Joyce and Francis

II Joyce and Francis

I

Francis Bloom felt stung: he had never felt this way before about anyone, let alone a beautiful girl who happened to have an equally beautiful dick. But: "...she is beautiful." Bloom thought. "But what does she want?" These thoughts mumbled and knocked about in his mind as he walked to and from class.

Sometimes he looked at nothing but the cold sidewalk of the Diag: the main campus walk way at Arbordale University. Arbordale was a big little Midwest town in love with football and Michigan Autumns and freshmen girls and boys who all look like abbreviated versions of Barbra Streisand and Liza Minnelli. Other times Bloom would look up, see the girls and boys, and only see her face: Joyce, the only one of all these people who would not leave his mind.

And then one day, a month or so after that day in the coffee shop, Bloom called her.


Meanwhile, Joyce had done her best to push Bloom out her mind, but cliff diving into her studies didn't work. For every equation, every paper, every push of her pencil, all Joyce could see was Bloom's cock. She loved how it curved off to the side a little with the apple-sized head playfully bouncing like a flower on its stem gently waving under an afternoon summer's sun.

She wanted him badly, even after a month or so apart.

When they were together, she had wanted him to part her ass and shove that thing deep inside her. She dreamed of Bloom's cock filling her up as she had frequently done for him. Nevertheless, all he ever wanted was to have her inside him. He wanted her come but could or would not give his to her.

And then, the night before Bloom called, she met Angela.

It was at Seva: a local vegetarian restaurant in town. What began as a quesadilla dinner for one soon became much more.

From across the room as the after work crowd left and the early evening singles slowly trickled in, Joyce's soft blue-grey eyes met Angela's dark and strikingly brown stare. Like Joyce, she too was alone. She sat next the window as the light of the setting sun shone through the raven caramel black-brown of her hair.

When she thought Joyce was returning her gaze, she would toss her head casually to the side: letting her thick locks absently dance about her shoulders like wild horses racing in a field of harvest wheat. In short order Joyce had had enough.

She called out to her server: "Excuse me Ms."
"Yes," a cute blonde woman perked.
"You see that woman over there, sitting next to the window?" Her server nodded. "Would you please send her a drink: whatever she is having, and put it on my bill?"


Joyce felt uneasy: she wasn't sure how her gesture would be taken. As the server brought the woman her drink, Joyce and the lovely stranger acknowledged a silent " thank you" and "you're welcome" from across the room. Joyce then returned to her meal. Moments later, she looked up. There before her stood the mysterious woman: tall and sleek, dressed in a wine colored form fitting cotton dress that stopped somewhere just below the supple curves of a pair of hips that completed the shape of a perfect hourglass. She struck a casual balance, shifting gently from side to side: a Venus apex of delicate ankles and a rose painted pedicure kissing black leather spaghetti strap high heels and oh so subtle wantoness.

Joyce silently thought to herself that the woman looked "Almost as if she had been poured into a perfect lead crystal glass from a carafe of rare wine first bottled a long, long time ago."

"Thank you for the Bordeaux," her peach colored lips pouted. "My name is Angela. May I sit down?"

They exchanged names and smiles and for the rest of the meal the two women were inseparable. Afterwards they shared a movie at the Michigan Theater and after that…

…the two walked together through the mild and warm autumn night.

"I have to tell you something," Joyce said as the two walked.

Angela took a deep breath. "Yes, me too."
They paused and looked at each other.
"You go first," Joyce said.
Angela thought for a moment. "No, you go," she gently smiled.
"I really like you Angela, but I have to tell you. I'm a--uh…" she swallowed hard.
"Gay?" Angela tried to complete her words.
"Transsexual," Joyce said. "I am a transsexual."

II

So, the memory of last night was still fresh in Joyce's thoughts when her phone rang.
"Hello, Joyce?" It was Bloom.
"Francis!" She sounded a little surprised. "How are you?"
"I left Adam and Johnny," Bloom said. "I found a little studio on Williams Street."
"That's nice," she held. "But how are you doing?"
"Oh, just fine," he lied.

Bloom had indeed moved out on his own, but was he fine? Neither you dear reader nor I truly know for sure.

He wasn't seeing anyone, or at least not seeing anyone seriously. For affection however, Francis bought his first dildo: a seven-inch silicone toy he did not quite know what to do with at first. Eventually, he purchased a bulb douche kit and began thoroughly cleaning himself especially before playing with his new toy.




Moreover, between the J-Lube, the Rush, and the seemingly endless string of T-girl Porn Websites, Francis had convinced himself that all was well. He kept telling himself that every pretty face of every girl with a cock and cum dripping from her wet lips wasn't Joyce's face and it didn't matter. He kept saying to himself that the Rush made all those t-women his: they were all there to fuck him again and again and again and then go away as silently as they came. Their memory washed away like so much excess lube, leaving only the slightest towel stain as evidence.

He kept telling himself as he bounced up and down, dancing on his silicone toy, that he was moving freely from one orgy to the next: one pool of lust and sweat and ass juice to the next thunderous squirting of cum from his trusty dick into the empty air of his apartment.

In Francis' thoughts then, everything was just fine.

"Fine?" Joyce asked."Are you sure?"

Bloom wanted to tell her how he really felt. He wanted to scream out how he dreamt of fucking her ass: night after night, the same dream of pumping his cock in and out of the tunnel of her deepest sex from the bottom of her spine to the back of her beautiful throat. He wanted to confess how when he fucked his own ass, he was fucking hers: every stroke, every sliding rubber inch, up and down. The most comfortable twist of a plunging cock knocking at his inner sphincter until his welcoming butthole blossomed and gave up its secrets. Yet, with this on his mind, all he could manage was an almost muffled cry.

"I need you, I can't make it any longer without you," he said. "I--I…"
She cut him off. "Stop, Francis, stop right there. Wait a minute." She put her phone down, then walked away and looked out her window onto the tranquil tree lined street of her neighborhood.

Her thoughts drifted back to last night and Angela. "Oh sweet Angela," she said under her breath. "Oh my dear."

The two women made love last night; in fact, Angela had just left when Bloom called. The two women had made love one more time earlier that morning. Nevertheless, it was last night's fucking, Joyce thought of now. The sweet lovemaking and fucking she had longed for so long.

Joyce instinctively knew what Angela would look like completely naked. Still the sight of her nude body the night before had taken her breath away. Her generous cock, rivaled only by her long smooth body, slowly stiffened to attention the moment her eyes feasted on Joyce.

Joyce, who's equally perfect body and ample dick by then, was also naked. The two T-Women drank in the sight of each other then fell into a wave of kisses and moans, their swords of flesh throbbing absently between the press and gathering passion of their bodies.

Standing at her window in the light of day, Joyce remembered everything about the night before.
She could feel her mouth remember being stuffed to its bottom, sucking on Angela's girth, her tonsils nuzzling the bulbous head with every gag, then every swallow. Her own cock remembered impaling and flooding Angela's sweet depths, her rich and creamy ass cheeks flexing around Joyce's persistent dick.

And her ass remembered first the lovely delicate rimming tongue of Angela's clever mouth, then the deep earthy thrusts of that thick and juicy dick. Joyce loved that monster pushing into her bottom. She loved its fullness stretching far into the caverns of her body: as empty as a well fucked cunt is deep. She loved the feel of Angela's pendulous breasts. And the sound, they along with her own, made as the pounding, slapping flesh against flesh, body against body, melted into a saltwater taffy storm of orgasm and the mutual cry of release.

Joyce also remembered this morning when Angela awoke, still hard from the night before. Without asking, she ploughed balls deep into Joyce's pretty behind. Joyce woke up soon thereafter with her hips moving back and forth in time with Angela's beautiful and beastly pussy on a stick. But something in the back of her mind did not flow well with Angela's morning fuck.

To Joyce, this was more like fucking and what she wanted ultimately was to make love. She wanted the Helena Bonham Carter romance like in Wings of the Dove. She wanted to be wooed and pampered and always courted.

She liked being a "piece of ass meat" from time to time and under any other circumstance, Angela's or someone else's cock up her ass first thing in the morning would work well. Joyce had to admit it though; Angela's dick was truly a work of art: it was truly a pleasure to have her first fuck then come all over her pretty ass first thing in the morning as the sun came up. That's when Joyce turned from the window and picked up the phone she put down a few moments ago.

"Francis, you still there?" she asked.
"Yeah, is everything o.k.?" Francis replied. "You were gone so long."
"No, things aren't bad. I guess you're calling because--"
"You were right," he jumped in."I want to give us another chance. I mean if you want..."
"Oh Francis," she said. She was not going to tell him she loved him and she was not going to let him say it either. She wanted something from him first and one way or the other, she was going to get him exactly where she wanted him. "I 'm not a bitch," she said flatly.
"I never said you were," Francis pleaded.
"You didn't have to," she returned. "I felt it coming off you like---" she stopped herself.
"Look sweetheart, I'll do anything you say. I lov---"
"Anything?" she shot in, cutting him off once more.
"Anything," he said. "I lov--"
"Don't tell me you love me," she interrupted. "Not yet at least. Not until you entertain me and a girlfriend of mine."
"Entertain?" he asked.
"Don't worry; we're not going to break the bank or anything. But before either one of us tell each other something one of us may not mean---"
"But baby, I do mean---"
"Save it," she said. "If it means anything, I can guarantee you're gonna really like my girlfriend."
"Yeah, but I can also guarantee you, I don't want no one else but you."
"We'll see," she said. "Meet us at the Aut Bar this Saturday at 8:30."
"Fine, o.k. . . Aut Bar this Saturday 8:30. I'll be there."
"Sweet," she beamed hanging up the phone. "Very sweet." She smiled inwardly to herself and caressed her breasts slightly. "Hmmm. I am just a little bit of bitch." She allowed, walking over to her study desk and picking up one of her school textbooks. "We'll see who the bitch is," she softly chuckled. "We'll see."

Next part TBA. "Joyce, Francis and Angela"