sure." 

Parting those glossy red lips, she leaned slightly forward, and I raised the fork, edged it carefully nearer and nearer her mouth until she opened wide and let the bite pass her teeth - her eyes on mine the whole time. Closing, she slid her mouth back off the fork and chewed. 

"Mmm," she said, nodding and creasing her eyebrows. "Mm, yeah, that's good. I don't know if it's as good as mine, but I admit I have a big coffee bias." 

I waited to see if she would offer me a bite in exchange. Instead, she put her cheek in one palm, elbow on the table, regarding me. 

"Nick," she said, "when Sam told me you were straight earlier, I shrugged and said we were just friends, so I didn't know why it mattered. You know what he told me?" 

I shook my head. 

"He said, 'That's not how I heard it.' What do you think he meant by that, Nick?" 

With my face rapidly heating up, I decided to just go with the truth. "The other day, he was pestering me to come tonight, and he tried to bait the hook by telling me about all the hot bridesmaids. So I said something about having someone I was already interested in. I thought it might get him to stop bugging me." 

"That's all?" she asked, cheek still resting on her hand. 

"That's all," I said. Her lower lip moved in a way I couldn't quite read. So I went on. "I mean, that's the only reason I told him. I don't mean it wasn't true." 

Her eyes closed slowly and then opened again after a solemn breath. 

"What are you doing, Nick?" 

The reprieve my nerves had gotten when Gus and Wendy left now officially came to an end. My whole body tensed. I think my toenails tensed. 

"Honestly?" I asked. 

She nodded against her palm. 

"I have no idea." 

"You know this can't possibly work." 

The cheesecake in my stomach tried to calcify into solid rock - and then my brain turned her words over, heard them again, and suddenly filled up like a helium balloon. 

She must have seen the change on my face, because her brows furrowed and she asked, "What?" 

"You just admitted that there's a 'this.' I kind of assumed it was just me. But you just said it. 'This.'" 

Her head was off her hand now, and she leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. "Okay, so there's a 'this.' But I also just said it was impossible. Was your cousin wrong? Aren't you straight?" 

"What I am is confused as hell," I said. "But I'm not confused about the fact that you're amazing, Lindsey. And I don't mean the way you look, I mean everything about you. You're fantastic." 

She blushed a little, maybe searching for something to say, not immediately finding it. 

"And," I went on, "I've been watching nothing but transgender porn lately, and it's not even freaking me out anymore." 

Her arms squeezed tighter across her chest. She had that vulnerable look again. Was she shaking? 

"What are your friends going to think? What's your family going to think?" 

"I don't care." I said. "Want me to prove it? I'll kiss you right here." 

I realized I was probably overcompensating for my cowardice talking to Sam earlier. 

Then I realized that was a good thing. 

Lindsey uncrossed her arms and leaned very slightly toward me. I could see her working to keep her breathing steady. 

Something told me to go for it. 

Almost of their own will, my hands went around her - one to the nape of her neck, the other to that floral design at the side of her waist. They drew her to me, and I saw her lips part again, in a way that was different and yet not so different from when she'd opened her mouth for the bite of cheesecake a minute earlier. The look in her eyes, too, echoed the cheesecake-bite look. Not because preparing for a kiss meant nothing, but because we'd both known what was happening before was more than a bite of dessert. 

And then her eyes closed and her lips were on mine and the music and soft lighting of the banquet hall faded away somewhere distant. 

I felt her, soft, in my arms - tasted the sweetness of her mouth, floated through the mingled scents of her perfume and her hair. I let my eyes close to match hers as our lips moved against one another, flower-petal soft, mother's-breast warm, hungry yet also fulfilled, searching yet also calm. The wet, slippery delight of her tongue peeked into my mouth, bumped against my own tongue's tip, withdrew again. Her hands laced through my hair. Her breasts grazed my chest, eased back with an outrush of breath through her nose, then settled against me with steadily increasing certainty. 




Big Flipping Deal Ch. 05



Whatever her mouth had done to me in the car that first day we met, whatever I'd imagined it doing in the weeks since, nothing compared to what it did to me now. 

Then she broke away with a gasp and our eyes opened together, focused together. 

"Oh my god, this is a terrible idea." 

But no sooner had she said it than her head ducked toward mine once more, and our lips met like the sea and shore on a dark, moonless night. We kissed deep and fast now, as though the tide were quickening, until her lips escaped mine and feathered along my jaw to my ear, where she said in a voice roughed by passion: 

"I want you to come home with me." 

It wasn't a question, and her eyes held no question when she drew back and I looked in them. Only an intense need speaking to that same need in me. 

And I thought, out of nowhere, Who am I? And the answer came just as quickly, I'm a guy who absolutely wants to go home with her. 

I nodded to Lindsey then, and we got up from our chairs in the same single motion. 

* * * 

We made out the whole cab ride back to her place. The trip wasn't that long, but I almost came three different times from her rubbing my crotch with her hand. She made this cleft between her middle and ring fingers and used it to stroke the length of my granite-hard cock through my pants, slowly widening and narrowing the furrow she worked me with, increasing and decreasing the pressure through a range that never went too delicate or too firm. For the whipped cream and cherry on top of this treatment, she would occasionally roll the heel of her palm against my root, right where the fabric of my underwear forced the erection to take its bend. And either she had some psychic power that served as an orgasm thermometer, or she kept her head better than I did through the hot, wet, Olympian gymnastics of our lips and tongues, so that some particular tone in my gasps alerted her when I was close. Each time I got ready to blow, she backed off and put the hand on the side of my face or neck and focused solely on kissing me. 

In addition to this show, the cab driver got a really good tip from her at the end of the ride. I offered to pick up the fare, but she just laughed. "We needed a cab because I knew I'd be drinking, not because I'm bringing you back here." 

"Yeah, but I still, uh ..." I scratched my head as the cab drove off. "... benefited from the ride." 

She gave me a narrow-eyed grin. "Then you'll have to make sure I benefit from a ride sometime in return." 

My cock surged in my pants. Jesus. 

Climbing the stairs to her place, I vaguely registered what a nice complex she lived in. Big, airy windows. Spacious balconies. Fancy cut-stone walls. Her key went in the lock with a slide and a click, then turned to work the latch. Everything sounded sexual to me, even the breeze sliding through the leafy branches of trees next to the stairway. Inside, she clicked on the light, and the front room of her apartment bloomed into color. 

The place had hardwood floors, a little darker than the blonde laminate we were putting into Mrs. P's house. One red-brick wall held the fireplace, faced by a low, modern couch in tangerine against a light-green wall that slanted down toward us because it backed up against the stairs to a loft. The entryway, the other two walls, and the way up to the loft were all white, with accents in red, like the drapes of the big front window. Diagonally across from us, an archway showed the kitchen, which looked to be mostly yellows, chrome, and glass. 

"Wow." The clean and vivid perfection of the room momentarily dialed down my sex volume so that I could almost think again. "Wow, Lindsey, this is all you, right? It's beautiful." 

She closed the door behind us and turned me with a hand inside my upper arm. I noticed the green of her dress fit in perfectly with the decor. Her lips - smiling - even matched the curtains. 

"Thanks," she said, and pulled me close for another kiss. 

Her mouth and mine made the only noise in the room - a strange contrast to the traffic sounds we'd made out to in the taxi and the dance music we'd kissed to in the banquet hall. With her arms around me, clasping my back, moving through my hair, Lindsey guided us across the room. I kept my eyes closed and let her. My calf bumped against the sofa. We sat down, still kissing. 

In the quiet, sightless ocean of that kiss, I ran one thumb along her jaw and down her throat, feeling the quick whisper of her pulse there before my hand settled to her bare shoulder and collarbone. Even with my eyes shut, everything beautiful about her seemed to penetrate my senses - the blue of her eyes, the gold of her hair, the soft texture of her flesh, the scent of her, the brilliance of her ability with color and space, the way she breathed. She traced one fingertip around my shoulder blade, down my spine, forward along my ribs. Then her palm pressed against my waist, her fingers clutched, and her nails drew a path around and down my abdomen until she turned her hand and once again embraced my straining erection with that cleft between her fingers. 

"Oh my god, that feels good," I whispered. 

"Mmm," she said. 

In the quiet of her apartment, I could now hear the brush of her hand along the fabric that held my cock in. I felt suddenly unobserved - something I hadn't consciously thought about in the banquet hall or in the cab, but which had been there nonetheless: the presence of other eyes upon us, now vanished. My hand glided down from her shoulder to cup her breast, and she sighed and gripped my hard-on more firmly than at any point so far. I took it as approval, so I gently kneaded the soft flesh that filled my hand. In response, she worked me in her grasp, ferociously, with quick, rolling strokes. It felt incredible. But it also threw a thought into my head. 

You ought to be doing more for her. 

Suddenly, my hand felt awkward on her boob, which I realized might not be as sensitive as a typical woman's. But her hand didn't feel at all awkward on my crotch, and her questing, welcoming lips and tongue certainly didn't feel awkward to mine. So I trailed my fingers down the curves of her dress, easing them along her belly, moving lower, finding the hard ridge of her pubic arch, right above the valley formed by her two perfect legs within that green satin dress. She made a little noise into my mouth, tilted her hips slightly. Her grip along my rod tightened further, with another uptick in her breathing. 

"Mmmm," she murmured as I walked my fingertips back and forth across her pubis, not yet in contact with anything truly sexual. Her hips moved again, yearningly. Something about her anticipation made my chest burn. Instead of continuing directly downward, I skated my hand over and along her thigh, caressing almost to her knee before beginning a slow, sweeping slalom from one leg to the other, climbing back toward the head of the valley in a series of delicate switchbacks. 

I hope she doesn't think I'm procrastinating, I thought. And then, self-consciously, Am I procrastinating? 

But the way she moaned into my mouth, eased her legs wider, and accelerated the delicious tugging of her hand all told me not to worry about it. 

And then I was there. The ball of my thumb lodged against a swell of flesh that was stiff yet yielding - solid but not skeletal. 

"Hnhh ... Nick ..." 

The tone of pleasure in her voice overwhelmed any hesitation I had left. My hand descended into the fabric of her skirt to cup and explore what lay concealed there. A kind of shock ran through me, wild and high and hot. What my hand now touched, I had felt before - but had also never felt, and never expected to feel. Lindsey groaned. Her hand went motionless around my rigid length, still holding tight but without movement. Her kisses became small, her breathing tremorous. 

I glided my hand up, and then down, once, along the bulge between her legs. A lifetime of shaming social pressures told me I ought to be revolted - but the way she quivered and pleaded against me with the language of her body gave me something, a strength and a confidence that all the nagging neuroses couldn't hold a candle to. 

Taking hold of her, I began to pump. Without hesitation, her hips responded, thrusting her erection up in time to my movements. Her teeth scraped a path along my jaw to my ear, where she moaned. 

"Aauhhhh ..." 

As I kept rubbing, her hand repeatedly squeezed and released me, then returned to that glorious finger-parted stroking. 

"Fuckkkk ..." she gasped. The whole thing had a kind of magical, high-school-flashback, never-done-anything-sexual electricity to it - at least, it did for me, and it certainly sounded like things were going well for her too. For a couple of minutes, we both just panted and kissed and caressed and rubbed. I could feel that glandular crescendo approaching with every glide of her fingers along my shaft - the pleasure thickening and swelling and working its way toward an inevitable jolt. At the same time, Lindsey fucked my hand hard with her hips, and went through a circling series of staccato groans and glissading sighs. Then, in between kisses, she said, "Uh ... Nick ... I'm so ... close ... ah ... are you ...?" 

"Uh-huhh," I gasped. 

Without warning, her fingers left my crotch, bringing my eyes open in surprise. The blue of her gaze and the heat on her face, though, steamed away any alarm I might have felt. She took hold of me by both shoulders and pushed gently. 

"Lie down so I can dry-hump the shit out of you." 

I slid over and relaxed to horizontal under the pressure of her hands, and in a heartbeat, she hopped up, hiked her skirt above her waist, and straddled me. In the moment of her position change, I caught just a glimpse of her panties and the un-feminine fullness within them. Then the green silky cloth swaddled both of our crotches from view and I felt her ease into place firm against me. 

Her mouth came down to meet mine again, her eyes closing, hair dangling thick around both of our faces. She moved her hips up and down, sliding her length along mine, separated only by the soft cotton of her panties and the relatively thin fabric of my dress pants and underwear. If I hadn't already been at the very edge of orgasm, I'm not sure how much it would have done for me. But in my condition at that moment, she probably could have just breathed on it a while and gotten me to come. 

"God, Lindsey ..." 

"Mm-hmmm. Oh ... uh ..." She started panting in time to her thrusts. "Uh - uh - uh - ohhhhh -" 

There's a dick dry-humping my dick, I thought. And it wasn't a bad thought, just surprise at a completely unexpected sensation - her thick, full, rigid roundness gliding back and forth past mine, then rolling across it and doing the same on the other side. Holy shit, here it comes ... 

"Ah!" I gasped. "Ah, Lindsey!" 

"Yessssssss," she groaned in my ear, pumping faster. 

"Fuck - Lindsey - fuck - oh god, fuck me!" 

"Uh-huh ... Uh! Huh!" 

Heat washed up and out of my groin, and I squeezed her tight to me and exploded. The sluicing pulses of orgasm rolled through my muscles in electric waves. And somewhere in the middle of it, I felt a resonant throbbing against my blurting cock and heard in her voice that she was coming too. 

"Shit, Nick! YES!" 

And then we were holding each other, kissing, our groins pressed together in a slowly subsiding cascade of hot twitches and throbs, her beautiful form soft and trembling under my hands, her gentle fingers tracing along my cheeks and through my hair. 

It took a long time to come down from that orgasmic high, but eventually I looked up and found her looking down at me with a warm and happy presence in her eyes. 

I wanted to say something, but nothing came to mind, and after a while I stopped wanting to say anything and just enjoyed seeing her expression. Then she kissed me, once, twice, three times, and buried her face against my neck and we lay there warm and sated and at rest. 

* * * 

Eventually, the afterglow faded enough for me to be aware of the gloppy wetness in my boxer-briefs. And then another wet spot at what felt like the left corner of my pubic hair. 

Holy crap, that's her cum. I knew none of mine could have made it up that high. It must have run down inside her panties and dripped out. This is so fucking weird. 

"Hey, Lindsey," I said, rubbing her shoulder. "I could lie here until I fall right asleep, but do we need to check that we're not getting splooge all over your nice couch?" 

She didn't answer immediately. 

Did she already fall asleep? 

"Lindsey?" 

"Sorry. I was thinking." She lifted up and looked at me - not nearly the same spellbinding look as a few minutes earlier. This one had a wistful edge to it. "It's got one of those lifetime guarantee stain-guard things on it, but I guess you're right." 

Rolling off of me, she stood with her skirt still hiked up - presumably to keep from dripping cum on it. Then she bent to check what was going on down there, before looking toward my crotch. 

"Looks like mine all spilled on you," she said, dropping the green satin curtain of her dress so that her panties, low-hanging and damp, disappeared back into mystery. "Sorry." 

I sat up and found a glistening wet spot almost as big as my palm spreading from the left side of my fly nearly to the inseam of my crotch. Man. That's a lot of cum ... and that's just what spilled out. She must spew like a horse. 

"You're not freaked out, are you?" 

"No, that was awesome," I said, frowning. "Are you?" 

"No," she said. Then: "Maybe a little bit. I haven't had sex that good in forever. And it wasn't even sex. But ..." 

"What, was it too teenagers-in-the-back-seat-with-no-idea-what-they're-doing for you? I mean, I admit, I haven't been that amazed by dry-humping since high school." 

"I was going to say middle school," she said, with a smirk that quieted some of my worry. 

"Middle school ... I guess you've always been two steps ahead of me at everything," I said, relieved to be able to banter, even if it was at my expense. 

She laughed a little. "I'm kidding, Nick. I was the gender-confused kid in middle school, remember? I didn't even get to kiss a guy until college." 

"Oh. Right." I tried to get a handle on her expression, but didn't have any luck. "So what's wrong?" 

"Nothing's wrong," she said, pacing a few steps. "Not really. I just ... part of me wants to take you upstairs, Nick. Get naked with you, climb in bed. But part of me's worried about how you'll react when you see me with my clothes off. Isn't part of you worried too?" 

"Sure." I shrugged as I said it, but inside I realized I wasn't as casual about the admission as I would have liked. "But I'm totally willing to give it a shot. No, I said that wrong. I really want to give it a shot, even if I've got some nerves about it." 

She nodded - although slowly. 

"Okay," she said. "Okay, but can we maybe just sit together for a little bit, and you can hold me, and we can take that shot some other night? Because what we just did was great, and I kind of want to hold onto it for a while before we risk spoiling it with something that might turn awkward." 

I was about 90/10 disappointed/relieved at that suggestion. But I realized that if I was even ten percent relieved, that meant it was probably a suggestion I ought to take. 

"I can deal with that," I said. "Actually, sitting and holding you for a while sounds really good." 

Lindsey smiled, then came over and sat next to me again. 

* * * 

The next day was weird. 

After cuddling on the couch a while and a few more kisses, Lindsey had taken me home and I'd done a little web surfing (non-porn) and then gotten to bed at a pretty reasonable hour. So waking up in time for our nine o'clock Sunday start time didn't give me any trouble. 

But Lindsey didn't show up until nine-thirty. 

Yeah, it was only half an hour, but she'd never been even a second late before, and if anything, she arrived early more often than on time. So half an hour made me nervous, and I was about to text her when I heard the BMW pull into the driveway. She apologized for being late, but didn't give a reason - just grabbed a paint pan and roller and started in on the guest bedroom wall opposite the one I was working on. 

Painting is pretty low-brainpower work, but we still finished the whole room with virtually no conversation. All I could think of to talk about was last night, and it seemed pretty likely that last night was part of the reason for her being so quiet. Well, there was something else I wanted to talk to her about, but it didn't seem like the right topic to throw into an awkward silence. 

I finally broke the ice by asking her why she didn't have any of her paintings up around her apartment, and she said kept them upstairs because she didn't want to look egotistical. 

"I don't think they're bad," she explained. "I enjoy doing them, and once in a while I'm really happy with one. But if I put them up on my walls, it's like I'm announcing what an artist I am." 

"But you designed your own rooms, right? Isn't that like announcing what a great designer you are?" 

"Yeah," she said. "Because I'm a fucking awesome interior designer. But I'm just an okay painter, so I don't want to look like I'm full of myself about it. I mean, you don't have your music compositions playing on a loop in your house when people walk in, do you?" 

I opened my mouth to reply, but my phone rang, and when I looked at it, I saw it was Sam. With a scowl, I told Lindsey to hang on a second while I answered. 

"Yeah, what's up?" I asked. 

"Dude, Denise said you were kissing that she-male decorator last night. She was all happy to see you hooked up with someone hot, and I didn't spill the beans, but what the heck?" 

I glanced at Lindsey, who'd gone back to painting. What the hell should I say? Give him the piece of my mind I ought to have when he stuck his nose in it the first time? Make an excuse and tell him I'd talk about it later? Leave the room so Lindsey wouldn't get uncomfortable if she realized we were talking about her? 

Finally, mad at Sam for being Sam, and mad at Denise for telling Sam, I said, "Look, Sam, do you really care?" 

"What?" 

"We see each other maybe four times a year, right? And family is family, and if one of us needs something, we know who to call. But do you really care about this, or does it just have your attention because you think it's off the wall?" 

"Well dude, yeah, it's pretty fucking off the wall." He went quiet for a moment. I just waited. "Are you seeing this ... uh ... person? Does your mom know?" 

"Sam, I don't even know. But maybe this is a chance for you to broaden your mind." 

I didn't wait to see what he said. I just hung up. Not because I was mad - because I had no interest in making Lindsey listen while I tried to help Sam get his head around something that wasn't his business anyway. 

She glanced at me, and I said, "That was my cousin Sam." 

"Yeah," she said. "I heard." 

And she went back to painting again. 

When we got the room done, Lindsey said she wanted a salad for lunch and that she was going to a drive-through to get one. She offered to pick something up for me, but I said I was good, went home to feed Mister Whiskerdoodle, and made myself a sandwich. The afternoon was a repeat of the morning, but in the master bedroom and with a different color of paint. 

By four or so, we'd finished the room and cleaned up. 

We'd barely had half a conversation the whole day, and my mood was in the toilet. I'd gone to bed floating the night before, and woke up with a strange, energetic anticipation inside, and now all that pent-up positive energy seemed to have deserted me. But I wasn't ready to give up yet, and I worked up my courage to say something before she could slip away for the evening. 




Big Flipping Deal Ch. 05



On the porch, after shutting and locking the door, I opened my mouth. And right as I opened my mouth, Lindsey opened hers. And the same word came out of both of us: 

"Listen -" 

We both stopped ourselves. From my point of view, she was the one being mysterious all day, so thinking she might be about to explain, I said, "You first." 

With a deep breath, she launched into it. And what she said had the ring of having been thought about a lot, even though it didn't come out all that fluidly: "So last night - I mean, we'd both had a few drinks, right? And it was a wedding, and I don't know about you, but they go to my head. What I'm trying to say is, we both know this isn't ... I mean, Christ, that call from your cousin, I get it. So I think we should just agree it was fun and really nice, but a fluke, and we can put it behind us and forget about it. I mean, we should, right?" 

What do you say to that? 

"Uh, yeah," was all that came to me. "Probably." 

"Okay." She took a deep breath and settled herself. "Well. I guess if that's out of the way, what were you going to say?" 

"I was going to ask you if you wanted to go on a date with me." 

Her nose twitched. "A date." 

"The Modern Art Museum over in Fort Worth has this exhibition starting, a guy who does nothing but paintings of bathrooms. I figure nothing says 'I want in your pants' like showing a girl toilet paintings." 

"Nick ..." 

"I like you, Lindsey." I said it simply, but I said it with everything I had. "I like being around you, I like talking to you, I like kissing you. I liked ... doing things with you, even if it was weird. And I don't know how far I can get myself to go, but you're the first girl I've kissed who's actually really nice - nice all the way through. I don't feel like I can just write that off." 

"It's not going to work, Nick." Her head was shaking and her voice was too. "It's not going to work, and you're the nicest guy who's ever been interested in me, and I'm totally going to fall for you if we go on with this. And then it's not going to work." 

I nodded. "Yeah, of course it's not going to work. So we shouldn't go out at all. But in another couple of days, my willpower's going to tank, and I'm going to ask you again. And then we'll have this conversation again, and I'll agree with you again. And then I'll keep getting all worked up and asking you and asking you, and sooner or later you'll say yes and we'll go out. So why don't you just save us both the time and stress and go to the museum with me on Wednesday? We can have a totally awkward date and it'll throw cold water on the whole idea and we can get back to our remodeling." 

She looked at me, and looked at me, and I waited for her to answer.



Big Flipping Deal Ch. 06



[The story so far: Thanks to an odd provision in a will, Nick begins remodeling a house with the gorgeous transsexual Lindsey, whom he finds increasingly attractive even after learning that she has the same thing between her legs that he does. In a hostile encounter with Lindsey's bigoted father, Nick is knocked silly and ends up kissing Lindsey while he's incoherent. A few days later, after a short workday on the house, the two go bowling. Nick then works up the courage to ask her to attend his cousin's wedding with him, where sparks unexpectedly fly over desert. Lindsey takes Nick back to her place, and they wind up dry-humping spectacularly. The experience overcomes most of Nick's reservations, and he decides to ask Lindsey out on a real date.] 

The next couple of days went by with no weirdness whatsoever. 

Well ... 

Unless you count me spending about half the day at work with a raging boner Monday. And again Tuesday. And again Wednesday. 

And unless you count me spending a hundred percent of our remodeling time with an even raging-er boner. 

And unless you count me fantasizing about sucking Lindsey's cock every night as I went to bed. 

Somehow, up until our post-wedding dry-hump, I'd managed to do all my whacking off to porn. Yeah, I did my best to find videos of t-girls who looked like her, and yeah, I spent a lot of those videos thinking, Does her cock look like that? 

But after that Saturday night, when I agreed with her suggestion that we shouldn't go to bed, when I let her drive me back to my place with her cum staining my slacks, I didn't even turn on the computer. I had no interest in watching other trans-women and wondering how much Lindsey was or wasn't like them. I'd gotten within one flight of stairs from sliding under the sheets with her, just one conversation from seeing her naked, from knowing, and being with, and touching the reality. And now I couldn't get it out of my head. 

How much different would it be, to put my hand on her bare shaft instead of feeling it through her dress? How much different would it be taking her in my mouth, compared to that dream I'd had where I sucked her off? 

I noticed her glance at my crotch and smirk more than once during Monday and Tuesday's renovation work. But she had the decency to not rib me about it - and once, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw her look and briefly touch her tongue to her upper lip. 

Tuesday got us through re-flooring the master bedroom, and it also got me a text from Sam: Sorry I was a dick about your date Saturday, man. Anything I can do to make it up to you? 

I texted back: Pick me up on your way to work tomorrow and let me borrow your car for a couple of days. 

Surprisingly, he agreed, and when Lindsey got ready to head out for the night, I told her I'd collect her at her place around six the next evening. She looked puzzled and asked if I'd gotten my car fixed, I told her about Sam trying to make amends, and I think we both parted for the night feeling a little better about humanity. 

Then I walked to the grocery store and bought myself a package of bratwursts and spent about half an hour working up the courage to see how many inches of sausage I could take into my mouth. 

If our date hadn't been for Wednesday night, there's no telling how far I would have gone with those bratwursts. 

* * * 

It's a good forty-five-minute drive from Dallas to the Modern Art Museum in Fort Worth. Forty-five minutes for me, I mean - Lindsey would probably have shaved five or ten off of that in her BMW. Most of the trip was the Irving/Euless/Bedford corridor along 183, wall-to-wall metropolitan area except for the vast tract of DFW airport right in the middle. Lindsey fiddled with the radio in Sam's Nissan until she found something danceable, then kind of relaxed into a nodding groove, looking over at me occasionally and smiling. She talked about an indecisive client who was giving her fits with one change of plans after another, back and forth and back and forth. 

"I swear, I've returned and re-bought the same bathroom tile four times. The tile contractor is going to stop taking my calls." 

"His loss," I said, with a glance her direction. I meant it to show how much I thought she deserved to be appreciated, and I think her smile said she caught that. But she looked out the window at the traffic and the suburbs sliding by and twirled one finger slowly in her hair, so I couldn't tell for sure. 

Fort Worth is called Cowtown (among other things), and Dallasites tend to think of it as a rural bump over on their far western border. But it's the sixteenth-largest city in the country, and the Modern Art Museum there is a pretty respectable institute of higher culture. Not that I was over there every weekend or anything, but I'd been a few times and always enjoyed it. Well, except the one time I took Carmella and she bitched through the whole thing. 

We pulled into the parking lot maybe half an hour from sunset under late September skies, just a few high, sparse clouds overhead. I killed the engine and got out first. She didn't wait for me to get her door, but opened it and climbed out into the still-warm air of early evening, which moved her hair with a hint of breeze. Watching her round the corner of the car to join me, I marveled at the absolute perfection to which she'd dressed herself - casual enough to say she wasn't trying to knock me off my feet, sexy enough to let me know she could if she wanted to. She had on a blouse of deep rose with the crisp, pointed collar unbuttoned to mute its formality. Her dark grey skirt hit a couple of inches above her knees, and I think her boots were the same calf-high stilettos she'd worn the first day I met her. A simple golden chain spanned her throat under the collar. 

I thought she had a bit of an odd expression as she drew even with me. 

"You're not nervous, are you?" The idea of someone who looked like Lindsey being nervous about a date with someone who looked like me - it felt good, to tell the truth. 

"Surprisingly, no," she said, half-bursting my bubble - though I don't know why she'd say 'surprisingly.' She turned her face away, and I got ready for the full bubble-burst. But what she said was, "I'm kind of ... trying not to be giggly?" 

Giggly struck me as a thousand times better than nervous. 

"Oh, that's bad," I said, lowering my eyebrows dramatically when her face came back into view. "We're supposed to be going for a disaster date, aren't we?" 

By this point, we'd joined the flow of people approaching the museum entrance - a combination of highbrow socialites and granola types, with scattered mundane sorts like myself here and there. Maybe it was just my imagination, but Lindsey seemed unique in the crowd. I felt like everyone ought to be turning and looking at her in amazement, though of course, no one did. 

I caught some guys ogling, though. 

"It doesn't quite have to be a disaster," she said as we neared the door. "Just nothing special. A couple of friends at the museum. Ordinary." 

"Gotcha," I said, holding the door for her. "You know I'm never going to think you're ordinary, don't you? I mean that in a good way." 

"Don't play dumb," she said once I'd let a few old ladies in and gotten through the door myself. "We don't need to be ordinary ... you and me. You're weird and I'm transgender. But that's me and you. What needs to be ordinary is us, together." 

The Modern seemed busy tonight - we had some lines to deal with, probably because this exhibit was new. But it gave us time to talk as we waited and shuffled forward place by place. 

"How exactly am I weird?" I asked. 

She laughed. "You're a straight guy crushing on a t-girl, for one thing. That's weird. And you're weirdly nice - nobody's that nice. Like the way you apparently spent so much time hanging out with my crazy old aunt and her cat. That's pretty weird." 

"Mrs. P wasn't cra -" I stopped myself. "No, I guess maybe she was. This whole thing was her idea, you know." 

She gave a puzzled frown in the sedate crowd-hum of the museum. 

"What do you mean?" 

"I'm not supposed to tell you, but part of the reason she gave us the house together was that she thought I needed a girlfriend." 

That tickled enough of a laugh out of her to make the other patrons turn in line and look at us. Lindsey gave a wave of apology, working to swallow her giggle-fit. "Oh God," she said. "That is so Neena. She really didn't understand how the whole transition thing works. I'm sure she thought I was all girl and you'd never know the difference." 

"Maybe," I said, shrugging. "Or maybe she thought I'd get to know you and it wouldn't make a difference." 

"Uh-huh, sure. Let me tell you some stories about Neena." 

She proceeded to narrate a series of anecdotes about her silly aunt's naive side. I listened and watched the way her expression lit up with happy fondness for the old lady. A few stories in, she seemed to have forgotten that her purpose was to show the unlikeliness of Mrs. P having an accurate bead on how the two of us would hit it off. She might have circled back eventually, but we made it into the exhibit hall before that could happen. 

"Indecorous Object," read the banner above the archway into the gallery. We passed beneath it and found ourselves surrounded by the paintings of Diego Carvalos, to the vocal accompaniment of that peculiar art-museum muttering - the kind that manages to sound reverent and analytical and baffled all at once. 

"Damn," Lindsey whispered to me, "this guy's a fucking loon. Really good, though." 

At a glance, I could see a dozen or so paintings in this bend of the gallery. Other patrons partially blocked my view of some, but Lindsey's assessment was spot on. Even from a distance, even with a column in the way here and a tall guy's cowboy hat in the way there, Carvalos showed an incredible versatility of media and styles - oils, watercolors, impressionism, expressionism, pontillism, photorealism, collage, glasswork ... 

And all of it toilets. 

The first one had the look of the Dutch Masters - dark tones and bold shapes, colors in deep, earthy contrasts. It showed a fine ceramic chamber pot in the corner of some Enlightenment-era mansion bedroom - smooth-grained wainscoting behind bright, clean porcelain that created a sense of art in front of art within art. 

Flowing onward with the crowd, we passed a sun-drenched watercolor of a bathroom done in white tile with hints of daisy hues, centered on an impeccably clean domestic toilet. Then a chiaroscuro masterpiece appeared, devoted to some nineteenth-century train station stall full of splendid brass and dark wood paneling. Next a men's room Monet. Then a Lichtenstein loo. 

I spent as much time watching the mixture of perplexity, awe, and amusement on Lindsey's face as I did looking at the paintings. She just couldn't get over the guy's obsessive devotion to toilets as high art. 

"I mean, these are not cheap knockoffs of a bunch of famous painters' styles," she said in a hushed tone. "This guy really knows what the fuck he's doing. Look at that color blending! But what the hell is going on in his head when he's painting these things?" 

"Maybe he owns stock in a plumbing company?" I joked, but found myself as impressed and confused as she was. Or almost as impressed. "Some of these would have been better if he'd been painting one of your bathroom designs, though." 

She rolled her eyes and we moved around a bend into the next section of the exhibit. The couple ahead of us pointed and murmured at the first painting there. 

"Huh," I said as we came up to the piece and looked it square on. It had a certain Degas quality to it, ethereal and light, a blue tile bathroom decorated in a '40s or '50s style - but a tiny yellow circle on the rim of the bowl pulled my eye in as soon as I looked. 

"That's a piss drip," I said, startled to realize that every inch of every bathroom in every painting before had been immaculately clean. 

"Yeah," Lindsey agreed. "Huh." 

As we proceeded around the room past cubist and pop art and post-modern renderings of gas station bathrooms and rest-stop shit-cans, the toilets grew steadily dirtier, stained, hard-water streaked, even cracked. The phantasmagoria of art styles continued, and every painting popped with technique, but by the end of the room, you could almost smell the filth. The last one before the corner gave a harrowing view into an ill-kept rustic outhouse with corn cobs for wiping. 

"Okay, gross," Lindsey said. "I don't know if I want to see what's in the next room." 

"Well, we've come this far." 

So we rounded the bend and entered the home stretch. Here, the paintings hung farther apart, and depicted washrooms and sanitary facilities long past use. First, a spiderwebbed stall within an unlit building, presumably abandoned or condemned. Then the remnants of a mobile home bathroom seen through a hole ripped by a tornado. Then a single toilet standing half-destroyed amidst the rubble of a bombed-out building in a war zone. By the end of the hall, we found ourselves looking at a pile of shattered, crap-stained toilet parts in a junkyard, rendered in stark slashes of paint that gave everything a thick, clotted, decayed look. 

"I'm starting to wonder if this was really the most romantic date idea I might have suggested." 

"Hmmm." 

We turned the final corner of the exhibit. At the end of about a twenty-foot hallway hung a single painting - striking blue sky over an uneven, dusty field where stands of green grass swayed to some unseen wind or breeze. As we got closer, a cracked rim of porcelain showed itself, peeking up through mounded dirt and rocks near the painting's center. Within its oval curvature, a single pale-petalled wildflower grew, the leaves and blossom raised patiently toward the cloudless vault of sky overhead.  

"Holy fuck," Lindsey said. It was exactly what I was thinking. 

* * * 

On the way out of the exhibit hall, we both stayed quiet, except for me checking my watch and suggesting we head to the museum cafe. 

"I reserved a table." 

"Oh, good thinking." 

We still had to wait a bit. Once Lindsey's ideas about Carvalos' work settled down, she started talking. 

"I wasn't expecting that last flower painting at all," she said. "It was so sad." 

"Sad?" 

"Yeah, didn't you think so? I mean, the whole point of the exhibit came out there. People make things and use them, and for a while they take care of them, and then they let them go to hell. Everything rots and falls apart and turns to crap, and it's not until you get the people out of the way that something nice happens again." 

I opened my mouth, but she kept going, one hand closing on air as she looked off through the floor-to-ceiling cafe windows at the wide reflecting pool beyond. 

"Or it's like our lives - we start fresh and clean and bright, and things seem nice even if our spot in life isn't the most glamorous. But then time goes by and the dirt and nastiness piles up. Things get uglier and uglier. We realize how shitty everything is, and we break down, and eventually we've got nothing left. We're done. And once we're gone, maybe, nature can come back in and make something out of our bones." 

I could buy those theories. And Lindsey's expression as she rolled them out - intense, disturbed, wounded, but also strong in her commitment to her own ideas and interpretations - put such awe and fascination in me that I could easily have nodded and agreed. 

Except that Lindsey had come into my life now, and as believable and familiar as those cynical, nihilistic ideas were, I no longer wanted to think that way. 

"Maybe it's simpler than that," I said, carefully. She looked at me and waited, and I tried my best to keep her eyes on mine, where maybe she could see what I was seeing. "Maybe he's telling us there's this thing, and it's surprisingly pretty as long as people take care of it. Only they don't take care of it. They piss and shit in it. But eventually it gets past those people and finds the right place to fit in. And once it does, something really beautiful can grow inside it." 

For a few beats after I finished, she kept her eyes on mine, blinking a little, breathing, and nothing else. Then she took a half-step closer, put her hand on my cheek, and leaned in to kiss me - a soft, brief touch of her lips to mine - and when she stepped away, her hand found mine and she took it. 

Almost perfectly in time for the hostess to tell us they had our table ready. 

* * * 

Dinner went very date-ishly. We compared favorites from the exhibit (we both liked the daisy-themed watercolor in the first room), talked about which paintings did the best job of capturing their respective styles (I voted for the Degas-esque pee-stain picture, Lindsey couldn't decide between a surrealist port-a-potty and a urinal schematic patterned after one of DaVinci's notebook sketches), and then stumbled across the fact that we'd both had the same professor for Art Appreciation at UT. I had some pan-seared scallops, Lindsey ordered vegetable lasagna and hated it. 

"Why the hell did I order this?" she asked, a couple of bites in. "Lasagna is not supposed to be healthy." 

"Do you want to trade? I think yours looks good." 

"You're a liar," she laughed. "I halfway think I ought to teach you a lesson by taking you up on it." 

I egged her on a little more until we ended up switching entrees. She definitely got the better deal out of it. But I enjoyed watching her eat scallops as the final light of dusk reflected off the pool outside the cafe windows. 

Back at the car, I was able to get ahead of her at the last minute and open her door, which she smiled at. Once I settled into the driver's seat, I looked at her and asked what she'd like to do next. 

"Get a drink somewhere? Find a place to do a little dancing?" 

"No," she said. "I want you to drive me home, and on the way there you can talk to me about what you said earlier - that if you got to know me, it might not make any difference what I have between my legs." 

"Sure," I replied, starting the car and getting it into reverse. "If I'm convincing enough, do I get to come in once we're at your place?" 

"You get to come in whether you're convincing or not. I'm pretty sure even if I don't buy a word of it, you're going to be so cute trying that I'll want to fuck the shit out of you." 

With the car out of the space, I took a second to eye her for signs of sarcasm. 

"What?" she asked. 

"I'm trying to see if you're serious." 

"Ha," she said, smirking. "You're looking in the wrong place." 

I followed her eyes downward and saw her slouch and roll her hips to momentarily break the flat lap of her skirt with a telltale bulge. 

"Geez, Lindsey," I said, heading for the parking lot exit. "Does art always get you this hot?" 

"It's the shellfish," she said wryly. Then she turned a little in her seat to watch me as I drove. "It's not the shellfish. So come on, tell me why any straight guy ever would say me having a cock might not make a difference." 

"Okay," I said. "So obviously, I have to start by saying of course it makes a difference." 

"Damn, I was hoping you wouldn't give up that easy." 

"Ha, ha. Anyway, a lot of things make a difference. You're blond, and my dream girl's always been blond. That makes a difference. But I've dated lots of women who weren't blondes. The hair color thing didn't make enough of a difference to keep me from dating them." 

She snorted in a congenial way. "Blonde, brunette, vagina, penis. Really, it's hardly worth noticing which one a girl comes with." 

"Hey, I'm going somewhere with this," I said, heading up the street toward a traffic light. "We're not even out of the room where I've hung up all my pretty toilet paintings yet, much less to the one where I make my flower-toilet point." 




Big Flipping Deal Ch. 06



"All right, go ahead." 

"So let's say I settle down with a brunette chick, and she's not the type to dye her hair. I might have to give up on the idea of ever having sex with a blonde again." 

"Uh-huh." 

"Or," I said, ignoring her skeptical tone, "suppose I settle down with a woman who's black, and have to give up ever having sex with a white girl again. Or maybe I fall for someone fat, and for the rest of my life, I'm never having sex with a skinny girl again." 

"Nick, there's kind of a difference between being not racist or not a shallow asshole, and being not straight." 

"No argument about that," I said. "But what if I meet someone really special, and she's in a wheelchair? Then I'd be looking at going the rest of my life knowing I'd never get to dance with my girl again." 

She cleared her throat and patted her crotch. "This isn't a handicap, buddy." 

"That's exactly my point. If you were paraplegic, you might not get much out of sex at all. You might not even be able to feel below your waist. Hell, depending on how you got that way, there might not even be anything below your waist. If I met the right girl, and then she got in a car accident and severed her spine, I'd have to deal with a future where sex wasn't anything like what I spent my whole life expecting it to be. So considering the alternatives, and considering how many things about you are so amazingly perfect, I should count myself lucky that you've got anything down there that works at all. And frankly, not only do I know it works, but I'm getting pretty fucking obsessed with it. Enough to start wondering if I'm not nearly as straight as I always assumed." 

"Hmm," she said, putting the end of one pinky between her teeth. "That was actually pretty good. So ... new subject." 

"Yeah? What is it?" We'd reached the traffic signal at the highway, so I spared a glance over at her. 

She batted her eyelashes enticingly. "Tell me some of these things you think are so amazingly perfect about me." 

* * * 

At Lindsey's, I followed her up the stairs to her apartment without saying anything. She stopped me on the doorstep and kissed me, holding me by the collar with both hands, her eyes filled with hope and uncertainty as she let go and pulled away to unlock the door. The need to reassure her made an ache in my chest; the desire to hold her put my heart into a breakneck gallop. I felt on edge between my own insecurities and wanting to banish hers. 

Was I really just here Saturday? I thought as I followed her into the apartment. The orange couch looked the same, the hardwood floors, the distant, unlit kitchen hinting of lemons and banana pudding, the red-brick wall with the fireplace. 

"Come on," she said quietly, taking my hand and heading toward the stairs. 

Wow. This is really happening. 

When we reached the top of the stairs, I found myself in a cute loft bedroom that overlooked the living room below. The walls and carpet and bed had been done in snow-pure white, with pastel accents in the form of green and pink pillows, a checkered throw rug to match, and several unframed canvases covered in abstract designs. 

"Did you paint those?" I asked, pointing to the paintings. 

"Yeah. Help me get my boots off." She towed me over to the bed, where she sat and unzipped a black-leather calf-boot while I went to one knee and felt my palms start to itch. With her leg up to remove the boot, I could see straight into the shadowy depths of her charcoal skirt. But she had on black panties, and my brief glance didn't catch much detail through them. 

I took her foot by the heel as she offered it to me, sliding my other hand into the unzipped leather to cup and caress the back of her lower leg, easing my grip lower and lower and tugging at the boot-heel until I got the whole thing past her ankle and off. A soft pink ankle-sock clothed her foot. I took that off too, and she wiggled her toes and smiled. She had long toes, like her fingers, with the nails painted to match her rose blouse. 

I massaged the instep of her bare foot with one thumb before letting go. She grinned and put an index finger between her teeth as she offered me the other foot. 

"God, I'm so horny," she breathed at the sound of the boot zipper descending. I ran both hands down her calf, peeling the leather free. "Mmm ... take your shirt off." 

With the second boot gone, I leaned back and unbuttoned my shirt. Lindsey reached around beneath her hair to fish for the clasp of that gold chain necklace, her raised arms lifting and accentuating her breasts within the raspberry silk of her top. Then she tossed the necklace aside and leaned forward to push my open shirt back from my shoulders, palming and then grasping the muscles there to pull me to her as I squirmed free of the sleeves. 

We kissed, eyes closed, her on the edge of the bed, me on the carpet, hips between her spread knees with the hem of her skirt gliding across my now-bare stomach. Our hands searched and explored - hers with fingertips and nails drawing gentle paths around my shoulder blades, mine with palms and fingers settling into the soft hollows of her at the waist, the small of her back, the nape of her neck. I dipped into the waistline of her skirt, tugged her shirttails up and out, brought my hands around to work at her buttons. She murmured agreement without breaking our kiss. 

As her shirt fell open, I returned one hand to the small of her back, skin-to-skin now, the glossy fabric of her blouse loosely brushing my knuckles, wrist, forearm. The other hand, my right, traced and then cupped her breast through the lacy curve of her bra. Flickering my eyes open, I saw that it was black and sheer and filled to perfection. I shifted my left hand up and my right hand around and felt for the catch of her bra in the back. 

Lindsey's hands weren't idle either, running firmly down the sinews on each side of my spine, teasing into my waistband with a single finger, wandering up to lace through my hair - and then down to find my belt-buckle about the same time I unhooked her bra. We pulled back from our kiss and opened our eyes, and hers were so blue and knowing as she undid my buckle, pulled the whole belt free, let it swing out and drop to the floor behind me. I took advantage of the movement to get her blouse over one shoulder and down the arm, revealing a smooth, pale curve of flesh with only the loose black strap of her bra adorning it now. She obliged me by shucking out of the other sleeve and discarding her top entirely, then crossed her arms as I brought both bra straps down over her shoulders and past the elbows. When I leaned in to kiss her, she relaxed her arms and let the bra fall away. 

Even though my chest wanted to implode from the hunger to feel and lick and suckle those breasts, I put both hands to her cheeks and kissed her deeply first, hearing and feeling her give a moan of want at my touch. Gradually, while my tongue kept a tight dance with hers, I brought my hands down along her graceful neck, out and over her shoulders, then in along her pectorals to the soft swells they found there, bare and waiting. 

"Ooh, Nick ..." Breathing heavily, she put her forehead to mine and turned her eyes downward. Her hands found the button on my slacks, slipped it loose, slowly ran the zipper down. I cupped and lifted her breasts, weighing their perfect, silken gravity in my palms, circling one areola with the tip of my thumb, marveling at the lush and surprisingly natural shape and form of both her breasts and her nipples. 

"These are fucking amazing, Lindsey," I said. The awe must have been clear in my voice, because she laughed. 

"I responded really well to hormones," she said, "So I didn't need much in the way of implants to get me well into a decent cup size. You like them, huh?" 

"Definitely." To show it, I lowered my head and kissed one nipple, ran my tongue around it, teased it with my teeth. Lindsey put a hand behind my head and used the other one to toy with the elastic of my underwear in the gap where she'd opened my pants. I took a break from kissing her nipple and said, "Feel free to go there anytime now ..." 

She laughed again, a little throatily this time, and slid her hand forward and down, tickling her way through my pubic hair until three fingertips found the root of my cock and stroked it in small circles. I groaned around her nipple. Lifting up, I gave her another kiss as her hand dove deeper, circling itself around my engorged shaft. I pushed at the hem of her skirt, then clasped her derriere two-handed to encourage her nearer the edge of the bed. She moved about half as far as I would have liked, legs spreading wider to either side of my pelvis, gorgeous naked thighs revealing themselves as the skirt climbed higher and higher. 

Her lips left mine and went to my ear. 

"I want you in my mouth." 

My cock surged even harder within her grasp. 

"I can get on board with that plan," I said, letting go of her to work my pants down. Freed from confinement, my dick sprang up into her welcoming hand, which squeezed and then opened, so that my erection lay revealed across her palm. 

"Mm, that looks nice," she said. I became intensely aware of her bunched skirt forming a ledge beneath her hand as she held me - intensely aware that the swollen head of my cock now jutted just an inch or two above what that skirt concealed. 

"So do I get to see what yours looks like too?" 

She looked up at me, a flash of something in her eyes, her lips momentarily compressing. 

"Or not," I said, spreading my hands. "We can get there whenever you're comfortable." 

Lindsey sighed, smiled, shook her head slowly. Then she said, "Come on, then." 

Her hands tugged at my waist as she rose up from the bed, skirt falling back into place. I stood with her, got my pants the rest of the way off and stepped out of them. If my heart had turned into a hummingbird, it might have been beating faster.  

"You're sure?" Her eyes held mine very seriously as she undid the catch of her skirt. 

"Uh-huh," I said, lowering my gaze to those long fingers of hers where they waited at her zipper. "In fact, I wouldn't mind turning up a light or two." 

At the moment, the only illumination in the place came from the hanging fixture in the entryway downstairs, shining up along the stairs and across the half wall that overlooked the living room. It was plenty to see by, but not enough to show off the gold of Lindsey's hair, the blue of her eyes, or the bright decor of her bedroom. 

But she blushed at the suggestion and said, "Can you let me be just a little shy this first time?" 

I tipped forward and kissed her, then touched my nose to hers. "You can be as shy as you want." 

"Okay," she whispered. And she slid out of her skirt. 

The world became hazy and hot, like I was experiencing it through a window fogged by steam. 

"Wow." 

She waited, arms at her sides. Then she turned her palms forward, questioningly. "Wow? Good wow or bad wow?" 

"Good wow..." 

I reached down to the black lace of her panties, strained outward by a bulge that part of my brain said shouldn't be there and part of my brain had been dying to see for weeks. Grazing that distended fabric with just my fingertips, I marveled at its rigid certainty, so at odds with the feminine curves of her breasts and belly - yet beautifully part of her at the same time. I pressed more firmly with my hand, making her gasp. 

"Yeah, good wow for sure," I said. "Even though I'm used to a woman's panties giving me a really different signal that she's ready." 

"Feel lower," she whispered. 

Raising my eyebrows, I let my fingers slide southward on the tense beam in her lingerie, and then lower still, feeling the softer bulge of her cockhead - and then a slick, damp spot right at the tip. Lightly, I took hold with my thumb and middle finger, then rubbed the very end of my index finger in slow circles against the wetness of her precum. 

"Ahh-hnn," she breathed. 

"Can I take these the rest of the way down?" I asked. 

Her grin wavered between mischief and bashfulness. "I'm being shy, remember? How about if I take them off in a minute after I'm in the middle of something that will keep me from thinking too much about it?" 

She grabbed the still-waving flagpole of my erection and wet her lips with a swipe of tongue to make it clear what she meant. 

I said, "Okay." 

Turning us sideways to the bed, Lindsey sank to her knees, folded her legs beneath her, and settled her ass on her heels where I could just see the black arc of panties past the crown of her head. Her hand milked my cock with slow strokes of paradise as she looked from it to me to it to me, lips parting and tongue peeking its pink tip alluringly forward. 

"This is going to take longer than it did in the car," she said. 

I gasped at a squeeze from her hand and replied, "I'm not so sure about that ..." 

"Hmm," she said with a wicked look. "How little you know." 

Then she leaned forward and sucked me in. 

"Oh my god." 

With one hand around the base of my hard-on and the other clutching her breast, she held me in her plush, hot mouth and stared up at me with those eyes. Scattered light from the entryway fixture fell across half her face, creating a subtle play of shadows on the other side. 

"Lindsey, you are so beautiful." 

She slurped off of me and smiled, then gave a couple of lollipop licks to the underside of my glans before enveloping me again. 

"Ahhh, fuck ..." 

Her tongue swirled side to side, drenching my cock in pleasure while her lips suckled at a point about three-quarters of the way to my root. I put one hand against her cheek, and she tilted her head to meet it, closing her eyes and running a finger in a spiral from her nipple around and around her breast until it traced a path down her sternum, between her tits, and out of sight beyond her forward-tipped ribcage. Though her upper body blocked my view, I could tell when the hand reached her panties, because she made a long "Mmmm" around my shaft as she worked her tongue and lips, not yet moving her head or neck. 

"Shit, that's so hot," I breathed. 

She looked up at me and gyrated her hips, a motion that traveled up her spine and neck to bob her mouth just slightly around my dick. I could tell the hand within her panties had hold of its contents, both from the rolling of that shoulder and the tension between her eyebrows. 

Take it out, I thought, not saying it aloud because I didn't want to make her feel pressured. Instead, I just bit my lip and said it with my eyes. Take it out, Lindsey. 

And then she rose up a little, came forward along my cock, sucking all the way down to its foundation, burying her nose in my pubes. 

"Oh, god ..." 

As I watched, her free hand went to her waist, easing her panties first down over one hip and then over the other, then down one thigh, then the other, until she could lift each knee in turn and flick the black lace away behind her. All through this, her face remained tight against my crotch, her lips around my root and my tip all the way down her throat. The undulation of her spine side-to-side carried through to her head, rotating the wet embrace of her mouth around me. And while her hair and shoulders blocked my view of her groin, I could see over them to her ass switching right to left with each step of her panties' descent. Full and smooth and pale and naked, it drove me almost as crazy as the anticipation of seeing what she had between her legs. 

Then, when she'd fully undressed herself, her sweet mouth and throat retreated from my shaft, sweeping slick pressure along it on all sides until her lips popped free and she looked up at me and licked them. Her hand returned to my root in their place. 

"How do you want to see?" she asked, still leaning forward so that her upturned face obscured my view. 

I bent and kissed her lips, then got down on the floor with her, face-to-face, mouth-to-mouth, my hands stroking her cheeks, her hair, her shoulders. She kept hold of my cock the whole time, milking and pumping. I could feel the low heat of orgasm hovering some distance off, coaxed forward by the blowjob and now kept from retreat by the action of her hand. 

With my palms at the juncture of her collarbones and shoulders, I eased her back, leaning with her at first to hold the kiss, then pulling just far enough away to look her in the eyes and see her move her lower lip between her teeth. 

I raised my eyebrows to ask her permission. She nodded and let her lips part. 

And I looked down. 

Mostly, I had expected my recent she-male porn habit to prepare me for this moment - though I also feared that it wouldn't, and that I'd be shocked or queasy or disgusted by the reality of a beautiful woman with a penis. 

But neither one turned out to be the case. 

Nestled in the valley between Lindsey's sleek and wholesome thighs, stiff and swollen with her arousal, rested something I hadn't seen before at all. Not a cock ... her cock. 

"Jesus, Linds." 

A nervous titter escaped her, and her free hand went up to cover her mouth. "Is that good?" 

My hands left her shoulders almost without conscious thought on my part, trailing down her breasts, her ribs, her gentle belly. They turned as they went, so that my knuckles caressed the crests of her pelvis and came to rest at the tops of her thighs, both palms up and parallel to the rod that now lay between them and gave a small surge at their nearness. 

She kept it completely hairless down there, which gave her a fresh and pink and clean appearance that struck me as feminine in spite of her virile rigidity. Turning my right hand over, I ran the index finger from her pubic arch down the length of her almost to the head. She stiffened at my touch - both her erection, which lifted free of her thighs, and her body, which shivered a bit before she returned to milking my rod. Before her hard-on could relax back into place, I slipped two fingers beneath it and ran them up the underside all the way to the base, lifting and angling her as I went, only to find that she still had her balls trapped between her legs, out of sight. It seemed modest and girlish and made me burn even hotter. I circled my whole hand around her then, and just let myself absorb how she felt - familiar, and normal, because she was about my size in length and girth - but strange and exotic at the same time, because I had never taken hold of myself from an angle like this, and because the movement and touch of my fingers gave no corresponding sensation to my shaft, which instead responded to the tugging, massaging grip she maintained on me. 

"That feels good," she said. "So ... it's okay?" 

"It's way better than okay," I said, caressing and staring at the sculpted object in my palm. "I'm in awe. I don't even know what to do with it first." 

"Well," she asked, "can I pick, then?" 

I looked up into her eyes. A tiny male neurosis urged me to be worried about what she might suggest, and I actually felt my asshole tighten reflexively, which pissed me off. Fuck you, asshole, I thought at it. If she wants in you, you're just going to have to suck it up and let it happen. And I got a giddy kick out of telling my own anus off - because I knew I wanted to trust and please her much more than I feared anything that might happen. 

"Sure," I told her. "What do you want me to do?" 

"I want you to stroke me off until I come," she said, which momentarily struck me as tamer than I'd been hoping for - until she went on. "But I want you to bury your cock in my ass while you do it." 

She gave me a little squeeze for emphasis, so I squeezed her in return, felt the erectile rush of her response, and suddenly burned to know what her cock would feel like going off in my hand. 




Big Flipping Deal Ch. 06



"How do you want to get started?" 

Her smile flashed, and she released me, then pushed up from the floor to stand. I followed, letting go of her too, reluctant about that but thinking she'd signaled for a moment of separation. 

"I'm going to make a quick trip to the bathroom," she said, nodding over her shoulder toward an open door deeper in the room. "There's lube in the nightstand drawer, and condoms. And if you really want more light, you can turn on that lamp there." 

I nodded but didn't move, watching her instead as she started for the bathroom door, her aroused prong waving with the motion, then disappearing as that lovely moon-white ass presented itself and swayed away atop her luscious legs with each distancing step. At the door, though, she turned and looked at me, gnawing her lip in thought. 

"If you want to ..." She breathed out and then in again. "If you want to, we can skip the condom. I always made Max use one, and I got myself tested a couple weeks ago, so I'm safe if you trust me. Either way is fine." 

Then she disappeared into the bathroom and I went to the nightstand to open its drawer with a hand that wasn't entirely steady. Besides lube and a package of condoms, the drawer held a box of tissues and several sex toys, everything tidily arranged. I let my fingertips brush across a couple of dongs of different colors and sizes and features before taking out the big, half-full bottle of lubricant. Setting it onto the nightstand top, I eyed the condoms and then slid the door closed. It wasn't just that I trusted her - it was that the offer said she trusted me. And apparently, more than she had trusted her previous boyfriend. 

The bedside lamp had a dimmer switch on it, so I set it on low and turned to look at the bed. It had a fluffy white duvet with a big mound of airy pink and green decorative pillows at the headboard. I decided to take charge of something and tossed all the colored pillows to the floor. Then I fluffed the two sleeping pillows, laid them flat, pulled back the duvet and climbed in under the sheets. 

When she opened the bathroom door, I lay on my side, propped on one elbow to face her. She smiled and bounced over with a sexy and girlish glee. 

"All cleaned up," she said, sliding beneath the covers with me. "But why did you turn on the light if we're just going to hide everything under the sheets?" 

I took her in my arms and pulled her close, getting an unexpected but not unpleasant dick bump against my hip in the process. "Because I love cuddling under sheets," I explained. "It beats out almost every other kind of foreplay, in my book. We can throw them back when things get going and there's more to see. 

With a smile, she poked my nose and kissed me. "You're cute." 

"And you're gorgeous," I said, "And your eyes are the most amazing color, which is another reason I need the light on." 

Then I sealed my mouth to hers and kept my eyes fixed on her blue ones until she closed them and lost herself in kissing me. Shifting my weight and pressing against her, I encouraged her onto her back and positioned my legs between hers. Gravity and chance left her cock trapped between our stomachs, a warm, cozy cylinder running up alongside my bellybutton. My dick nestled into her crotch and came to rest where I could feel the delicate skin of her scrotum against my shaft. 

"This is so incredibly hot," I said, breaking the kiss. 

Lindsey looked into my eyes as if searching for something there. "You're not wigging out? Even a little?" 

I shook my head. "Maybe I'm just riding a wave of hormones and lust, but everything is great so far." 

She grinned with narrowed eyes. 

"Then why don't you ride that wave into my ass, Nicholas?" 

For a moment, all I could do was swallow, hard, then I flung back the sheets and stretched an arm over to grab the lube from her nightstand. She brought her knees up and open, watching as I knelt between them, uncapped the bottle, ran a glistening bead along the top of my shaft and worked it all the way around with my free hand. 

"Has anybody told you you have a fabulous-looking cock?" she asked. I glanced at it, sturdy and straight out and gleaming. 

"No," I admitted. Running my still-wet hand along her pinkish pole's belly, I felt it rise at the attention and asked, "Has anyone told you?" 

"Ooh," she said, fluttering her eyelids. "A couple of times, but I don't mind hearing it again." 

"Lindsey Moss, you have a fabulous-looking cock." 

"Thank you!" She raised an eyebrow and added, "Now why don't you pour about twice as much lube on and try hiding yours somewhere nice?" 

"Done and done," I said, tipping the bottle to gush it across myself and then drizzle some down into the crevice below her balls. I ran one finger up her ass-crack and circled it around her tight and fleshy iris, making sure the lube all got to the right place. After getting her as damp and slick as the lube's viscosity allowed, I lined my fingertip up and pressed it inward. 

"Uh-huh," she said in an encouraging tone. 

I pressed harder, and she glided open to receive my finger to the first knuckle. 

"Yesss ... more ..." 

Gently but steadily, I drove it all the way in, feeling the ring of muscle grab at me. As I bottomed out with the whole finger inside her, she groaned and murmured. 

"Ah! Ngh -" 

"Is that okay?" 

"Mm-hmm. Okay and then some." 

I finger-fucked her for a few strokes, then prepared to add a second finger in - but she shook her head. 

"I'm ready for you, Nick. Come down here and kiss me and let me feel you slide yourself inside me." 

And she lifted her feet free of the mattress, knees up by her breasts, beckoning me to her with the fingers of both hands. Leaning forward, I put one arm down to support my weight, kissing her once, twice, three times with eager lips and guiding myself into position with my lube-slick hand. 

When my crown brushed her ready, hungry exit, she gasped and nodded. The need and happiness in her eyes all but made my chest hurt. I pushed forward with my hips, felt the valley of her ass-cheeks clench and try to enfold me. After a patient moment, I pushed again. The guardian muscles of her inner reaches bowed concave at the pressure of my insistent tool. Then her eyes flared and she relaxed and let me pop through. 

"Guh! Oh, mmm, fuck, Nick!" 

I waited to be sure I wasn't hurting her, and when her eyes rolled and made her tight expression look like bliss, I eased my way in deeper. The fierce grip of her sphincter rose in a ring along my glossed shaft, sweet and clinging and resistant and welcoming all at once. The further my cockhead explored into her soft, constraining hollows, the louder she gasped. 

"Ohhh ... ah! Ah, Nick ..." 

At last, I pressed my root to her rim, wholly and mind-blowingly inside this beautiful woman. 

Her voice gave a series of wordless, breathy quivers, her eyes closed, and she said, "Yes, fuck me. Fuck me, Nick." 

I put my lips to hers and gently rocked out and back in, no more than a half-inch of motion. Her tightness made me tremble. I took another stroke, a little longer. 

"Mmm! Mm-hlmm," she hummed around my tongue. 

My single thrusts continued through another few repeats, each one less tentative, more powerful, more erotically pleasurable. 

"God, Lindsey, you feel so good." 

"Uhhh, yes, stuff it deep in there, fill me up - oh!" 

I fell into a rhythm, and my hand searched between us and caught hold of Lindsey's dick to work it. 

"Oh, yes - mmn, Nick!" She'd drooped and softened while letting me in, but at the touch and pump of my hand, she quickly thickened back to full erectness. "Yes ... oh ... yes ..." 

Hearing a woman orgasm has always given me an ego rush. But I had no idea feeling a cock swell and stiffen in my grasp would have the same effect. Dude, said the stupid corner of my mind, this is pretty fucking gay. 

Well then I guess I'm gay, I told the voice, because it's awesome. 

Stupid me had no comeback to that - and how could he, anyway? Sure, I was balls-deep in someone else's asshole, trying my best to milk the cum out of a penis that wasn't my own ... but everything about the way Lindsey moved and sounded beneath me told me she was a woman: the touch of her breasts against my chest, the pitch and melody of her moans, the sensuous lightness of her heels where she'd hooked them behind my thighs, the kindness in her lips and tongue as they played joyfully with mine. 

"Fuck, Lindsey," I gasped, easing back on my thrusts and trying to put the perfect pressure and swirl into the slick strokes I gave her with my hand. 

"Don't stop - it feels so good ..." 

"I know, I just don't want to come before I get you there ... uhh ..." 

She worked her hips to urge me back into action. "Keep going - ooh, nf - so close .." 

"Already?" 

She gasp-laughed, "Yeauhhh, ooh ... you've been ... uhh ... plowing my prostate ... this whole time ... shit, come on - hump me!" 

I gave myself over to her and went all-in - hand jacking frantically along her swollen length as my cock plunged in and out of her lush, angelic hole. Every facet of her merged into me, sexually. The taste of her mouth. The heat of her breath on my face. The tiny roughness of taste-buds on her tongue as it tangled with mine. Her hands in my hair. The slippery sheen of perspiration that exertion drew out of her. 

Forward and back and forward and back, I pumped, laying into her dreamy rectal squeeze over and over again. In my fist, she was a wand of ecstatic vitality, firm and magical, a handhold on the reality of passion's true might - of human connection so wonderful and intimate it could brush aside a lifetime of assumptions and expectations, to replace them with an overwhelming desire to create in someone else a moment of joy and pleasure. 

And then she cried out, "Ah - ah - ah, shit -" 

With all five fingers and my palm, I felt her swell and stiffen and then explode in my grasp. 

'AH! FUCK! NICK!" 

Heat splashed wetly against my chest. Lindsey groaned again, her head thrown back into the pillow. The second pulse of her shaft in my hand sent a glossy white streamer all the way up to her neck. 

"Holy crap, Lindsey ..." 

The miraculous thing I held jolted again, blasting viscous delight onto my ribs. 

I could feel the throbbing around my cock, too, and it hurled me over the edge just as her largest expulsions subsided. I thickened gigantically in the heavenly tube of her bowels, milked and mashed by her quivering anal ring. With a groan, I lunged as hard up against her bottom as I could, the machinery of my balls and prostate ramping up heat and pressure into a saturating wave of ecstasy that rose and blew forth from me in shuddering spouts. 

I said something - probably her name, probably really loudly - but I couldn't hear over the roar of orgasm through my head. 

Fluid and fiery and relentless, climax disgorged itself from me into her receptive purity, smooth and deep and pulling the lifemilk of desire into itself with a sure, sleek hold on my soul. 

Eventually, I collapsed, panting and kissing her - her mouth, her throat, her earlobes, her shoulders. In gradual stages, reality came back to me. I understood the leaf-light touch of her hands caressing my back, then the sound of her breathing, the warmth of her shape against mine. After a lot more kissing and holding and fondling, I finally regained awareness of the bed underneath us and the cool air of her apartment drying the sweat from our bodies. 

"So," she said, looking and sounding spent but happy, "that was good, wasn't it?" 

"Yeah," I agreed. "We really fucked up the plan of making this date an awkward mess." 

She laughed and kissed me, then kissed me some more.



Big Flipping Deal Ch. 07



[The story so far: Nick and Lindsey have inherited a house they must remodel together according to her aunt's will. As their DIY renovation proceeds, Nick falls hard for Lindsey even though he soon learns she's transgender and has a cock. Despite Nick's enthusiasm, Lindsey is dubious about getting involved with a guy who has previously been entirely straight, but she agrees to go bowling with him, and then to his cousin's wedding, and then on a date to the art museum. At each point, things go a little further, and the museum date ends in mind-blowing sex at her place. 

Obligatory note: This chapter contains some brief references to the characters' teenage years, but at no point are any sexual activities described involving anyone under eighteen.] 

A while later, even though things hadn't gotten as messy as they might have, we went in and cleaned up in the shower. Her bathroom surprised me by being ritzy but not amazing. 

"Well, this is nice," I said as she ran the water in the glass-enclosed shower stall. "But after your sketches and the photos on your website, is it okay if I admit to being a little disappointed?" 

She just laughed. "If you're going by the stuff on my site, you'll be disappointed with how Neena's turns out too. Those shots are from twenty- and thirty-grand bathrooms, Nick! I got the complex to let me recarpet the upstairs here - you should have seen the eye-stabbing shit they had in this place - but no way am I spending that kind of money on a bathroom someone else owns!" 

Satisfied with the temperature, she got a scrunchie and put her hair up. "Come on, let's get sudsy." 

The shower could have done with some more artistic tile than the polished brown granite they'd used on it, but it had plenty of room for us both. I barely even got splashed as Lindsey turned herself in the spray. But once she'd thoroughly and glisteningly soaked herself, she angled the showerhead at me and wetted me down with a grin. Then she glopped way more body wash across my chest than necessary, so that it ran and dripped down my abdomen and legs. 

"Whoa, that's kind of a lot, isn't it?" 

"No," she said, smearing the thick green gel around. "It's just the right amount for two." 

Her soaped-up hands went around my back, and she flattened herself against me to rub us together in full-body contact. We kissed and slid chest-to-chest, belly-to-belly. Almost immediately, I felt her erection swell along my inner thigh and then bump into my own rapidly hardening prick. She got a hand between us and soaped me, tugging a moan from my throat and bringing me to full arousal. As my absolutely thrilled cock kept one hand busy, she used the other to glide body wash up from my chest around my shoulders, onto my back, down my ribs, under my arms. But she kept her hip against mine so that her dick tucked itself into my crotch by my balls, where I couldn't easily get a hand down to it. I took that to mean she had things where she wanted them, and I concentrated on kissing her and lathering her breasts and then shoulders and then ass with both hands. As we got well-soaped, she continued stroking my rod and also lightly fucked her cockhead down into my groin. 

"Here," she said, swirling her hand to signal a change, "this is fun - watch." 

She stepped back an inch or two, which let her cock spring up from between my legs, then lifted mine into a vertical position and caught them both in the same hand. Instead of her fingers, palm, and thumb completely sheathing me, I now had fingers around the top side of my shaft and the belly of her erection against the bottom. 

Fascinated, I watched her jack her hand up and down us both, feeling the stroke with half my cock while her hot, hard flesh nestled almost motionless against the other half. Then she thrust with her hips, making the swollen pink tip of her dick rise up out of her grasp higher than mine, while the shaft worked itself slickly along the sensitive underside of my own. 

"Wow," I said, my throat tight. The unexpected blend of sensations all around my manhood took me completely off-guard. 

Lindsey grinned. "I know, right? This is why I love to shower with a guy who's the same height. Well, one reason." 

She alternated fucking herself against me and masturbating us both with her slippery hand ... watching me as I stared, then watching our dicks slide together, then watching my face again. 

"You can join in anytime you want," she prodded. 

I looked up to find her smirking, which brought a rush of blood to my face. "Oh, right, sorry. I'm just kind of stunned by you, Lindsey." 

The smirk turned to a smile. "Well, I won't hold that against you, then. I'll hold this against you instead." 

Bobbing her hand up and down our trapped erections, she came in for a kiss, and the next time her grip went still, I tried a thrust up into it and was rewarded with a soft, "Mm-hmm," from her throat. 

With the spray falling all around us, I let my hands wander behind her, feeling the slick muscles of her back, shoulders, and especially her ass. We found a rhythm together, a pattern of hip thrusts and hand strokes that swept our pleasure-engorged flesh through cycles of slide and stillness. Hot fog rose to fill the glass enclosure as water hissed from the showerhead and lapped its way down our bodies, bound together in gleaming wet passion. Periodically, the flow would wash too much of our foamy lubricant away and Lindsey would scrape more gel from the excess that still clung to my upper chest. 

"Mmm," I groaned against her lips as the furnace in my deepest plumbing caught fire. "Mmm, Lindsey ..." 

"Mm-hmm." Her tongue flickered into my mouth and she thrust faster against me. "Mmm! Mmmmm-hmm." 

The steam around us seemed to thicken and rise almost to scalding heat . I found it harder and harder to keep a steady pace as something spastic and uncontrollable took hold of my spine. 

"Hh-mm, Nick -" Lindsey's beat wavered too, groans and moans making her hand falter and then speed up. "Ah ... ah ..." 

I came before she did - just barely. The rush fountained up out of me with no warning at all. 

"Mmmnnnghhh -" 

Her hand squeezed tight around my pulsating cock, and she thrust hard and fast as my cum spurted in throbs and blurts and dwindling splashes between us. 

"Uh ... uh-uh ... Nick ... UH!" 

And then I felt my orgasm joined by a seesawing gush, me then her then me then her. 

"Fuck, Lindsey, ah -" 

"Mm, Nnn ..." She hooked her chin over my shoulder and crushed against me, her gripping hand and both our ecstatic eruptions squashed between us. "Uhhhhh ..." 

Panting and groaning, we held each other until the reflexive clutch of climax let us go and our bodies could relax. 

"Whoo. Ah," she said, putting her forehead to mine. 

"Best shower ever," I said, still out of breath. 

She laughed and let go of us to free up her hand and loosely encircle me with her arms. Then she kissed me and sighed contentedly and said, "Best first date ever, too. For me, at least." 

"Really?" 

"Yeah." 

"Me too." 

We watched each other's eyes as the water continued to fall around us. 

"I don't want you to go. Can you stay the night?" 

"Yes," I said without hesitation. "But you have to promise not to have any more sex with me, because I'll need to get up at the fucking crack of dawn to get back to my place, change, and pick up Sam so he can have his car back." 

She looked away and up and to one side, a picture of innocent uncertainty. "Not sure I can promise that ..." 

"Grr," I said, squeezing her. 

"Oh, okay," she gave in. "But if this is how it works, you're never borrowing Sam's car again. Deal?" 

"Sure." 

We held each other then, finished washing up, dried off with big, fluffy white towels from Lindsey's linen closet, and ended the night snuggling to sleep in her bed. 

* * * 

Lindsey turned out to be a surprisingly heavy sleeper, considering how prompt she seemed to be about everything else. When the alarm on my phone went off the next morning, she mumbled and tossed a few times before settling into a restless, cute snore as I threw on my clothes. Once I got dressed, I leaned over her and whispered that I had to go, and she made little kissy movements with her lips until I touched mine to them. Then she said something incoherent that ended with "good day," so I called her a sleepyhead and told her to have a good day too and that I'd see her that night. 

"Mmm-hm," she said without ever opening her eyes. "G'night ..." 

By the time I picked up Sam at his house, I'd had almost an hour of driving, changing, shaving, cleaning Mister Whiskerdoodle's catbox, and driving again to wake me up. The catbox alone was pretty eye-opening. 

So I arrived at Sam's fully alert and aware of where I was, what I was doing, where I'd been the night before - and how I felt. 

Good. 

Excited. 

Surreal, maybe a little high. 

A fraction anxious that I'd had a mental break of some kind and everything would crash apart. 

But mostly good. 

I focused on that to prepare myself for however the conversation might go. We'd spoken very little when he handed the car over to me the day before - he apologized about being untalkative, but said he still had some baby steps to take to get his head around the situation. 

This morning, though, it turned out he had more to say. 

"So ..." He fastened his seatbelt and I reversed out of his driveway. "I guess I'd be a real jerk if I didn't ask how the date went." 

"It went well." I kept my tone easygoing, not wanting to put too much enthusiasm into the statement and end up making him uncomfortable. 

"Good," he said. "Glad to hear it." 

Heading out of his subdivision, I said, "The exhibit was pretty cool, and we both had a great time talking about it. I did have to rescue her from this vegetable lasagna she ordered, but it was worth the sacrifice." 

"Hmm. Bad sign she ordered vegetable lasagna, but I guess a better sign that she didn't want to finish it." 

Traffic started to pick up around us. Sam broke a brief silence by saying, "All right, so when you said it went well, do you mean it went well? Or do you mean it went ... you know, well?" 

I glanced over and saw a sincere attempt at looking interested in a buddy's masculine conquests. 

"Let's just say it went really, really well, and leave it at that," I said. "I know it kind of freaks you out, so I won't give any details except that she's a great kisser." 

"Well, uh, that's definitely a mark in her favor." He went quiet again, like he had to work his way up to something. A couple of blocks went by, and then he launched into it. "Look," he said, "I remember playing over at Elise's when we were kids, choking down that terrible lemonade she used to make and running around her yard. And I remember it hit you pretty hard when she died." 

I nodded, but didn't say anything. 

"I mean, it hit me too," he added quickly. "But my folks had spilled the beans about her to me way before, so I was ... a little weirded out by her even though she'd moved to Maryland by then. And they badmouthed her a lot, especially after she killed herself. On and on about how she always did these selfish things that were against God." 

Now I really didn't say anything, because I'd heard my share of those conversations at family gatherings over the years, and I'd always had to bite my tongue against saying anything to one of the grey-haired elders I'd been raised to be respectful of. Being reminded of incidents like that steamed me seriously up. 

Sam's voice took on a tone of regret. "I bought into it some too - they were my folks, after all. But the subject always made me uneasy. I couldn't help remembering how much more fun she was to visit than all the churchy aunts and uncles, how she never had anything bad or critical to say to anybody." 

"Even when you broke her window with that terrible pass." 

"It was an okay pass, you just didn't go up high enough to catch it." We'd had the same argument twenty years earlier as we waited for Elise to come out and yell at us for smashing the glass. But she just brought us the football back, gave us some tips on throwing it, and went back in to sweep her kitchen up. "I think I felt about ten times worse about breaking that window because she didn't yell at us than I would have if she'd wigged out." 

"Me too," I said. 

He took a deep breath and pushed on. "Anyway, after that call where you said I should broaden my mind, I got a little pissy. I didn't think I'd been nasty to you or to your, uh, date, and I thought it was awfully nervy of you to be lecturing me. And I wanted to bitch to somebody about it. But the first three people I thought of calling all happened to be from the Bible-thumper side of the family. It didn't take more than a second to realize that if I said anything, they'd circle back to Elise and shake their heads over her. And the more I thought about it, the more I picked through the list of people I might tell, the more I realized that the people who were going to take my side were all the people I didn't want to be like. And about then, I realized you were right, and I needed to broaden my mind." 

"That's pretty big of you, Sam," I said, meaning it and giving him a glance of respect. 

"She was a great person, you know?" He sounded a little choked up. 

"Yeah," I agreed. "I remember." 

* * * 

Thursday night, the appliances came. 

And the pre-industrial age AC unit broke. 

Lindsey oversaw the installation of the new stove, fridge, and dishwasher while I tore up carpet in the guest bedroom. By the time I finished, the job had turned me into a sweaty mess, while Lindsey just looked a little glowy. My fantasy from the first day I'd met her came back to me - the house without air-conditioning, both of us damp with sweat, the blow-job leading to sex in the same room I'd just denuded of carpeting. But even if I hadn't been wiped out from the heat and exertion, her reaction when she saw me would have kept me from suggesting we give the fantasy a try. 

"Whew!" she said, waving a hand. "You need a shower!" 

"Yeah," I admitted. "If I was slightly less exhausted, I'd ask if you want to join me for one." 

"Ohh," she said. "That sounds nice, and I've been watching muscular delivery men working with tools all evening. But I thought you said last night that you've got a lot of freelance assignments to do." 

Crap. Not only had I said that, but tomorrow was Friday, so if I didn't finish my allotment of work, it would be a whole week before I could invoice the client for it. 

"You're a lot less fun tonight than you were last night," I grumbled, crossing my arms. 

She leaned in and kissed me. "I'll make up for it by being even more fun tomorrow night." 

And she did: after Friday's task of reflooring the guest bedroom, we cleaned up in the considerably less spacious shower at my place, had more dick-to-dick whack-off sex before rinsing off, and then went out to this Korean restaurant where a whole section of the menu didn't even have English translations. I'm not a big fan of kim-chee, but whatever we ordered came with about a dozen other tiny appetizers that were amazing - seaweed salad, several different pancake dishes made of unidentifiable vegetables, a highly spiced heap of what tasted like dried anchovies, and some other stuff I wasn't sure I wanted to figure out. Then an amazing seafood soup in a dangerously hot tureen, followed by three smallish entrees that we shared between us. Lindsey went on a couple of times about how much she liked all of colors in Korean food, and she knew what she was talking about - the dishes had the look and presentation of fine art. 

"Although art doesn't make me feel like I'm about to explode," I said when I'd reached the absolute maximum capacity of my stomach. 

"Yeah, I can never get out of this place before I'm waddling and groaning." 

"So do you want to waddle to my place and do your groaning there?" 

"Oh god, no." She quickly put a hand over her mouth and another gingerly across her belly. "I would rupture something if we went to bed right now. Plus, they're delivering the rolloff first thing tomorrow morning, so we wouldn't even be able to sleep in." 

"I was mostly kidding," I said, puffing my cheeks out to show how bloated I felt. 

With the arrival of the rolloff (I would have called it a dumpster) the next morning, we could clear some of the accumulated trash out of the garage - the old cabinet doors, the original kitchen countertops, the sliced up carpet from the front half of the house. A hell of a lot had piled up in three weeks, actually, and we worked like dogs the whole weekend shifting it to the rolloff, stripping the fixtures and tile from the master bathroom, and starting the replacement tile work. The new AC unit wasn't scheduled to come until Monday, so all of this had to get done in sweltering heat. I don't think I drank enough water Saturday, because I ended up with an icepick-through-the-eyes headache by the end of the day. 

"Why didn't you say something?" she asked. "I could have kept prying the tile loose while you took a break and got some ibuprofen from home." 

"I kept telling myself I would after the next row of tile," I said. Also, we'd been working together on our hands and knees, sometimes shoulder-to-shoulder, sometimes on different sides of the room, and I'd enjoyed being close to her in the first case and checking out her ass and legs in the second case. "It snuck up on me and got really bad before I realized it." 

"Well, let's get you home and I'll give you one of my headache-slaying massages." 

At my place, I went for the pain reliever in my medicine cabinet while she petted Mister Whiskerdoodle. 

"And bring some lotion when you come back," she called to me from the bedroom. I did, and she made me lie down with my shirt off while she worked the hell out of my neck and back with those long, strong fingers of hers, squirting cold lotion down my spine before she got started and then rubbing it in with magnificent pressure. 

"Uhhh, where did you learn to do this?" I asked. 

"I had a friend in high school with terrible posture. He'd get these tension headaches all the time, and I figured this out as an excuse to get my hands on him." 

"Devious," I mumbled into the pillow I had my head leaned against. 

"You don't know the half of it," she said. "After a while, I could get him practically comatose face-down on my bed, and then I'd go to massaging him one-handed with the other one stuck down my pants. Closest thing I got to sex until college." 

My brain somehow created a picture of beautiful, feminine Lindsey kneeling beside her friend with one hand smearing lotion across his back and the other jammed in her panties. But of course, that wasn't what it would have looked like at all. 

"And he never figured out what was up?" 

Her hands stopped for a second, then started again. "No, because my dad came in and caught me at it one day and proceeded to beat the crap out of James, who had no clue at all what was going on. No more massages after that - it was weeks before I could even get James to talk to me." 

"Wow. That sucks." 

I felt her shrug in the movement of her hands. 

"Did he ever ... beat you up too?" 

"No, but he got into fights with people all the time. I knew what he was capable of from a really young age and made sure I kept out of his way." 

"That's good," I said. "I guess something about the way you said you knew he could hit ... I thought you meant you'd been on the receiving end of one of those punches." 

"Nope," she said. "He managed to save the physical stuff for people outside the family." 




Big Flipping Deal Ch. 07



With that she went quiet and focused on digging her thumbs into the tight spots between my shoulder blades. Great, I thought. Way to go completely morbid. She probably thinks I pegged her as a serial victim after the black eye from Max and then her dad punching me. 

"How's your head doing?" she asked. Her hands slowed in their movements at my back. 

"Better. It still hurts, but I feel like my skull's about to explode anymore." 

She kept massaging, but more softly, slowly. 

After a few quiet minutes, she said, "Nick?" 

"Yeah?" 

I waited to see what she'd say, and just before the silence got awkward, she spoke up again. 

"I'm really glad I met you. You're a good guy." 

"Thanks," I said. "You too." 

Oh shit, what the hell did I just say? I rolled over half panicked. "I mean I'm glad I met you too. I wasn't saying you're -" 

But she laughed and patted my cheek. "I knew what you meant. Look, I'm going to head home and try to get some extra sleep. See you in the morning?" 

An invitation for her to stay over flashed into my head - where it bounced off my still-aching eye-sockets and fell apart well before it could reach my mouth. She looked tired, I felt tired, and my head still hurt, even if not as badly. 

So I nodded and said, "Sure, see you tomorrow." 

Something about the smile she gave me kept me from feeling too abandoned or disappointed. 

Sunday we got a good chunk of the new tile put in. As with our tile job on the kitchen counter, I got mortar all over my hands and clothes by the end of the day. 

"I am not cut out for tiling," I said, trying to wipe the stuff off with a cloth. "It looks nice when it's done, but getting there is like torture." 

"Oh, it's not that bad," she said, from the vantage point of someone who'd managed to stay spick and span all day. Well, except for the way the heat pulled the sweat out of her, which she couldn't avoid any more than I could. 

"Sure it is," I said. "Even the words are unpleasant. 'Mortar' - that's like a deadly artillery weapon, right? And 'grout' ... I don't know what that sounds like, but it doesn't sound good." 

"Hmm," she said, putting a hand on one hip and leaning against the doorframe. "And what does 'caulk' sound like? Because I'm thinking it sounds pretty good right now." 

I coughed a little. "Well, uh, I have done more caulking than tiling." 

"Uh-huh. I bet you're really handy with caulk." 

The playful edge to her smirk made it clear she was totally kidding. But my cock did not quite get the joke and started swelling up in my pants. 

"It can get a little sticky," I said, my mind flashing back to those first few fantasies I had of her. "You can't just go squirting it around all over the place or you'll get in real trouble." 

She laughed and swatted me on the shoulder. "Come on. Let's go to the bathroom that works and wash up and I'll take you to dinner." 

In the little guest bathroom, I got my hands mostly clean, watching Lindsey in the mirror as I scrubbed and soaped and scrubbed some more. She seemed to enjoy watching me too, and instead of subsiding, my hard-on grew dangerously insistent. As I shook my hands over the sink and reached for the hand towel, my brain said, What the hell ... just go for it. 

"Hey, Lindsey," I said, drying my hands, "you know what?" 

"What?" she asked, smiling. 

"I would really like to fuck you in this bathroom, right now." 

Her eyes flared and she straightened up. "Damn, I really scored with those caulk puns, didn't I?" 

"That, and you're really sexy when you sweat." 

"Hah!" 

"And," I went on, deciding to confess, "I've been having this fantasy about doing it with you here basically since the first day we met." 

Her head turned half away and down, shyly, though she kept her eyes on mine. "Me too. Not quite from the first day, but it's definitely occurred to me. In fact, I, um, even brought a little thing of lube in my purse. Only ..." 

My pulse had lurched into high gear when she said she'd brought lube. But the tone of that 'Only' told it to slow down. 

"What?" I asked. 

She twisted her foot in frustration and laughed. "I'm really, really hungry right now! And I feel super gross. Like, caked-with-filth gross! Can we go to a drive-through and eat in my car and maybe do the work-site sex tomorrow?" 

"The AC's supposed to be fixed tomorrow, though," I grumbled. "That was a pretty big part of my fantasy ..." 

"I'll have them leave it off after they test it," she said with a grin. "Promise." 

* * * 

But we didn't have sweaty worksite sex in the guest bathroom the next day. Lindsey called me at work to let me know the AC guys were done and then apologized and said she needed to head home for the evening because she didn't feel well. 

Then, around 7:30, she called me again at home while I was messing around on my keyboard. 

"Hey, Linds," I said, pleasantly surprised to see her name on my phone's display. "Are you feeling any better?" 

"Hi, Nick." Her tone had a tense quality to it that I didn't like. "Listen, can I come over?" 

"Sure, of course. Is something the matter?" 

"I'm kind of freaking out." 

I paused before answering, "Like, freaking out about us? Or freaking out that we picked the wrong tiles for the bathroom?" 

Her laugh sounded weak, but at least she managed one. "Yeah, those colors are so last month. So it's okay for me to come?" 

"Hell, yes. At this point I'll be a neurotic mess about the tile color if we don't figure it out tonight." 

She laughed again, stronger by a smidgen this time. 

"Good," she said, "because I'm sitting in the quick-mart parking lot, and I'll be there in a couple of minutes." 

"Oh," I said, blinking and looking around. Thankfully, I hadn't been home enough the last few days to make much of a mess. "I'll see you in a second, then." 

"Okay." 

I made sure to save the song file I had open, even though I'd barely gotten started on it. Then I took a quick walk through the house to see if anything needed tidying. All I found was a glass on the end table by the couch, and before I'd gotten all the way to the kitchen with it, I heard Lindsey's BMW pull up outside. Setting the glass in the sink, I headed for the door and opened it just as she slammed her car door and turned toward the porch. 

"Hey," I said. Her expression had a conflicted look, but she smiled when she saw me. Holding the door wide, I tried to ignore the way she filled out her t-shirt and denim skirt. "What's up? Are you okay?" 

Instead of walking past and into the house, she put her arms around me for a chin-over-the-shoulder hug. I held her tight, not sure whether to worry or be relieved by the feel of her in my arms. 

"I'm okay," she said, letting go and then twitching her nose with a hint of rue. "I warned you I'm a relationship mess. Can we go in and talk?" 

"Yeah, I'd love to," I said, gesturing her through the door with one arm. "Even if it's a mess, I don't care. Let's talk. Can I get you something to drink?" 

"A glass of water, I guess." 

She walked to the couch as I returned to the kitchen and filled a couple of glasses with ice cubes and water. When I got back, she'd taken one end of the sofa, with her sandals kicked off and her legs folded up under her. She ran a hand through her hair as I approached, then reached out for the glass I handed her. 

"Thanks." 

I sat down. She sipped her water and watched me. The angle of her knees and body kept me from sitting right next to her, something I took as a signal. To avoid intruding on her space, I settled into the other corner of the couch facing her. 

"So what's up? You said you were freaking out, but you look pretty stable to me." 

"I'm better, now that I'm here," she said. She tipped her water glass up again and looked around the room as she drank. 

"Well, I'm better now that you're here too, even though I wasn't freaking out before." 

That brought out a smile. She twisted a finger in her hair, not saying anything, just fixing those blue eyes on me. 

"What?" 

"Now that I'm here, I feel dumb," she said. "Maybe we should just hang out. I don't know if I want to talk about it." 

"You're weird, Lindsey," I said, taking a drink of my own water. "Obviously, I'd sell my own grandmother to hang out with you - but if something's making you feel uncomfortable or unhappy, that's not dumb. If you needed to come over here to talk about something, we should talk." 

She turned and put her glass down on the end table at her side, then unlimbered those long smooth legs and scooted to my end of the couch, where she put her head on my shoulder. I let my arm relax around her and waited. 

A deep breath expanded her chest and then sighed out of her. 

"I guess ... I keep getting scared because I'm a novelty to you, Nick." 

That caught me off-guard, and if we hadn't been snuggled together, it might even have offended me. 

"That's way off," I said. "You're not just a -" 

"No," she jumped in, putting a hand to my chest and lifting her head to make eye contact. "No, I don't mean I'm just a novelty ... you're better than that, I know. But I'm still something new and exciting and fascinating to you, and when you're not around, when I'm by myself, I start wondering how long it's going to take before that wears off. And even when we're together, I get worried that we'll go too fast or too far and cross some line you're not ready for. Or if we don't go too fast, I worry what lines you might never be ready to cross." 

As much as I wanted to, I couldn't argue against those possibilities. It's not like you haven't worried about some of the same things, I told myself. But ... 

"You know you'd be new and exciting and fascinating to me even if you had a vagina, right?" 

She laughed and squeezed me. "I do now that I'm here, where I can feel you and hear your voice and see it in your eyes. It just needs to sink in some more so I know it when you're not around. Do you think you can deal with me getting nervous and freaked out and needing to be reassured once in a while?" 

"Is it going to mean you coming over unexpectedly all the time and cuddling up on my couch with me? Because there's only so much of that a guy can take, you know." 

She hit me lightly on the chest and sat up, rolling her eyes - but smiling. 

"I'm done talking to you," she said, twisting to reach for her water glass. "What were you doing before I called and brought all my hysterics over?" 

"Eh. Messing around with my keyboard. Nothing important." 

Lindsey stood up, drinking from her glass and looking at me and reaching for my hand all at once. 

"Come on," she said, with a tug to get me out of my seat. "Show me. I want to hear some of this music you write." 

"Okay. But don't expect too much ..." 

I stood and headed for the bedroom. Her hand didn't release mine until I sat down at the computer, where she transferred her touch to my shoulder and leaned across me to watch as I explained the software I used and how I worked with it to make up for my lack of musical proficiency. 

"Blah-blah," she said after a bit. "So you're a terrible keyboardist and you use the computer to cheat. Let's hear something." 

"Sure," I said, painfully aware that I'd been caught stalling. "There's not much to this one yet, so ..." 

"Oh, just play it already." 

"Right. Yeah." Resetting the tempo from the glacial crawl I used to record things, I moused my cursor up to the play button and started it. Right away, the intro sounded trite to me, a high twinkling on synthesized bells. "I may change this -" 

"Shut up, I can't hear." 

The way her hand squeezed my shoulder said she meant it playfully and seriously at the same time, and I kept quiet and watched her. The reflected computer display made tiny gleams in each of her blue irises, moving and adjusting minutely as she followed the scrolling musical staves onscreen. All the song really had so far was a simple arpeggio bass-line under some synth wash chords. After a few bars, it modulated from the bright major key of the bells to a moodier minor one, then cut off abruptly at the thirty-six-second mark. 

"Mostly, I just fart around until I have a structure that I like," I explained once the music stopped. "Then I improvise over that to get the melody." 

"It's pretty," she said. "Play it again." 

I did, and this time she reached over a few measures in and hit some keys on the synthesizer. But I still had it set on the synth wash, which swelled too slowly in volume to carry a quick tune. 

"Is there, like, a piano sound?" she asked, pulling her hand back. 

"About twenty of them," I said, clicking buttons on the Yamaha. It cost me a pretty penny, and came with a huge bank of instruments. Resetting the song to the beginning, I said, "Try now," and clicked the play button. 

This time when she started to play at the fourth bar, what came out made me more ashamed of my feeble playing skills than ever. Her piano line danced effortlessly above the existing tracks, in step and on-key at a tempo about three times as fast as I could play. It wasn't at all what I would have added as a melody, but it flowed perfectly and it fit. 

"Wow ... this is really cool," she said when the song cut off again. Her finger ran gently along the synthesizer's black casing. "I'm impressed." 

"Do you want to record that?" 

"Pff. I don't want to mess up your song." 

"It's not really a song yet, and that sounded good. Here, play it again." 

I ran the sequence over again, this time in recording mode. Lindsey played more or less the same melody she'd improvised before, maybe not quite so fluidly. When she finished and straightened up from the keyboard, I put the song on loop and let it run through a couple of times so we could listen. She nodded thoughtfully, as if appraising her own work. 

"Okay," she said, "let me hear some stuff you've gotten more done than that." 

I saved the file and then loaded and played a handful of my better songs - well, the ones I considered better. I hadn't had a chance to play them for much of anyone else, so for all I knew, every one of them sounded like crap. Lindsey seemed genuinely appreciative, though, and kept asking to hear more after each one finished. A few she even asked me to play again. 

At some point my bladder alerted me that it needed emptying, so I excused myself to the bathroom. 

"Can I sit and play with your stuff while you're gone?" she asked. 

"Sure," I said. "Knock yourself out." 

Through the bathroom door, over the sound of my own pee, I heard her doing a few scales, then hitting chords up and down the keyboard, then noodling a bit. I flushed and went to the sink to wash my hands, where I heard her start into an actual song. My brain had distracted itself with the awkwardness of urinating where a woman could hear me, the added awkwardness of comparing the noise of piss to the glittering sound of Lindsey's piano warm-ups, and the excitement of sharing something that we both seemed to enjoy. So I vaguely knew that the piece she'd chosen was Beethoven, but I didn't register the specific song until halfway through drying my hands. 

Then I stopped still and just listened. 

She'd reached the second or third recurrence of those high, alternating half-steps - a signature of Beethoven's timeless genius, the ability to take two notes and create something people would marvel at centuries later - then the three-note downward sway and the rising sweeps of eight-notes simple enough for even a novice pianist to make beautiful. And Lindsey was much more than a novice pianist. 

I stood inside the bathroom door with a knot in my throat, blinking at the emotional tides of the music, until she reached the first of the fast, quick passages that get skipped or dumbed-down in beginner's arrangements. But she kept going straight into the concert version, and I heard a wrong note and a low "damnit" from her, but I could only think, Oh my god, she can play. 

Opening the door as quietly as I could, I let myself out of the bathroom to watch her where she sat absolutely intent on the keyboard as her fingers glided and leapt across it. The focus and intensity of her eyes amazed me. I could only stare. 

Then that first bravura section closed out, and she returned to those two high notes, up and down and up and down, repeating themselves longer this time. And I sniffed or something, and she stopped and turned. 

"Jesus, Nick," she said, putting a hand to her chest when she saw me. "I didn't think my playing was that bad." 

"No, no," I said, wiping my eyes. "It was beautiful. It's just ... that particular song." 

Für Elise. 

"Oh, shit." She jumped up with apology written all over her face. "I'm so sorry, I didn't even think -" 

"No, really, it's fine," I said, trying to get my emotions under control "In fact, I'd really like you to finish. God, Lindsey, you're so good." 

She looked hesitant. "Are you sure?" 

Sitting on the corner of the bed nearest the computer station, I nodded. "Really. Please." 

She returned to the keyboard, glancing over her shoulder before lifting her hands to the keys. "I'm probably going to fuck it up. Back in the day, I practiced this damn thing so many times I could play it in my sleep, but it's been forever ..." 

"I don't care. You can make all the mistakes in the world." 

She started again from the top, and I just sat there and let everything wash over me: the music, memories of learning the student version myself years ago, a few flashing images of Elise, her face and smile hazy across the decades - but most of all, the fact of this unbelievably talented, intelligent, sensitive woman sitting in my bedroom and filling it up with her presence and with the beauty of ages. 

By the time she finished, I was completely streaming, and when she saw, she stepped over and sat down to put her arms around me. 

"I am so incredibly lucky I met you, Lindsey," I said over her shoulder as we held each other. "You can get as nervous or scared or worried as you want. It won't make any difference to me." 

She nodded against me. Then she said, "I hope you're right, Nick. Because I'm kind of terrified that I'm falling in love with you." 

I breathed in the smell of her hair for a minute. 

"Well," I said, "I would have expected to be terrified too. But I'm starting to get my head around the idea that I could go head-over-heels for the right pianist." 

"Stop it," she laughed, pulling back and swatting me on the arm for the pun. "I'm being serious." 

"I am too," I said, buoyed up by a cloud of relief as I tugged her in for a kiss. "I'm crazy about you. And I want to take what you've got under that skirt and make you feel the way you deserve to feel - joyful and happy and safe and ..." 

"And?" 

I met her waiting gaze with mine and let myself become entirely serious. 

"Complete," I said. "And loved. I want you to feel loved, Lindsey." 

Her eyes sparkled wetly. Then they closed as I drew her to me and put my lips to hers and kissed her. A tremor passed through her just before she kissed back in earnest, and I wondered how the hell I'd ended up here, on the corner of my bed, so overwhelmed with emotion for this person that I was ready to let her do things to me that a month ago I'd never have considered. I didn't have any answer, but from some back corner of my mind, Mrs. P's voice said, You're welcome! 

Lindsey removed her tongue from my mouth to raise an eyebrow and ask, "What?" 

"What, what?" 

"You laughed." 

"Did I?" I brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. "Sorry. I was just thinking about your aunt, wondering what she'd think if she could see this." 




Big Flipping Deal Ch. 07



"I think she'd be happy." Lindsey's eyes searched mine thoughtfully - then took on a mischievous look. "But let's hope she's not watching now, or she'll get a real shock when you peel me out of my clothes here in a minute. 

I laughed and kissed her again and eased us both to the waiting softness of the comforter atop my mattress. Her lips toyed and tussled with mine as I ran a hand down her taut stomach to the buttons of her skirt. 

Lacing both hands in my hair, she moaned at each fastener I undid, until I had the buttons all open and slid down the short zipper underneath them. Then she reached down to the skirt and lifted her hips and shimmied out of it, leaving her in just panties and a t-shirt. 

"We should get further up on the bed," I said, teasing the waistband of her panties with my fingers. 

"You should get further out of your clothes." 

We didn't move just yet, though. Her hand tugged my shirt up out of my pants. Mine worked its way down the front panel of her underwear. She bit her lip as my middle finger arrived at her pubic arch and brushed the swelling, firm flesh beyond it.  

Tracing the upper circumference of her cock-root, I said, "I want to cross some lines with you, Lindsey Moss. That way we'll both have less to freak out about. What do you think?" 

She nodded. 

"Plus," I continued, "I'm pretty sure it'll be fun." 

She grinned, then gasped as I let my hand slide farther down to fully cup her engorged rod through the panties' silky fabric. After so much kissing and unbuttoning, I was already seriously hard, and the sound and feel of her excitement threatened to make me burst my pants. I gripped her with just my fingertips and stroked them up and down along her length, making her pulse and strain against the cloth. 

"That feels goood," she breathed. "Oh, it feels so good ..." 

"It feels good to me, too," I said, rubbing and then squeezing and then rubbing some more. 

"Ohh, Nick ..." She writhed the rest of the way onto the bed, coaxing me with her as she went. "You're not just saying that, are you?" 

"Huh-uh." I shook my head. The heat and rigidity of her erection in my hand had sparks tickling down my backbone. "It seems kind of stupid that I didn't realize this before, but I've enjoyed stroking a cock almost every day since I was a teenager, and it's really pretty neat even when it's not mine." 

"Mmmm." She let her eyes close and ground herself up into my palm. 

"And do you know what I tried several times and could never quite manage, back in my teens?" 

Her hips moved rhythmically in response to my touch. "What's that?" 

"Sucking my own dick." 

"Ha!" She stopped and her eyes came open and she grinned. "You naughty boy!" 

"Yeah," I said, continuing to massage her through her panties. "I was paranoid it would make me gay, but I realized when I was sitting masturbating one day that it wasn't that far from my mouth to my tip, and every once in a while for the next year or two, I'd try to bend and strain and get down there. The closest I ever got was being able to stick my tongue out and lick the head, or barely brush it with my lips. And fuck, did that ever give me a sore neck and back the next day." 

"You should have kept trying," she said, letting her hips roll again. "If you stretch and limber yourself up long enough, it works. I used to be able to get a couple of inches in my mouth. It was heaven. You're right about the neck strain, though." 

"Anyway, now I could find out what it's like without straining." 

"Oh god, really? Are you sure?" 

"Yeah." In fact, my chest filled up with carnal heat at the thought of it. 

"Well, you can't find out in those clothes. Let's get naked." 

I sat up and pulled my polo shirt over my head, then undid my belt and pants and slipped them off, underwear along with them, socks following the rest about two seconds later. Lindsey just lay on her back and watched, smiling, one arm casually draped in an arc across the comforter over her head. 

"Better?" I asked, settling beside her again with my hard-on out and alert. She ran a hand down my chest and stomach and past my pubic curls to take hold of me. 

"Yes," she said, lazily pumping my shaft. "But now you need to get me out of mine too." 

Since she made no move to sit up, I put my hand on her stomach and slowly gathered the cloth there in my grip, moving it toward her sternum, then tugging with a bit more force to get it past her bra and breasts. As I held it bunched together above her cleavage, she rolled onto her side to face me, then farther to press against me until I moved with her, onto my back, letting her straddle my thighs, still milking me one-handed as she leaned down for a kiss. I ran my hands up and around the soft musculature of her back, finding the catch of her bra and unhooking it. She sat up enough and I followed her enough to maneuver her sleeve and free arm out of her bra-strap. Then she switched hands to keep working my erection while I got her other arm loose. Ducking her head, she let me pull the shirt up and over it, her long, blond hair gliding free of the neck to dangle down all around her face and her shoulders and then my face and shoulders as she leaned her torso forward, bare and lovely, to let her breasts swing low against my chest. 

"I'm having a hard time letting go of this," she said with her nose touching mine and her hand tight and sensual around my cock. "Is it okay if I slide down and give you a few pointers before we take my panties off and show you what you missed by not being a more persistent teenager?" 

I gave her a quick smooch and said, "Sure." 

"Good." 

As she crept backward, her breasts and hair trailed silkily down my body, leaving my skin tingling in their wake. She kept her grip securely around my shaft, and when her chest drew even with my crotch, she tipped my cockhead back and forth so that it parted and slipped between her swaying breasts. 

"Mmm," I said. "I like these pointers so far. But I think you'll have to keep demonstrating that one for a bit, because I haven't quite figured out how to manage it." 

Lindsey laughed, flicked my tip several more times between her tits, and then crawled farther down. With a lick to the underbelly of my dick, she said, "Pointer number one is, don't try to deep-throat the first cock you suck. Having a partner gag or barf on your shlong is highly unromantic. Well, it is for me. I'm sure there's someone who's into that." 

I doubted this was the time to mention practicing on bratwursts the week before. "No deep-throating. Check. What's pointer number two?" 

Grinning, she gave me another lick. "Well, you're a guy, so pointer number two is easy. If you think you'd like someone to do it to you, give it a whirl. Like this." 

She dropped her mouth down around my crown, lips coming to rest on her own encircling fingers. Keeping her eyes on mine, she flicked her tongue up and down, right where the glans and shaft met. To start with, the pressure stayed light and the movements slow. But as she watched me, each slide of her tongue tip grew bolder, and then quicker, and quicker still. Her wrist gently bent and unbent at its own pace, tick-tocking the skin of my shaft one direction and then the other, lavishing sensation on the erectile flesh within. 

"Holy cow, Lindsey," I said. She lifted off and smiled, then went back to work on my already-hyperstimulated dick. "Fuck, that's fantastic." 

Closing her eyes, she bobbed down, mouth trailing her hand, then leading it back up. With each trip, she dove farther and I breathed faster. Then, just as that glandular sizzle began in my nuts, she pulled up and off. 

"Pointer number three is to give yourself an occasional break so you don't wear out your jaw." She tilted her head and puckered her lips to glide them high and low along my ready-to-burst hard-on, the pressure just too light to put me over the edge. Even so, each trip of her lips moved me closer by the width of a single nerve ending. 

Just as I started to moan, she pulled away and waggled my cock in her grasp. 

"So ... ready to give it a try?" 

I groaned, panting as orgasm floated to a halt with its toes right at the line of explosion. Lindsey's playful expression said all I had to do was ask, and she'd stop teasing and finish me off. But she also looked hungry, and hopeful. 

I remembered the thrill and taboo of those youthful attempts I'd made to get my mouth all the way down to my cock. Something in Lindsey's eyes made me think of that tense, urgent, excited struggle - and the tantalizing electricity of near success the times I'd managed to lick the tip or brush my lips against it. 

"Okay," I said, sitting up. "Let's switch around." 

"Really?" She beamed up at me, her chin propped on one hand and my dick still grasped in the other. From my new angle, I had a terrific view of her naked back and panty-clad bottom, then her long legs, bent at the knees and crossed at the ankles, toes pointed skyward. 

"Yeah, really," I said. "But you'd better hurry before your ass distracts me." 

She grinned and wiggled it, then snaked her way up beside me and rolled onto her back, slipping her thumbs into the elastic of her panties and stripping them off over her tucked-up legs in one quick motion. When she stretched back out, I put a hand on her tummy and let it rise and fall with her breathing. One of her pinkies went between her teeth, just the tip. Then she raised the hand to my shoulder and grazed her nails down my arm. 

"I'm feeling super-shy about this right now," she said. She'd left one knee up so that the thigh partly blocked my view of her semi-erect cock. "So promise me ... if you think it's gross, don't feel like you have to keep going. We can fuck or frot or something and I'll be fine." 

I leaned down and kissed her, rubbing her belly with the hand I still had there. 

"You think you're shy about it," I said, eyebrow up. "I guarantee you, you've got nothing on me. But unless I suck at sucking and can't get you there, I'm going to keep going until you squirt. That's the only promise I'll make." 

"Well ... okay," she said. She lowered her leg and I looked at her fully-revealed and rising, swelling erection, pale and clean and asserting itself there at the low, soft, feminine end of her abdomen. 

I swallowed - noticeably, I'm sure - then eased myself lower along her form. As I went, Lindsey crawled backward to nestle into the pillows at the head of the bed, peering at me through narrowed eyes with one lip sucked between her teeth. 

Lying there beside her, up on one elbow, my hand still on the near side of her stomach, I watched her arousal proceed without any direct stimulation on my part. Higher and stiffer she rose, heartbeat by heartbeat. Something about the process fascinated me and also sparked my ego with a sense of being wanted - desired. I moved over between her legs so I could see her face, her eyes. They looked as excited as the pinkish monolith that now stood full-height mere inches in front of my lips. My cock straightened potently against the mattress, turned on by the fact that I turned her on - and by the anticipation of what she would look and sound like in a moment when I got things started. 

I moved my hand to gently encircle her root with a thumb and forefinger. 

"Hnnn ..." she said, lip still tucked between her teeth. When I shifted the hand up to surround her with my grip, her teeth parted and the lip popped out and she let it hang low and sensually loose, as if forgotten in the vaporous heat of the moment. 

I moved forward and in, forward and in, until my own lower lip contacted my thumb, millimeters from her engorged flesh, which I felt swell even harder in my grasp at the same time I saw the tip expand. I let my breath flow out through my open mouth until she gasped. 

"Oh god, Nick, that's so hot." 

I grinned and tilted her between my lips. Something wet and thick rolled onto my lower lip. I swiped it with my tongue, hitting her tiny, sensitive slit in the process. 

"Oh ..." 

The taste of precum drifted up into my mouth, salty and subtle and shocking at the same time because it wasn't my own. But it was good, and I sealed my lips to the very end of her and squeezed with my hand and was rewarded with another thick bead disgorged from her cock and sipped in and across my tongue. 

"Hhohhh fuuuck ..." Lindsey squirmed so that her tip pressed into the embrace of my lips and bumped the teeth beyond them. I didn't think it was voluntary or that she meant to thrust her way in, but I opened my jaw up wide anyway and let her whole head slip into my mouth. 

"Ah. Ahh ..." 

If I hadn't been watching the blue bliss in her eyes and the trembling of her parted lips, a second or even third thought might have stampeded through my brain right then. I'm pretty orally fixated, and I get off on sucking a woman's tongue or nipple or clit between my lips. But this thing was huge in comparison, and the feel and taste of it left no doubt what I had in my mouth. 

How I might have reacted under any other circumstances, though, I'll never know ... because Lindsey's expression made it one of the most amazing things I'd ever done. 

Hungry to make that look last, I eased my hand down along her rigidity and followed it with my lips - first a centimeter, then an inch. As more of her cock joined the soft, full bulb inside my mouth, awareness filtered into my brain through every one of my senses. Intimately and vividly, I felt how thin and mobile the skin of her shaft was and how differently the flesh within it compared to anything I'd had in my mouth before - hard without being boney, textured despite the smoothness of the skin that surrounded it. At the same time, the musky scent of her crotch and the sweaty, salty, preseminal flavors of her dick and its slick leakage mixed together and invaded my head. Faint, breathy gasps seduced my ears, and the brilliant beauty of her face and form left me dazzled. 

"More," she whispered. "Oh, Nick, please ... more ..." 

A smile tried its best to ruin the seal my lips had around her as I went another inch down, halfway to her root and with my mouth now almost entirely full of cock. The tactile complexity blew my mind: her skin and vascular flesh within the ring of my lips; the helmet and rim of her glans against my tight-sucked inner cheeks; the two kinds of curves nestled in the valley I made of my tongue, u-shaped along her shaft and rising at the back to embrace the bulge of her tip. Every part of my mouth sensed her in its own way, and every part of her cock had its own distinctive feel. 

Fuck, this is really a charge. 

"More," she repeated, head tilted down to let her eyes flash at me. Her hands reached up to caress her nipples, stroking them, circling the areolas with a fingertip, trapping them for gentle, teasing tugs. 

I made it another inch down before I felt her reaching no-no territory at the back of my throat. Anything further would strike my gag reflex. Having my nose so close to her belly and my lips so close to her root put a burn of frustration into me.  

Really need to make her teach me how to deep-throat, I thought. But that would have to wait for some other night. 

Still going slow, still keeping my cheeks sucked in, I pulled back with my neck and let her slide out until I felt the heel of her mushroom top hit the inside of my lips. I followed my mouth with my hand, letting the damp slickness of spit coat my grip as I went. 

Lindsey stuck a finger in her mouth and then returned it to her nipple as I inched my way forward again. 

"Yes ... so hot. Oh, that's good." 

All the way down again, I feathered my tongue beneath her. 

"Yes, mmm ..." 

As if her vocal encouragement and the look in her eyes weren't enough, the surging response of her dick within my mouth told me I must be doing pretty well so far. Inundated with the sensory clues of her pleasure, something inside me switched from the total absorption of this crazy new experience to a driving desire to hear her moan louder, see her eyes roll up in her head, and feel her engorge and explode in my mouth. 

I gave a slow, steady bob that made her shiver. Then I followed it with another, and then another, and faster. 

"Oh, yes - that's it, baby. Oh - oh, yes ..." 

Her hand came around to the back of my neck and her hips rolled - languidly fucking my mouth as it slipped its way along her. So far, I didn't feel any need for pointer number three, so I stayed wrapped around her, working my neck in time with her thrusts, snaking my tongue side-to-side every trip or two she made over its surface. As we accelerated, the sloshing noise of oral sex vibrated its way louder and louder from my mouth straight through flesh and bone to my ears until it roared and sloshed directly into my brain. 

"Damn, Nick," Lindsey gasped. "It's so good ... uhh, so good ... do you - want to - turn around so I can - get you too?" 

"Nn-nh," I hummed around her with a light shake of my head. I could see in her face and hear in her voice and even feel in her dick that orgasm wasn't far off for her - and I wanted it. 

She didn't argue. Instead, she pressed her lips together and made a high-pitched "hmmm" and then clenched her jaw and let her breath hiss through her teeth. 

That's it, I thought as she clutched the back of my head and thrust up from the mattress harder and faster. Come on. 

The familiar ache of too-long-in-the-dentist's-chair appeared at the hinge of my jaw - not bad yet, but growing. I sucked harder and lashed my tongue, getting a flow of precum as my reward on her next stroke out. 

"Nh - nh - " 

Yes, Linds, come on ... 

"Nh - hn - ah ..." She hammered my mouth with every sound she made. "Ohh ... mmmm ..." 

My jaw hurt in earnest now, but I concentrated on the feel of her pumping in and out through my circled fingers and past my lips, and on the telltale tremble in the muscles of her face. 

"Ah ... ah ..." 

Her lips gaped and I saw her eyes turn upward. 

"UHHH!" 

Cum flooded my mouth. 

"Nng - oh - ooh - " 

I clamped down tight with my hand and mouth both, swallowing to move her bitter, silky spatterings from my tongue as quickly as I could. It surprised me how feather-light each gush of semen felt against the sensitive flesh of my mouth, and also how subtly each swell and throb of her cock moved my lips and tongue. The powerful jolts I knew from my own orgasms didn't transfer at all to my receptive mouth, which got only a quick, modest pulsing. 

The taste was awful. 

But the look on Lindsey's face and the sound she let out and the grip of her hand in my hair made a little acrid flavor more than bearable. 

"Oaah - Nick - fuck - " 

With a shuddering, slackening tempo, her dick spouted and then spilled and then trickled its load of fluid ecstasy across my tongue and down my throat - until, with a panting gasp, she collapsed into the pillows behind her, loose and limp. Her hand went from clutching to caressing my hair, then fell to her side palm up and gave a little twitch. 

"Whoo," she said, eyes closed. I pulled off of her dwindling erection and massaged my jaw. 

"Okay for a first time?" I asked. 

Her lids swung open to hit me with pure blue adoration. "Oh my god, yes." 

Grabbing my shoulders, she pulled me toward her for an emphatic kiss, open-mouthed and heavy on the tongue. I felt as flooded with appreciation and affection as my mouth had felt moments before, receiving her fountain of delighted ejaculate. Something in the way she probed past my lips told me she could taste her own sexual release and wanted to share my experience of it. I kissed her back with as much of the same fervor as I could manage. 




Big Flipping Deal Ch. 07



"Mmmmwah!" she said, breaking the kiss at last to open her eyes and smile at me. 

"So it wasn't gross, then?" she asked. Her face shone with hope. 

I kissed her again. "It was terrific. Except for the taste at the end. The taste was pretty bad." 

Lindsey gave a pout of disappointment. 

"But hey," I went on, "I didn't much like the taste of pussy or beer the first time I tried either of those, so you're in good company." 

She stuck her tongue out, but the pout disappeared. "Tell me about the terrific part." 

"The most terrific part was you enjoying it. But if you want me to describe all the ways it was terrific, we'll be here the whole night." 

"Oh!" She jolted upright. "And you still haven't had your turn! I'm sorry!" 

Her hand reached for my cock, but I intercepted it and laced my fingers through hers. 

"Let's let that wait just a bit." 

Puzzlement lowered her eyebrows. "Oh? Why?" 

I took a deep breath. My lungs felt swollen with my hunger to say the next words. 

"I'm thinking about crossing another line." 

For a moment, she just blinked at me. 

"You mean ...?" 

I leaned down and kissed one of her nipples, then the other. "I mean, I'm really, really enjoying being with you. Everything feels right, Lindsey. Nothing's scaring me, and every new step just makes me feel closer to you." 

I kissed her lips again. 

"I want to feel as close to you as I can get, Lindsey." 

In a small voice, she asked, "But what if you don't like it?" 

"You like having it done to you, don't you?" 

"Yeah, but I'm -" 

"What you are," I said, "is the person I want to wake up next to tomorrow morning. The person I want to see with a smile of complete satisfaction on her face in the sunlight coming through the windows." 

She smiled and put a hand to my cheek. "Well, you could get that just by saying what you just said. And you could certainly get it from that fantastic blow-job you just gave me. But if you're serious ..." 

"I'm ninety-eight percent serious and two percent 'wouldn't it be hilarious to fool her into ass-fucking me.'" 

"Stop that." 

"Okay, then I'm a hundred percent serious." 

She watched my eyes carefully. 

"You really want me to fuck you." 

"I'm thinking how far you squirted the other night with me inside you, and I'm betting that must have felt really good." 

The grin she gave me came with flaring eyes and a squeeze of her fingers threaded through mine. 

"It did." 

"So ...?" 

"You have lube in here? I can get my purse from the front room if you don't." 

"There's a brand-new bottle in my nightstand." 

"Pooped recently?" 

I blinked. "Uh ... a little after dinner. Maybe -" a glance at the clock "- two hours ago?" 

"Condoms?" 

"You didn't make me use one." 

"Just checking. I'm going to get up and pee, okay? You pull the sheets back and find that lube." Slipping her hand free of mine, she climbed off the bed, cock dangling but not quite as limp as it had been a minute ago. I watched her ass swing as she made her way into the bathroom, then I crawled over to fetch the lube from its drawer and throw the sheets off like she'd asked. 

Lying on my back in the middle of the bed, I had an out-of-body flash - a sense of disembodiment with the noise of Lindsey pissing for its soundtrack. 

What are you doing? I asked the figure spread-eagled in my bed. 

I'm waiting for my girlfriend to come back and fuck me up the ass. 

Girlfriend? Really? 

Yeah, I think so. I guess maybe I should ask her, but she said she might be falling in love with me. And have you seen that look in her eyes? 

Lindsey opened the bathroom door before the other me could answer. 

"Well, somebody's really looking forward to this, I guess," she said. 

Propping myself up with both elbows, I found a fully upright erection that explained her meaning from its place between my legs. 

"Huh," I said. "Imagine that. So ... what do you want me to do?" 

She came over carrying a damp washcloth in hand and crawled into the bed. 

"Just move your knees up and open and think relaxing thoughts." 

"Like what?" 

From between my legs, she raised an eyebrow and dabbed at me with the washcloth, making my asshole shrink and tingle and then warm. "Like, 'Look how pretty my girlfriend is,' as opposed to, 'In a minute something's going to get jammed through my sphincters.'" 

A twist of excitement hit me at that word in the middle. 

"I was just wondering a second ago if it was okay to think of you as my girlfriend." 

"Uh - you'd better. I mean, I hope you wouldn't let just anybody do what I'm about to do to you." 

"Definitely not." 

"Good. Then hand me that lube." 

I did, and she popped the cap and poured herself a handful, her left. Making a little sluice with her fingers, she lowered the hand in under my balls to make contact with my crack, just below the tense knot that needed lubing. 

"So. Ever had anything in here?" 

I shook my head. 

"Really? You've never even had a girl finger you while you were doing her?" 

"A couple felt around down there, but I always put the brakes on." 

"So sad! Let's show you what you were missing." 

She tipped her hand so that the slippery fluid in her palm ran along the valley of her fingers and surged up against my anus, which had tightened at her finger's nearness, and now clenched again at the wet, cool contact of the lube. Before any could spill around her fingers, Lindsey swiped her hand upward, carrying lubricant across my asshole and rubbing it into the whole area, all the way to the base of my scrotum. Circling strokes of her fingertip tickled and wetted and soothed the wary, tight-squeezed opening her hand focused on, while her eyes stayed on mine. 

"It doesn't have to hurt at all, if you're relaxed enough," she said, turning her hand to massage more lube from her palm against my perineum and then slowly grind the heel of her thumb into my anus, now practically spasming between the tension of instinct and a slackness of anticipation. "But just for fair warning, it's really hard to stay relaxed enough the first time. So we just have to be slow and patient, all right?" 

"All right," I said. "That actually feels really good, what you're doing right there." 

Her smile felt just as good as the movement of her hand against my twitching, stimulated anal flesh. 

"It gets even better," she promised. Moving her palm upward again to slickly brush my balls, she made a circling spiral around my asshole with her middle fingertip. Around. Around. Closer. 

Contact. The sphincter pulled tight and then released. 

Pressure. 

I swallowed as my butt instinctively opposed Lindsey's steady, gentle push. 

Relax, I told myself. Just go with it. Float. 

She went back to circling the puckered knot - but in smaller orbits this time, never quite leaving contact with the rim. 

Pressure. 

"Ah ..." 

The way she smiled at my sound - and went right back to circling my asshole - drowned me in arousal. My cock stiffened into immobile verticality. 

Pressure. 

Penetration. 

"Oh god," I said at the entry of her fingertip. My sphincter clenched and unclenched around it. 

"How's that?" 

"Very strange." 

"Strange bad?" 

"No," I said, getting used to the sensation of her finger resting one knuckle deep inside me. "Just strange to be on this end of the finger. It's ... not as big a deal as I thought." 

"No, you've had bigger stuff pass through here almost every day of your life. But it'll be a bigger deal here in a minute." 

She slid another knuckle in, then back out. 

"That actually feels pretty good." 

"Mm-hmm." 

Slowly, Lindsey fucked the first two segments of that finger in and out of me. The fire in her eyes distracted me from the oddity of the sensation, until the gentle, rhythmic motion felt natural and pleasant. 

Then the bulb of that second knuckle popped all the way through, and her fingertip slid deeper, and deeper, and curved and pressed against the wall of my rectum as if reaching for my cock from inside. My inner muscles instinctively tried to expel her, tightening uncomfortably but not painfully ... 

And then an enormous pressure inside my ass flowed directly up into my cock, which lurched and straightened and leaked more precum than I'd ever seen at once. 

"Holy shit!" 

Lindsey grinned. "That's your prostate." 

"Fucking hell, it's incredible!" 

She pushed again and got the same response from my dick, which had drooped while I was relaxing down there, but now returned to firm attention. Clear fluid ran freely down its dorsal surface, and before I knew what was happening, Lindsey bent, took me fully inside her mouth, and swiped back off, cleaning the precum away. With her finger now gliding freely in and out, she came forward to give me a savory, sticky kiss that tasted and felt of the liquid she'd just sucked off my rod. 

"Fuck, Linds ... ohh ..." 

Kissing from my mouth down my throat, down my sternum, down my belly, she swallowed my cock to the root again, then proceeded to give me a seesawing blow-job/finger-fuck: mouth up, finger in, mouth down, finger out. 

"If you keep that up, I'm totally going to blow ..." 

She smacked her lips free of me and looked up, hand still. 

"Do you want to?" 

"Ngnnh ... that's such a trick question ..." 

Her finger went out and in once, inquiringly. 

Willpower! 

"I'm tempted ... but I think let's stick to the original plan." 

"Sure," she said, pulling her finger almost all the way out - and then joining it with a second one on the way in. 

I groaned. For a second, I stayed relaxed enough to accept both fingers and have my mind blown by the fatness of them stretching me open. But some unbidden reflex kicked in and clamped down hard on her fingers and spiraled up from fullness to discomfort to pain. 

"Guh ..." I fought against the urge to squirm away, and then the pain receded as Lindsey pulled her fingers back. "Hoo ... uh ..." 

"You okay?" Concern and reassurance blended on her face and in her voice, a perfect pairing that said she was a little worried but that I shouldn't be. 

"Yeah, that part was great until I flinched." 

Her one fingertip rotated just inside the ring of my ass. "Let me know when you're ready to try again." 

I took a few breaths, then nodded. "Go ahead." 

She stroked the one finger in and out. In. Out. Then I felt the second fingertip make a slow entrance alongside it. I let my head tilt back, trying to breathe evenly as her two digits crept inside together. 

"Nnnnn ..." 

She filled me as full as she could go, withdrew, repeated. 

"Nick," she whispered. I tipped my head down to meet her eyes. "If this is working okay, then you're almost ready." 

I shivered as her fingers continued to pump in and out of my ass. 

"Fuck, Lindsey ..." 

A wicked smile glowed in her eyes and on her lips. "Is that a request?" 

"Uh-huh." 

I couldn't stop trembling as her fingers repeated and repeated their pattern and her other hand reached for the lube bottle. 

The cap clicked open. She turned the bottle up over my cock and let out a silky drizzle, streaking me with slippery runnels - more than I expected or thought necessary. But then she recapped the container and gripped me, milked me, coated me, coated her hand in the process, and finally reached between her legs to wet her own erection from base to crown, polishing the knob briefly and scooting forward on her knees. 

The anticipation and happiness on her face, the fullness of her breasts, the red of her lips - and yes, the stiff pole of her hard-on - all combined into a vision I could only call angelic. 

"Good god, you're beautiful, Lindsey." 

She laughed and got herself in position, her legs wide, thighs up under mine. Her fingers kept working, working, working. 

"I'm about to switch over here," she said. 

I nodded. 

As her one hand pulled away and its fingers slipped out of me, her other held and maneuvered her dick, mostly out of my sight, but quickly engaging another of my senses. A warm, soft tumescence touched down where I still gaped a little from her departing fingers. I bit my lip as it pressed inward with a twist of her hips. 

Stay relaxed, stay relaxed, stay relaxed. Christ almighty, she's about to fuck me ... 

The head popped in with surprisingly little difficulty, and even though the girth wasn't that far off from her fingers, the difference stunned me. Smooth and even and regular, her shaft might as well have been made for my ass. 

"Wow." 

"Mmm, Nick, that feels really good. Does it feel good to you?" 

"Yes." The word came almost straight out of my throat. "Go further ..." 

She grinned and eased her hips forward, inflating me with her slick, symmetrical, cylindrical flesh. 

"Uhhh ..." 

"Uh-huh ... ah, Nick, baby ..." Her eyelids fluttered involuntarily. She leaned forward and down to kiss me. 

"It feels so fucking big," I gasped. "How much is in?" 

With more kisses, she said, "About half." 

"Oh god." 

Then her lubed-up hand reached between us and gripped my dick. 

"Oh god!" 

She slid what felt like another foot of cock into me, gliding in against what I now knew was my prostate as her hand began to stroke my erection sweetly and steadily. 

"Fuck, Lindsey, I'm going to come so fast ..." 

"Mmm-hmm," she said. A leisurely withdrawal preceded another gentle thrust of her cock, this time penetrating even deeper. Her pubic arch landed against my perineum and left again, her long lovely shaft flowing through my opening like an Olympic diver hitting water. Rhythmically, insistently, her hand swept up and down my hard-on, its pace unchanging as her hips gradually worked up speed. 

Each push of her cockhead against my prostate goaded it toward viscous explosion, a steady series of coital compressions through the wall of my rectum that drove me up to the precipice of orgasm while her hand tugged me in the same direction from outside. As her lips kissed and hips pumped and hands pumped and breasts swayed against my chest, a sense of total, dreamy merging swelled within me. I felt permeated by her vitality. 

"Uh, Nick, yeahhh ... uh - ah - nnh ..." 

"Lindsey, I'm so close - oh my god, fuck me - fuck me hard -" 

"Ah!" she gasped, panting as she did what I asked, working her hips like mad to hump into me with all her power and speed. "Uhn, nh - Nick - nf, huhh, ah -" 

In about a half-dozen strokes of being totally plowed, I reached my limit and burst. 

"Uhhhfuuck -" 

A hydraulic ram went off inside my gonads, a constricting, squeezing blast beyond any sexual peak I'd ever known. My head went back on my neck. With every seismic contraction, I had a vague awareness of wet heat splashing out of Lindsey's grasp and up across my chest, but it didn't even occur to me to look. 

"Nnghhuhh -" 

Seemingly inside my gouting, spouting tremors, Lindsey's penis thrust its way toward her own climax. 

"Yes - Nick - oh fuck - uh ... uh ... NGH -!" 

For an instant, I thought I was having a second orgasm as a beautiful, rhythmic throbbing filled my pelvic depths. Then I realized it was her, going off inside me in time with her gasps. 

"ooh, ooh, hnnh, oooh ..." 

I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her throat as she strained above me and finished unloading. 

When she relaxed into my arms and found my mouth to kiss me back, I thought, out of nowhere, Wow. My ass is full of semen right now. 

It made me giggle, which for some reason made her giggle too. 

"What are we laughing at?" she asked, nose-to-nose with me. 

"I'm laughing at ever being worried over letting you fuck me. Holy crap, that was fantastic." 

"Good," she said, kissing me. "I thought so too." 

We kissed some more, and after a bit she shifted and her softening cock slipped out of me. It left behind a familiar urgency. 

"Uh ... I kind of feel like I need to go in the bathroom and, uh ..." 

She patted my cheek and rolled off me. "Go on. Tell me when you're done and I'll come in and wash up with you." 

"Okay." 

In the can, I dumped a mixture of lube and semen and poo that should have been a real romance-killer but wasn't. My whole lower body had a sense of clean, purified emptiness. Even my asshole somehow told me it was sleepy and content - purged of weight. 

I wiped and flushed, poked my head out the door. "All done. We going to shower?" 

"Yes!" Lindsey bounced off the bed and hurried to join me. 

Under the showerhead, as we soaped each other up and enjoyed our wet, slippery sleekness, I asked if her if she could stay over. 

"Sure. I can give you a ride to work, even, so you don't have to take the bus." 

"Actually, I was thinking about calling in to take a personal day ... if you don't have any client appointments you need to go to." 

"Mm," she said, pulling close and rubbing her body against mine. "What did you have in mind?" 

"Well," I said, "we didn't get anything done on the house at all today. So I thought we might, you know, take care of that bathroom stuff that needs doing." 

She grinned. "You mean the caulking? I can definitely stay over if it means I get to see you work your magic with that caulk." 

For emphasis, she ground her crotch against mine, long enough that I felt both our dangling cock fatten. I kissed her, then shifted some of her damp hair back from her face. 

Watching her blue eyes more seriously, I asked, "So are you still terrified you might be falling in love with me?" 

She shook her head. "No. Not terrified." 

"Great," I said. "Because I'm not terrified of falling in love with you either." 

We kissed again, and stayed in the shower a long time. 

* * * 

When we woke up the next morning, Mister Whiskerdoodle had cozied himself into the narrow gap between us and gargled in complaint when we made him move. The sun had already risen, and we lazed in bed a little, not messing around or anything, just holding each other. Then I made omelets. They weren't all that good, but Lindsey complimented me on my cooking anyway and then added, "But I'll agree that you're not as good with eggs as you are with caulk." 

"Ha, ha. How long do you figure it's going to take for that joke to get old?" 

With a knowing shake of her head, she said, "You're still new to this, obviously. Trust me, caulk never gets old." 

We cleaned up breakfast, got dressed, and walked over to Mrs. P's under a pretty Sunday-morning sky. As we passed the rollaway in the drive, Lindsey ran her hand along it. 

"It's going to be weird in a month when we're done with this place." 

"Yeah ... but a month's a long time," I said, stopping because she'd stopped, facing the house in thought. "Who knows what might happen. We might run into a hiccup that takes longer, or ..." 

"Or what?" 

"Or things might go even better than we expect. With us. You know, nothing in the will said we have to sell the place when we're done." 

She looked at me a moment, there in the shade of the big sycamore tree. Then she slipped her arm around my waist and tugged me toward the house. 

"Come on. We've got a lot of work to do."