Small town tranny (part one)


Lets jump forward a few years and get to the focus of this blog. I’m 19 and I’m staying with my mother and father again, having just broken up with my girlfriend.
I’ve already become a keen practitioner of toilet trading, so far only of the milder variety; I love exposing myself to older men. I love the hunt and the anticipation, the way they stare at my young body in ecstasy – as if I’ve made their dreams come true. I love the act of submission to their trembling hands, they way they kneel at my feet and implore me for a taste. Their reward is my acquiescence and my consent to their milking me; it really has a kind of religious feel. The most suitable prey will make me feel part deity, part sacrificial lamb. I only allow hand or mouth and rarely return the favour; they are more than happy with this rule and will greedily receive their sacrament, often, gulping down every last sour drop.

The new town I find myself in has very good potential. Small towns always have a greater variety of unregulated public toilets and also, generally, a more active scene of desperately bored men. When you live in a city choosing outlying towns for your hunting grounds is much better for secrecy and for results.

It’s my second night here I’m a little drunk, bored and feeling excited and mischievous. The only girly articles I have are some panties I stole as a parting gift from my ex’s novice fetish collection. They’re a small pair of mixed lycra/pvc briefs that are silver (!) and sit very low on the hips. I go to the bathroom and, careful not to leave any traces of hair, take a shower and shave my body. On an impulse I remove all my pubic hair and afterwards stand in the mirror to admire the surprisingly adolescent look I’ve created.

By the time I get to the public toilets it is 12.30 am, the town is empty and the large men’s room, situated in a car-park, feels ominous. All the stalls are empty, so I get to work pushing open each of the doors wide. Then I choose one to occupy (the one with the most pornographic graffiti) and close the door but don’t lock it. Anyone entering the building to actually use the toilet will see all the vacant cubicles. However, People with other activities in mind will see one that appears occupied… and so if I receive an ‘accidental’ push against my door, there will be very little confusion as to why.

Half an hour passes, I read and re-read the stories and invitations written in scribbles on the walls. Then footsteps, someone enters the room. The sudden contrast between absolute silence and relatively loud movement is the signal for my heart to explode into action. I stand in position facing the toilet bowl, beneath my coat I’ve already removed my shirt and bundled it into a pocket, my jeans are undone and ready to be dropped if necessary. As a supplement to my other precautions I give a dainty sniff so that the visitor knows I’m there. He immediately stops in his tracks and considers for a while.

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