Night Shift

by Joanna Angel

  I stroked his cock into my mouth. He let out a moan as my tongue hit his small head. I stroked it with one hand, and once it was erect it was large enough for both of my hands to fit around it. I used lots of spit—a tip I learned from the videos. Something about spitting large amounts of my saliva on a cock made me feel so incredibly powerful.

  I loved looking at the way his eyes rolled back into his head; he looked so vulnerable. I paid attention to the way his expressions changed when I switched the positions of my hands. He scrunched his nose when I went harder and he moaned louder when I went softer. I jerked him off at the base of his cock while stuffing the rest of it in my mouth, using my tongue to swirl around his skin and work up as much spit as I possibly could. I moved a hand and put them on his balls. Quite honestly I wasn’t even sure what to do with his balls, but I just wanted to make sure all parts of his genitalia were being accounted for.

  I stroked and sucked, he started losing his balance and he leaned up against the wall. The water was left on but we weren’t using it to wash ourselves. It was merely a sexy background at this point, like I was sucking his cock in front of a waterfall. Billy paid $2.25 to use this shower and part of that fee was having no regard for their water bill at all. I didn’t feel at all guilty.

  I was able to get my mouth further down his cock with him back up against the tile. It felt so good to have more of him in a part of me. I loved the way he tasted, I loved how his face lit up with pleasure when I licked up and down his shaft, I loved seeing what just my tongue and mouth and hands could do to someone. I wished I could go back in time and give a refund to all six of the people I had performed oral sex on. Those blow jobs weren’t really blow jobs. This was my new standard of blow job and whatever dick would come into my mouth from here on out would be given this level of hospitality. I was really enjoying myself. My pussy was getting wet, and not just because we were in a shower. Actually enjoying a blow job is so satisfying.

  “Put your hands behind your back,” he demanded. I obeyed.

  I opened my mouth wider and he thrust his cock in and out of me. So much saliva was coming out of my mouth, it was a waterfall of spit in front of our waterfall of truck-stop shower. I could feel him in the back of my throat and I could feel myself getting wetter and wetter as the tip of his cock hit my tonsils. He continued to thrust, and I swallowed as much of him as I possibly could. He went faster, then he slowed down. I could feel him throbbing. I sucked and licked and did whatever the hell I could possibly do with my mouth. He moaned loudly and I tasted an amazing gulp of warm cum seep directly down my throat. I felt his dick go from hard to flaccid in my mouth. I slurped up any last drop of semen that came out of him. No one would have to worry about getting any jizz on the floor of this pristine, pretty shower.

  “That was incredible,” he said between heavy breaths.

  “I know,” I said.

  “Oh, do you?” he laughed.

  I stood up and he immediately knew to wash the conditioner out of my hair. It was time. He massaged my head and a strong scent of coconut ran down my body.

  “I want you to get all dressed up for me tonight. You know, in feminine clothes,” I said. “And I want us to go out, like in public.” I kissed him.

  He looked nervous and excited.

  “I’ve never done that,” he said.

  “I know. I think it’s time,” I said.

  “I actually do have a dress in the truck. It’s nothing amazing—I actually bought it at a maternity store. I said it was for my pregnant wife,” he laughed.

  “I’ll look through everything you have and we can put it all together,” I said.

  I could see him tremble.

  “In that case—I should really shave my beard,” he said. He shut the water off and walked over to the porcelain bathroom sink, taking a small scissors and a razor out of his personal toiletry bag. He snipped away his lumberjack beard until it was as short as it could possibly be. I lathered his face in some of this fine truck stop’s complimentary shaving cream, and with his high-end disposable razors (the ones that had a sea foam green moisturizing strip on them) he shaved his face, revealing the velvety soft skin underneath his beard. I touched his face, now smooth as a river stone.

  “I don’t know how long we have before your five-o’clock shadow starts creeping in, so we better take advantage of this.” He quivered, and I pulled him into my embrace. “I got you—everything will be okay.”

  We went back to the truck. Billy pulled out all the little fragments of femininity that he had. A half-empty bottle of foundation his ex-girlfriend threw in the trash when she got a sun-tan and her complexion changed. He pulled out a white ramekin that looked like it was used for a side of salad dressing at Applebee’s, but it was filled with some kind of red, sticky goo that was apparently a lipstick that he made from scratch from a mix of bottles of lotion he had from motels, food coloring, and honey. It went on surprisingly smoothly and I put some on myself as well. He had some loose shimmer powder he created from a mix of spices, his panties and stockings from Dreamz, and various accessories he picked up at truck stops over the years. The dress went down to his knees, and the garter peeked through when he walked. It was subtle and incredibly classy with this vintage burlesque feel. The final touch was a wig that he had ordered online and picked up at a mail center somewhere during his travels. It was still in the packaging and had never been opened. It was long, wavy, and a shade of brown that perfectly matched his natural hair color. We took it out of the box, pinned it to his hair, snipped it, styled it, and we were ready to go. In the DIY crafty mood, I took one of his black V-neck shirts, pinned it in the back, and put a silk scarf thing that lived in the bottom of my purse around my waist and matched it with my Converse sneakers. I kind of looked like a modern version Punky Brewster, and he looked like a modern version of Aubrey Hepburn, and together we were ready to conquer the night and run to our destiny, with heels on. Or, ankle boots with short wedges, to be exact.

  “So, where should we go?” I asked.

  “There’s a bar not too far from here that makes some great cocktails. Or, I heard there’s a country fair in town; we could go ride some rides,” Billy replied.

  Both options sounded good, but which was the better ace to debut Billy’s new look: a bar or a fair?

  To go to the fair, Click Here.

  To go to a bar, Click Here.

  Billy and I waited in line to buy our entrance tickets to the fair. The air smelled like corn dogs and hay. The ground was moist from the storm the night before. Last time I was here was when I was in the eighth grade with my friend Charlotte. I wasn’t very cool in school, and she was my equally uncool friend, and we clung together for the sake of not being alone. We awkwardly ate funnel cake while the more socially adept teens who never gave us the time of day smoked cigarettes, drank vodka, and made out with each other underneath the bleachers. Twelve years later, I am still just as much of an outsider in this town, but I have proudly upgraded from a co-pilot with a back brace and acne to a beautiful man in a dress.

  “Should I still call you Billy?” I asked.

  “It’s Bonnie,” she said, as she kissed me and held my hand. I could feel her trembling, but she walked with confidence and poise.

  “Shit. Now there’s lipstick on your cheek!” She wiped it off my face. “That’s a new thing I’ll have to look out for,” Bonnie said.

  “Let’s go on the Ferris wheel!” I said. I felt like having a destination would ease her nerves, and we could be alone in our own little rotating pod while still technically being out in public. We walked from one side of the park to the other. A few people did double-takes when looking at us, and some mothers made their children look away from us, like we were a walking, breathing R-rated movie that they weren’t supposed to watch. I rolled my eyes, and considered flipping them off, but managed to stop myself. Whatever.

  We stopped at a stand to get some junk food. Our afternoon microwaved burrito was organic after all, we deser
ved to let loose.

  “I’ll get one small cotton candy,” I said to a man with very large and very few teeth, long hair, and pin-striped overalls. He nodded and began circulating the paper cone around the caramelized sugar, and a magical poof of edible, hot-pink cotton began to form.

  “Anything for you ma’am?” he looked at Bonnie and said.

  She paused. “No, thank you,” she replied.

  We walked away and there were tears in her eyes. “He called me ma’am! Did you hear that?”

  “Yes! I did!” We skipped and cheered and got high off sugar. We felt victorious. The carnie with four teeth and an obvious, unpleasant stench had more manners than some of the people in the park. While I didn’t fully understand how Bonnie felt, I could see the thrill in her eyes and her happiness was contagious.

  “Let’s go in here!” I said as we passed a House of Mirrors. Bonnie barely got the chance to look at herself as a woman, so I thought it would be exciting to see herself in hundreds of different mirrors, from multiple angles, in multiple heights and weights.

  “Sure!” she said.

  There was no line and we walked straight inside. The room was dark, and the music was creepy. Every few steps a high-pitched voice laughed maniacally from a hidden speaker in the wall. In the first group of mirrors, our heads were incredibly large and stretched out like chewed bubble gum, and then further down the hallway we got progressively shorter and fatter. We laughed at ourselves. Even though the result of going in these types of places is extremely predictable, it doesn’t stop the joke from being funny. No matter how un-politically correct it sounds, seeing yourself as some kind of disfigured midget, is funny—and somehow oddly romantic for a date.

  Bonnie slyly looked around the room, and then swiftly pulled my top down and exposed my breasts. It wasn’t entirely difficult to do since I was wearing one of her T-shirts that was way too big on me, and I didn’t have on a bra.

  “Bonnie!” I giggled, and attempted to pull the shirt back up and she pulled it back down, further this time. The pre-recorded laughter got louder and louder, the organ polka music got more and more distorted, and I remained shirtless in a room full of mirrors. Something about the smell of hot dogs and the slow, distorted music alleviated all stress out of the evening and we were able to just relax and goof around and have fun.

  “Let’s see how many different sizes your boobs can be,” Bonnie said. It was like the license plate game I used to play on long car rides, but with tits.

  We walked down the hall and my breasts went through every imaginable bra size, from a 32 A to a 38 GG. In one particular mirror, they multiplied exponentially. Bonnie put her hands on all sixteen of my breasts.

  “How does that feel?” she asked.

  It was a turn-on to see her feel me up in so many different ways. I wished I could actually grow fourteen more pairs of boobs so she could molest all of them. She pinched my nipple, and watching the freak-show of myself turned me on fourteen times more than normal for a pinched nipple. I felt myself getting wet. Then I heard the sound of screaming children somewhere in the vicinity and I pulled my shirt up instantly. The thrill of getting caught scared me and aroused me, so naturally I pulled my tits out again. Just moments later, the shrill of the children’s voices went away.

  After we had exhausted all optical possibilities in the little house of mirrors, we exited and continued to walk toward the Ferris wheel. I was aroused and giddy from the brief stint of public nipple play mixed with the sugars circulating inside my body.

  “You’re walking flawlessly in those heels,” I said. “And it’s muddy out. That’s impressive!”

  “I am so scared of falling on my ass. It’s all I can think about! I feel like I’m walking a tightrope in the circus,” she replied.

  “You’re not gonna fall! I won’t let you. That’s just not an option.”

  As the night got later, the park became more crowded, and the more people there, the more people scowled and hissed at our existence. As we proceeded to walk through the carnival, people escaped our presence and parted like the red sea. We paved our own path and walked through it proudly. Or at least, I was proud. I could tell Bonnie was nervous, but she walked with determination, poise, and confidence.

  We waited in the line for the Ferris wheel. I could feel everyone whispering, I could see everyone pointing. Boys who couldn’t have been older than sixteen were holding open containers of alcohol, but this didn’t seem to concern anyone as much as we did.

  “Maybe we should just go,” Bonnie suggested.

  “No way!” I answered. “Really, ever since I was in middle school I’ve always wanted someone to kiss on the Ferris wheel.”

  “Oh come on, I’m sure you’ve kissed plenty of people on the Ferris wheel!”

  “No, I haven’t. Honestly,” I said. “The only person to kiss me in high school was someone who got stuck with me on a game of spin the bottle. And he tried to get out of it!” I laughed. “Literally he tried blowing the bottle so he could kiss my friend Jill instead of me.”

  She laughed.

  “What was high school like for you?” I asked, trying to make conversation to distract Bonnie’s attention away from the people staring, though I was also genuinely interested.

  “Well, I played football,” she said.

  “Oh, jeez. Well, I’m sure you had no problem finding any willing partners to make out with you!”

  “That’s true. But I was more interested in trying the girls’ clothing on than I was in getting their clothing off!”

  “Well, you could have done both with me. Although I doubt you would have wanted to wear my thrift-store Dickies and my argyle sweaters.”

  Our place in line advanced to the front and we were let into our own carriage. The way they did it was just so impractical. It was like jumping into a moving vehicle. Why was it impossible for it to come to a complete stop before people went on? But Bonnie grabbed my hand and pulled me in. We jumped on without skipping a beat; she was a more seasoned Ferris wheel rider than I was. I followed her lead and together we were ready to get slowly lifted in the air, go around in a circle, and gaze at the view of Pasco County, which is mostly motels, strip malls, and chain restaurants. Still, everything looks better from above.

  The ride slowly started and stopped. I never paid attention to how rickety these things felt when I was younger. Did I develop a small case of vertigo in my twenties? I felt slightly uneasy, but I didn’t want to mess up the romantic moment I insisted on creating. After what felt like a bit too much starting and stopping, we were at a full stop at the top of the wheel. The temperature was humid and I could smell wafts of grease from deep fried everything in the air, which I will admit I actually liked.

  “It’s time for my very first carnival kiss!” I said. I handed her a tissue. “Blot your lipstick first, though.”

  “What on earth does that mean?” she asked.

  “Oh! You basically just give this Kleenex a kiss,” I said. “Just put it between your lips, and slightly less of it will wind up on my face.”

  I held the tissue up and she opened her mouth as if I was feeding it to her. She clamped down on it, I moved the tissue around and she blotted herself on all the corners of the tissue. She enjoyed indulging in this feminine activity. I took for granted the little pieces of seemingly mundane activity that went into being a woman. I never had to blot my lips much, because I rarely wore lipstick and rarely kissed people, until now.

  She leaned over after the blotting activity was complete. I stuffed the tissue back into my purse—I wanted to save it for some kind of Billy/Bonnie scrapbook, or maybe if I never wound up seeing her again, I could pull this out and taste her lips on this tissue. Was that creepy? I should be savoring the moment. I don’t know why I was stressing about our possibly doomed ending when we had barely reached our beginning. The fair was bringing back some déjà vu of the loneliness and isolation I felt growing up and I just didn’t want this moment to end.

  Bonnie
leaned over and kissed me. I grabbed onto her, I put my hands up her skirt and felt up and down her stockings and her garter. The feeling of a cock underneath a dress with panty hose was such a thrill. Her kiss was so intense and beautiful, I felt it inside my entire body. We wrapped our tongues around each other, and I ran my fingers through her long, wavy hair. Unfortunately, I got a bit too aggressive with my heavy petting, and accidentally knocked the wig off her head. It was caught by a strong wind and blew off, away into the air. Shit.

  Bonnie followed it with her eyes, her face suddenly white. It was as if I ripped off a piece of her body and threw it in the trash.

  “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “I must look ridiculous,” she frowned.

  “No you don’t! There’s plenty of sexy women with shaved heads! ” I said. “You look like a badass!” I exclaimed. I wasn’t sure if I was making anything better at all.

  “I just want to bury my head in the sand,” she said.

  “I . . . don’t have any sand. What about here?” I don’t know what came over me: I took her head and I pushed it down to my pussy. Our carriage rocked back and forth, I must have been high on cotton candy to have gained this burst of slight confidence, mixed with simply feeling invincible. Apparently when I was 500 feet in the air, I became kind of dominant. Plus I wanted to do anything to distract her.