At Risk

by Cal Y. Pygia

 

Diane was proud to be a shemale. She loved having a beautiful face; long, silken hair; fabulous breasts; a firm, flat tummy; functioning male genitals; long, shapely legs; and firm, compact buttocks. She loved wearing makeup and dressing in fancy, frilly clothes. She also loved the way men ogled her and women—some women, at least—envied her. A few, she was sure, were even attracted to her sexually. Most of all, she liked the incongruity of having a woman's body except for the starkly contrasting cock and balls she possessed in lieu of a pussy.

Most of the time, she told men that she was a shemale before their first date. It was dangerous, after all, to let a man find out her secret for himself, especially if he'd voiced and shown his attraction to her with a few kisses and caresses or she'd performed oral sex on him without getting naked. Occasionally, though, she didn't tell a man. Sometimes, she did let him find out for himself that she was a chick with a dick. The potential danger was too much, sometimes, for her to resist, because Diane found an adrenaline rush every bit as exciting as an orgasm. She also enjoyed the shock on the guy's face when he found that the person to whom he was attracted had a cock and a pair of balls!

She never knew in advance when such an urge would occur to her. The impetuosity of her decision to let the man find out for himself that his chick had a dick was a large part of the rush that she experienced at such times. She didn't know how or why she chose one guy among others, either, but she suspected that her decision was, in part, at least, based upon his physique. The bigger and brawnier the guy, the more likely it was that she would not tell him her secret. After all, the point in letting him discover for himself what was between her legs was the potential violence and possible danger, which increased with the man's physical size and strength. By selecting big men, she maximized the potential risk to herself, and she found this sexy.

With Daniel, she'd taken a hell of a risk. He was her first, and he'd been unhappy, to say the least, at his discovery of Diane's little secret. They'd been involved in some hot and heavy petting. His mouth had been all over hers, and he'd licked her face, her ear, her neck. He'd given her a hickey, and he'd caressed and licked and sucked her nipples. Then, his right hand had strayed downward, over her firm, taut tummy, through the downy fuzz of her blonde pubes, and found her erect penis and the small, tight clump of her balls. His hand had jerked away as if it had encountered a red-hot flame, his eyes widening, his mouth gaping, and his whole contorted face expressing shock, followed by outrage.

He'd cursed her, calling her every nasty name he could think of, and hit her twice, hard, in the face. One blow had blackened an eye; the other had split a lip. "You're lucky I don't kill you, you freaky bitch!" he'd thundered as Diane lay weeping on her bed. He grabbed his clothes, almost jumped into his pants, threw on his shirt, and, barefoot, stalked from her bedroom. A few moments later, she heard her front door slam, and he was gone.

Diane had been hurt, physically and emotionally. Her eye and lip swelled, becoming sore, and, she would discover, when she looked in the mirror later, that she was quite a sight. She also felt betrayed and abandoned, humiliated and abused. On a deeper, more satisfying level, however, she was also turned on. She liked the pain that throbbed in her eye and lip. She liked feeling betrayed, abandoned, humiliated, and abused. Most of all, she liked the shock and revulsion and rage she'd seen on Daniel's contorted face immediately upon his discovery of her secret.

At first, it had bothered Diane that she enjoyed such feelings, because she knew that the enjoyment of pain and suffering, like the enjoyment of feeling victimized, wasn't normal. She knew that such things marked her as a masochist, just as her enjoyment of the shock and disbelief that she inflicted on men by withholding her secret identified a sadistic streak within her character. She wasn't a sadist, but she was sadistic. She wasn't a masochist, but she was masochistic. She was, she supposed she'd have to call herself, sadomasochistic. She liked to hurt men, but she also liked to be hurt by them. Most of all, though, she liked the adrenaline rush of putting herself at risk.

Since Daniel, there had been a handful of others—Jim, Bill, Todd, and Donald. Like Daniel, they'd been shocked and outraged, but only Todd had resorted to violence, shoving her away from him and backhanding her across the face as he screamed, "You fucking freak! Get the hell away from me!" Like Daniel, he'd thrown on his clothes and fled from her house. The others had merely cursed her and reprimanded her for her dishonesty in withholding the truth of her sexuality, as if she were a young, wayward girl rather than an adult shemale who knew her own mind.

Last week, at a bar, Diane had met Eric, and she'd known, at once, that she must lure him into bed, where he could discover her secret for himself.

A professional bodybuilder, Eric was huge. His shoulders were broad, his chest deep, rippling with chiseled pectoral muscles. His belly was firm and tight, with the six-pack abdominal muscles common to those whose passion was keeping fit and building their bodies. He had a narrow waist. His thighs bulged into enormous columns that tapered to only slightly less massive calves. His back was a sculpture of muscle, suggesting strength, stamina, and power. His hands were the size of hams. Like every other feature of his body, his cock and balls were also massive. His penis was about nine inches, flaccid, and his scrotum was three times the size of Diane's. Admittedly, her own scrotum had shrunken, along with her testicles, as a result of long-term estrogen use, but, still, Eric's pouch was larger than that of most men his height, which was over six feet.

He had a handsome face, too, although the skull was shaped rather oddly. He had dark, wavy hair with short bangs that fell across a thick ledge of brow beneath which small, deep-set blue eyes peered, bright as blue diamonds in a dark mine. His nose was broad and powerful, with large nostrils, and his lips were thin. He had high cheekbones, a massive chin, and a firm, well defined jaw line. His ears were small and close to the bone. If the truth were to be told, although attractive in his own way, Eric had a rather Neanderthal appearance. Despite the fashionable, modern clothes he wore, he might have stepped out of a cave only a few hours ago.

It was odd, Diane thought, upon first having seen Eric seated at the bar, how one seemed to form one's opinions about people based on their appearances. Eric looked like a caveman, so she'd assumed that he'd behave as one. That was what had attracted her to him. His primitive appearance had made her think that he was likely to be an aggressive brute with a fragile ego and, despite his obvious physical prowess, a weak and uncertain sense of his own masculinity—just the sort of man she liked to surprise with her little secret on occasion. Yes, she'd told herself, upon first laying eyes on Eric, here was a man who might hurt her. She'd sidled up to him at the bar. He'd bought her drinks. After the obligatory small talk, she'd brought him home with her, and, well, here they were, together in her bed, him naked and her with her blouse and bra off but her surprise still hidden inside the silk panties she wore beneath her black leather mini-skirt.

 

Eric was gentle. He was tender. He was considerate. Instead of manhandling her, he caressed her softly. Instead of mauling her tits, he felt them lovingly, his huge hands moving like doves in flight over the smooth mounds topped with rigid nipples surrounded by swollen areolas. His fingers didn't pinch and tweak; they circled lightly, flicked gently, stroked delicately. Diane smiled. They were all gentle at first, but that changed as soon as they became excited; as their blood began to fill and swell their penises, men like Eric lost control, and the animals they were, beneath the semblance of compassion that they initially displayed, flashed their teeth and claws. Eric, she was sure, would prove no different. With a face and form like his, how could he be?

In kissing her, Eric had noticed the faint, almost-vanished bruise that circled her left eye. Lovingly, he traced it with a huge, thick forefinger. "Who did this to you?" he asked.

Diane repressed another smile. It wouldn't do, she told herself, to suggest that she was aware of his duplicitous pretense at caring about her or anything she'd endured. She shrugged, "Someone who liked rough sex." She paused, watching his face. It was stern. She raised an eyebrow. "Do you like rough sex, Eric?"

He gave her an odd look. "Of course not." His forefinger touched the bruised flesh. He was so gentle that she hardly felt it. "I would never do this to you."

This time, she did smile. He was some actor, she thought. To him, she said, "I'm glad."

He kissed her bruised eye. Then, he kissed her mouth.

She kissed him back, hard, sliding her tongue through his lips. Their kiss deepened. Diane writhed, rubbing her breasts against Eric's chest. Her breath was warm against his face. She moaned, for his benefit, and rolled her hips against his. That would be all the encouragement he'd need, she thought. Any moment, her tender lover would become a wild, raging animal.

Eric broke off their kiss. He gazed into her eyes.

Here it comes, Diane thought. He'll yank my skirt down my legs and rip my panties off, and, then—

"You're beautiful," Eric said, his voice soft and warm and full of wonder.

Oh, he was good, Diane told herself. The bastard sounded as if he really meant it. He could hurt a girl with his words as well as his blows. "Thanks," she managed to mumble, thinking, Bastard!

"I guess you hear that all the time, though," he said, sounding embarrassed.

Yeah, Diane thought, she heard it all the time, all right—whenever some fucker was about to beat the crap out of her. Well, like the assholes who'd pretended to care about her, she'd learned to act, too. She knew what they wanted to hear from her. "A girl never gets tired of compliments," she said, keeping her voice coy.

"You could be a model," he said. "You should be one."

She chuckled.

"Seriously."

Just get on with it already, she thought. "Thanks." She let her hands follow the firm, tight flesh covering his ribcage. They traveled to his waist. She brought them up and around, to cup his buttocks. She gave the compact globes a soft squeeze. "You're pretty gorgeous yourself."

He blushed. "I look like a Cro-Magnon."

Or a Neanderthal, Diane thought. "Nonsense. You're sexy as hell."

"Am I?"

He seemed to want—to need—reassurance. What the hell kind of game was he playing? Diane wondered. None of the men she'd been with before had needed to be reassured about their appearance. They'd all been full of themselves. They'd been vain, arrogant bastards who had no doubts at all that they were studs built like Adonis. If anything, they'd implied that it was she who was lucky to be in their company; it was she who was fortunate enough to be beaten unconscious by them and left for dead. Inwardly, she shrugged. If Eric wanted to pretend he needed her reassurance, she could pretend to give it. "You're an Adonis. I didn't sidle up to you at the bar because you reminded me of a caveman."

He smiled, reflecting on her words. Then, he kissed her again.

Diane was tiring of the foreplay, the game of cat and mouse. She needed sex, rough and raw and brutal. "Fuck me, Eric," she whispered into his ear. "Please fuck me."

Eric smiled. His hands unbuckled the thin belt at her waist. He unzipped the black leather mini-skirt. Diane raised her hips, and he tugged the skirt down, over her sleek thighs, past her delicate knees, and down her shapely, smooth calves. She drew her legs up as he slid the skirt over her dainty feet. Carefully, he set the skirt aside.

Diane could hardly repress a giggle as she thought of the surprise she had in store for Caveman Eric. He wouldn't be much of a gentleman after he discovered her little secret. Already, she could almost feel the blows, like hammers, against her face, and she shuddered, both with fear and with desire. Beat me, she thought, but don't kill me.

Eric paused. He shook his head as he studied her shapely, tapering legs. His hand glided up and down the sleek skin that covered the well-formed limbs. "Beautiful," he whispered.

"There's more of me to see," Diane prompted, concealing her impatience with a smile.

His hands slid back up her thighs. He grasped the waistband of her panties and slid the red silk fabric down, over the tight ringlets of her blonde pubes.

Diane watched his face, studying his features intently. She focused on his eyes and mouth. Her heart beat fast, and she shivered, anticipating his reaction to his discovery of her secret. In a moment, he'd discover the truth about her. Then, he'd doff the mask of kindness and the costume of compassion and reveal his actual, bestial self, and the blows would begin to fall, mallets of his malice.

He'd paused.

What now? Diane asked herself, wanting the pretense to end and the beating to begin.

"You are gorgeous, so gorgeous," Eric murmured. He kissed the tight curls of her pubic hair.

Diane sighed, rolling her eyes, confident that, since he was scrutinizing her pubes, he wouldn't see her exasperation. "Thanks," she said, rather more curtly than she'd intended.

If he'd heard the brusqueness in her reply, he showed no sign. He gave her pubic tresses another kiss, and then finished sliding the panties down, past her crotch. Diane had, of course, tucked her penis up, between her thighs, and back, against her perineum, but the small organ had swelled and stiffened with her excitement at Eric's imminent discovery of her secret, and enough of her penis and her scrotum were visible for them to have the effect on Eric that Diane had anticipated. His eyes snapped wide, and his moth gaped.

Diane stiffened, expecting the outrage, the cursing, and the blows to follow at any moment.

Instead, Eric took her genitals in one of his huge hands, toying with them as gently as he'd caressed her breasts. "Beautiful," he said.

Shocked, Diane stared at the huge muscleman who tenderly stroked and massaged and fondled her stiff-standing penis. What the hell was this? she demanded of herself.

"You're beautiful," he said, masturbating her. "Above and below, you are gorgeous."

Diane remained tense, expecting the rage, the violence, the pain, but none came. Eric was as tender in bringing her to a climax as he was gentle, afterward, in fucking her, showing consideration and kindness in the gentle thrusts he made into her ass with his monstrous organ. He never assaulted her, sexually, physically, or otherwise.

 

Diane thought that, surely, the violence and the pain would follow on their second date. Eric was, despite his appearance, a far more sophisticated sadist than anyone she'd dated previously, she told herself. He was biding his time, setting her up, getting her to trust him, to care about him, to love him. Then, when he let the beast out, her fear and suffering would be all the more intense and enduring.

If anything, on the second date, Eric was even more tender and gentle and solicitous of her comfort and pleasure than he'd been before.

The violence didn't occur on the third date, either.

 

Finally, after they'd been together for a year, Diane decided that Eric truly did love her. He would never harm her. He would always be tender and gentle, sweet and kind. Eventually, she confided in Eric, explaining how she'd relished pain and suffering until, with his gentle, tender love, he'd made her realize that she could trust him and that love and trust were far better than humiliation and torment.

 

On their first anniversary, along with wine and roses (and some fantastic lovemaking), Eric presented Diane with an insight into the innermost depths of her soul: In all the years that she'd sought rough sex at the hands of violent bad boys, he told her, she'd been "at risk" of learning that falling in love with a goodhearted and caring man was superior by far to seeking violence and, quite possibly, death at the hands of an uncaring bastard with a penchant for hurting others. In meeting Eric, her worst fears had come true, and she had fallen in love. "Sometimes," he added, "we should be careful what we wish for, but, other times, we should wish for what we truly want more than anything else; we should wish to love and be loved by someone who is worthy of our love."

Diane became teary eyed as she kissed her man, hugging Eric close. "I love you," she said. Her voice was tremulous with gratitude, love, and need.

They made love twice more, and, in the morning, Diane was sore, but from lovemaking, not violence.

She'd found her salvation in the arms of a strong, virile, tenderhearted man who loved her for herself, and she knew that she was luckier than millions of others who settled for less because, like her, they feared that there was no one else for them but some loser who would rather beat them than to love them. Really, truly loving a woman, whether she was a genetic girl or a shemale, took a strong man who was sure of his own manhood and who loved women, whether the woman was equipped with a cunt or a cock and pair of balls.

Diane had been at risk, but she wasn't anymore.

  

  

  

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