Ticket to Paradise

by Cal Y. Pygia

 

Oh, no! Toni Matthews thought as she saw the red, blue, and amber emergency lights flashing in her rear-view mirror and heard the shrill siren of the police car shrieking like a banshee. She was being pulled over by a California Highway Patrol officer. She'd been speeding, she knew, but maybe, if she was flirtatious, the officer would let her go with a warning. It would be her luck, she thought, that the cop would be a woman instead of a man.

She watched the officer open the door to the patrol car and step out into the bright sunshine, and she smiled. The cop was a man!

He wore the familiar tan uniform, with the dark stripe down the outside legs of the trousers, brown jackboots, a wide utility belt equipped with Mace, a holstered revolver, a holstered baton, and handcuffs. A small microphone was clipped to his shoulder, and he wore mirrored sunglasses and the mandatory badges—one on his breast, the other on his hat. He walked toward Toni's Mustang convertible with a brisk, no-nonsense stride, noting to himself that the top to her car was down.

When he reached the driver's side of the vehicle, he stopped just behind the front door. "Good afternoon, ma'am," he said. "May I see your driver's license and registration, please?" The name badge on his shirt, Toni noticed, read "Rogers."

She took her license from the wallet in her purse and handed it to the officer. "The registration's in the glove compartment," she announced.

Patrolman Rogers nodded, and Toni opened the compartment, found the registration, and handed it to him.

"Do you know why I stopped you?" Patrolman Rogers asked.

Toni was tempted to answer with a smart-ass question of her own: "Don't you know why?" Instead, she said nothing, as if his question had been rhetorical.

"You were going seventy-five miles per hour in a sixty-five-mile-per-hour zone."

Still, Toni said nothing.

Abruptly, the patrolman said, his voice no longer matter of fact, but curt, "Step out of the car."

Toni released her seatbelt. She opened the door and swung her legs to her left. As she stood, she asked, "Is something wrong?"

"Step to the rear of the vehicle."

Toni obeyed his command. "Is something the matter?" she repeated.

"Put your hands on the trunk of your car, and spread your legs."

Toni frowned. She was wearing a mini-skirt, without panties, and she didn't like the idea of assuming such a position. "What?"

"You heard me!" Patrolman Rogers shoved her against the trunk.

"Ouch!" Toni cried, protesting. "You hurt me!"

"Keep your hands flat on the trunk, and spread your legs," he barked.

Toni did as she'd been told. She felt vulnerable, with nothing covering her buttocks and her genitals but the thin, tight mini-skirt.

Patrolman Rogers stepped behind her, close.

"What the hell!" Toni cried, starting, as she felt the cop's hands close over her breasts.

He heaved his shoulder against hers, shoving her forward. "Don't move!" he commanded. "Keep your palms flat on the good. I won't tell you again!"

Toni pressed her hands against the metal, remaining motionless as the patrolman squeezed her breasts in his hands.

"Smooth, but soft," he murmured. His face was close to Toni's, and she could feel the heat of his breath upon her neck and the warmth of his body against her back and buttocks.

"What the hell is this?" she demanded.

She felt his hands slide away from her breasts and down her sides. They brushed over her hips, before clutching and squeezing her ass cheeks through the thin, tight mini-skirt.

"Firm," he said, approval in his tone of voice, "but sleek. Nice!" His hands came around her upper thighs, and he slid the mini-skirt up, his fingers grasping her cock and balls. "Those are nice, too," he declared.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Toni demanded. "What's the meaning of this outrage?"

"Your driver's license lists your sex as male," Patrolman Rogers explained smugly, "but you sure don't look like a man. I had to check things out." He released her. "You're a man, all right—a drag queen."

"I am not a drag queen," Toni corrected him.

"Oh? What the hell are you, then?"

"I'm a transsexual."

Patrolman Rogers laughed. "That's the same thing, isn't it?"

"No, it most certainly is not!"

He chuckled at her outrage. "What's the difference, then?"

"A drag queen is a gay man who dresses in women's clothing," she replied. "A transsexual is a person, male or female, who is trapped in the body of the opposite sex. Physically, I'm a man—except for my breasts—or in spite of my breasts—but, psychologically, I'm a woman."

Patrolman Rogers laughed again, more loudly. "Maybe you're just fucking nuts," he challenged her.

"Am I under arrest?"

The patrolman gave her a measured, appraising look. Maybe this bitch had more spunk than he'd given her credit for, he thought. "No, you're not under arrest."

"Then I'm free to leave?"

"Yes."

Toni took her hands off the trunk of her car. She stormed past Patrolman Rogers, and returned to the driver's side of her Mustang. She opened the door, climbed behind the steering wheel, and slammed the door shut. Before she could start her engine, however, Patrolman Rogers was beside her, a ticket in his hand.

"Don't forget this," he said, passing the ticket to her.

"You're giving me a ticket?" she protested.

He grinned. "Don't worry. It's just a warning ticket."

She snatched the ticket from his hand. "Anything else?" she demanded.

"Just this."

He handed her a slip of paper.

"What's this?"

"My telephone number."

"Why would I want your telephone number?"

"I think you're hot," he confessed, "despite—or maybe because of—your extra equipment. Call me."

Toni started her engine. She was careful not to peel rubber as she left the shoulder and reentered the freeway's traffic, leaving the patrolman standing on the side of the highway. As he receded into the distance, his erect figure, in the starched uniform, became smaller and smaller. Toni was glad to be rid of him.

 

Patrolman Rogers had been handsome, though, Toni thought. He was tall, solidly built, with a great body—wide shoulders, deep chest, flat stomach, and muscular arms and legs. From what she'd seen of the back and sides of his head, he had curly black hair. She hadn't seen his eyes behind the mirrored sunglasses, but she imagined that they were the color of dark chocolate. Of course, they might be blue or green or hazel or even golden. His authoritative manner had been exciting, too, if, at the same time, obnoxious. She glanced at the slip of paper on which he'd written his name, "Dave," and his telephone number. "I think you're hot," he'd admitted, "despite—or maybe because of—your extra equipment. Call me."

Should she?

She recalled the way he'd taken charge of her, ordering her to place the flats of her hands against her trunk and spread her legs. Then, he'd felt her up, squeezing her breasts in his powerful hands, caressing her sides, and gripping the cheeks of her ass. He'd made rude remarks as he'd manhandled her, too, which, at the time, she'd found offensive, but now seemed erotic. When he'd grabbed her cock and balls, Toni thought she'd get an erection. If she'd had, she'd have been mortified. Fortunately, she hadn't, although she almost certainly would have, had Dave persisted in fondling her genitals. She'd been aroused, as well as angered, by his impersonal treatment. The way he'd ordered her about, the manner in which he'd treated her—as if she were a thing, rather than a person—and the insulting comments he'd made to her, all disgusting at the time, now seemed somehow sexy. Toni's cock was hard beneath the thin, tight fabric of her mini-skirt. She hoisted the pleated skirt and glanced down at her penis. It stood upright, stiff and swollen, above the risen balls within her taut scrotum. Toni lowered her right hand into her lap, wrapped her fingers around her erect penis, and began to stroke herself as she thought of the nasty way Patrolman Dave Masters had treated her. She realized that she was a masochist, but the recognition, although disturbing, was also sexy.

As she masturbated, she recalled his stern tone of voice, his curt manner, his arrogant behavior, now insulting, now dismissive, and the brutish way he'd clutched and squeezed her breasts, buttocks, and genitals, as if she were an animal to do with as he pleased. On top of his abusive treatment, he'd had the audacity to demand that she telephone him. No doubt, he intended to abuse her further, perhaps on a regular basis.

Toni's cock had swelled further, and it was harder, too. She pumped her hand harder and faster, as her curled fingers tightened on the straining shaft, images of Patrolman Rogers flashing in her mind—the mirrored sunglasses that showed her own anxious face, rather than his eyes, the police uniform, the belt equipped with the tools of his violent trade—a revolver, Mace, a baton, handcuffs—the highly polished jackboots, the badge, his powerful hands kneading her breasts. She recalled his harsh words, the insults he'd uttered, and his heartless laughter at her transsexuality. When she'd tried to explain that she was a woman trapped in a man's body, he'd laughed harshly and declared, "Maybe you're just fucking nuts." Her penis began to wilt. Suddenly, Patrolman Rogers' abusive treatment of her no longer seemed sexy. It seemed cruel and hurtful. Her prick softened more, dwindling in her hand. She released the softening, shrinking organ as a tear coursed down her cheek.

The memory of his uncaring laughter flooded her with memories of the way others—mostly men—had treated her and recollections of her transsexual sisters' horror stories. Men like Dave Rogers had savagely beaten transsexuals. Some shemales had even been killed by men who'd regarded them as freaks. Even gay men sometimes attacked transsexuals, regarding them not as queer but as beyond queer. Patrolman Rogers cared nothing about Toni or her plight as a woman trapped inside a man's body.

Toni had been a female, inside, as long as she could remember, but society, her parents included, had insisted she behave as the boy whom, according to her genitals, she was. She'd been denied dolls, tea parties, sleepovers, skirts and dresses and panties and jewelries, the company of boys, and the thousand other pleasures, large and small, that genetic girls enjoyed simply by being themselves.

Although Toni was beautiful, and more attractive than many genetic women, she had to be careful with her every mannerism, her every gesture, and her every word, to make sure she didn't slip. The way she held herself, the way she walked or sat, the way she crossed her legs—any, or all, of these things or any of a hundred others—could give her away as an imposter, as a "female impersonator" rather than a woman in the making. In calling her a "drag queen," Patrolman Rogers had voiced one of Toni's deepest secret fears—that others would consider her to be a man in women's clothing rather than a woman trapped inside a man's body who was taking measures to correct nature's mistake. She'd undergone hours of counseling, hormone therapy, painful electrolysis, and even a few operations, although she planned to keep her penis and testicles. She had full, feminine breasts, a round bottom, killer legs, and a lovely face. She felt like the woman she was inside or, rather, like a new creature, part male and part female without being either. She felt like a third sex, and her androgynous nature thrilled and excited her. She was content to have both feminine breasts and womanly buttocks while retaining her masculine genitals. Many transsexuals were likewise satisfied to remain both and neither sex; not all went through the complete cycle, submitting to castration and the replacement of their penises and testicles with man-made vaginas, fashioned from their inverted penises and fitted with labia created from a roll of abdominal fat or other tissue. Toni was one of these stunning creatures, a shemale, or ladyboy, who was both male and female while being neither sex.

Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, warm and heavy, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. The patrolman's cruel laughter and abusive manner flashed in her mind, and she felt miserable. Most of the time, her masochistic thoughts were pleasant, because fanciful, but she found no pleasure in the memory of the cop's harsh laughter and his challenge that maybe, instead of a victim of gender dysphoria, Toni was just "fucking nuts." To add insult to injury, the bastard had even had the gall to give her his telephone number and command her to call him!

Through the veil of her tears, Toni saw the slip of paper on which he'd written his name and number. She snatched it from the seat beside her and tossed it out of her vehicle. A gust of wind caught the paper, and the slip somersaulted through the air, zipping past the cars and trucks behind Toni's Mustang.

She smiled, glad to be rid of the bastard.

A moment later, red, blue, and amber emergency lights flashed in her rear-view mirror and she heard the shrill siren of the police car.

Damn! She was being pulled over by another California Highway Patrol officer.

She drove off the highway, onto the shoulder, and stopped. The police cruiser rolled to a halt behind her, and the door on the driver's side of the vehicle opened. A smaller version of Patrolman Rogers exited the police car. This patrolman wore the same starched uniform, the same badge, and the same equipment of revolver, cuffs, Mace, and baton, but no sunglasses, mirrored or otherwise. As the patrolman approached Toni, she saw that this officer also wore makeup—nothing heavy, just a hint of eye shadow, blush, and lip gloss—and she had long hair, done up in a bun, and there was a hint of her ample breasts beneath the heavy fabric of her shirt. Her name badge read "J. Summers." What did the "J" stand for? Toni wondered. Jennifer? Julie? Jane? Janet?

"Do you know why I stopped you?" the police officer asked.

It seemed unlikely to Toni that she'd get off with another warning. As it was, it had been something of a miracle, she'd thought, to receive a warning ticket from Patrolman Rogers, especially considering his insensitive and abusive manner. Then, she remembered that most abusive husbands treated their wives with gentleness and tenderness and apparent love after beating them half to death so their women would be confused enough to stay with their abusers and submit, again and again, to more abuse, until they finally wised up enough to divorce the creeps or ended up on a coroner's slab. She assumed that the warning ticket—which came with Patrolman Rogers' telephone number—had been a similar ploy. No, she wouldn't be fortunate enough to get a second warning ticket, not unless. . . . Until she'd realized that this patrolman wasn't a man, but a woman, Toni had considered offering him a blowjob if he'd let her off with a warning. After all, the fine for littering, which had to be the reason she'd been stopped, was stiff in California--$1,000. She didn't mind sucking a cop's cock for a grand, but, of course, she had a bit of a problem. This cop, who had her ticket book open, with pen poised, wasn't a man.

"Ma'am?" the officer repeated, "Do you know why I stopped you?"

"You're feeling horny?" Toni asked, as if she were joking. There was no humor in her eyes, though, and there was no mistaking the invitation that her tone of voice implied.

The cop's eyes narrowed. She looked offended and angry.

Toni gulped. "I'm sorry, if—"

"Don't be sorry," J. Summers interrupted. "You're right. I am horny."

Toni flashed a bright smile. "Your car or mine?"

"Actually, I'm due to get off in ten minutes. I was on my way home when I saw that paper fly out of your car."

"Your place, then?"

J. Summers smiled, revealing white, even teeth between soft, sensuous lips. "You can follow me."

Toni hesitated. "There's just one thing."

"What's that?"

Toni fished in her purse and found her license, the one that identified her as a male. She handed the license to the police officer. "I'm a transsexual."

Officer Summers smiled. "That's no problem," she announced. "I think transsexuals are the sexiest creatures on the planet—especially transsexuals as gorgeous as you." She handed Toni her license back, and the shemale returned it to her purse. She watched as the cop returned to her car. J. Summers was sexy as hell, Toni thought, with full breasts, a tight, round bottom, and long legs that would be sleek as silk. Although Toni preferred men to women, she also liked to make love to someone of her own sex on occasion, and Patrolman J. Summers was a beautiful lesbian, no doubt about it. It would be a pleasure to bring her pleasure—and Toni would save a thousand dollars, too.

As she followed the police car back into the freeway traffic, Toni grinned, thinking that, if Patrolman Rogers had issued her a ticket to hell, Officer Summers had given her a ticket to paradise.

  

  

  

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