Perhaps Claude shouldn’t have come out to the Panamanian general’s pool terrace to say good-bye. He was running late and didn’t have time for this. But General Torres’s time was his time. When the general pulled him to his side by the lounge bed, while he had his other hand under the front of his swimming trunks, stroking himself off, Claude, dressed as Claude, yielded—not without an objection designed to give Torres the impression he was irresistible.
Torres was anything but irresistible—potbellied, old, his face marred with acne scars. But he was the assignment and he was in command here. The privilege of power always held sway.
“I can’t, General. I’ll be late for work.”
“So, you’ll be late,” the general said. “Tell them I detained you. Give me some sugar.” He was pawing Claude, unbuckling and unzipping him, and pushing his trousers off his hips, working at getting to his favorite part of the small, young, stripper at the Tropicana trans bar on Calle B in the old section of Panama City. The general sat up on the lounge bed, pulled Claude’s small, lithe body into him, and buried his face in the stripper’s perfect, surgically supplied snatch, savoring the full male-to-female transformation that the Claude of the stripper’s current manifestation had turned into the Claudine of his/her act at the Tropicana.
One of the general’s beefy hands held the stripper to him with a palm on Claude’s buttocks. The other one snaked up under the hem of the shirt he was wearing to identify as male as he went out into public. The general’s hand cupped and squeezed one of Claudine’s small melon-firm breasts, designed to work as either male or female, depending on what was being worn.
The fully transformed T-girl moaned her surrender—whether genuine or feigned, the result was the same for the general—as Torres worked her cunt with his mouth and her breasts with his hand. The surgeons had made the nipples extra large and extra sensitive, which both Claude, having transformed now into Claudine, and the general were appreciating.
The general was working Claudine good now, and if she looked away, she couldn’t see the ugliness of him. She could just enjoy the expert working of his fingers and mouth on her body.
When the general reclined back on the lounge bed, he brought Claudine with him, her left leg going over the bed and her snatch settling, and then sinking, on his erection.
“Oh, Dulce Jesús—Sweet Jesus. Work me, Daddy. Screw your baby.”
For ten minutes, it was all grunts and sighs as the general grasped her waist and lifted and lowered her on his buried cock. Claudine leaned back, grasped the general’s knees and helped in the rise and fall. Looking up at the ceiling rather than at the ravished face of the general helped her arousal. The man had a strong, thick cock. As she moaned her surrender, her eyes went to the bed in the adjacent bedroom.
Rise, fall. Up, down.
“Sí, papá. ¡Vete a la mierda!—Yes, Daddy. Fuck me!”
Before she had showered and dressed as Claude to go to the Tropicana, she had been riding the cock of the Colombian drug lord who now was sprawled on his back on the bed in the room beyond the terrace, snoring away. That’s why the general had called her to his house that afternoon. The drug lord he was negotiating with needed an incentive and had never fucked a fully transformed T-girl before. Claudine did her duty as the general’s mistress. It proved to be a bonus for another set of her employers.
The general’s extra little need had made Claudine a bit late at the Tropicana, but that could wait. When, dressed again as Claude, she drove down from the hillside home overlooking the ocean in the city’s coastal suburbs. She pulled up in the drive of a house with a “for sale” sign in the yard, took the burner phone out of the concealed lining of her tote bag, and made a call. What she’d gleaned from the Colombian drug lord and what he was doing in Panama City would be of great interest to her handler.
That night, at the Tropicana club, the lights in the room dimmed and those beamed on the stage brightened as Claudine was introduced. An expectant hush fell across the crowd. A single chair was set in front of the stage, with the audience behind. An Italian industrialist was sitting in that chair. The first row of seats behind him had been cleared save for two seats for his bodyguards.
To the sound of bump and grind music, Claudine, shielded by two large, feathered fans in her hands, floated out onto stage in a long, sequined dress, sweeping to the floor, with long sleeves and a neckline high up onto her throat. She did some swaying to the music and vamping for the audience, most of whom were quiet, most not getting quite what they expected in a strip club, although a few were clapping, whistling, and shouting out encouragement to her. These were the men who had been here before.
A gasp went up around the room as the lights on the stage started to strobe, setting the sequins on Claudine’s dress to shimmer and sparkle, and she tossed the feathered fans aside . . . to reveal that, though the dress covered a lot, it didn’t cover what the men had come to see. Her bodice was cut out around her firm, small-melon breasts and then again between her hips, revealing the puffy labia of her perfectly formed, surgically supplied cunt. At that point the sensuality of the dance began, to the delight of the cat-calling male audience. As the act reached conclusion, she slowly lost the once-concealing dress, the use of concealment having accentuated focus on her lady bits.
This was a special performance for Claudine. She had an assignment. She was to dance specially for the Italian industrialist sitting right in front of the stage. She did so, coming to just in front of him, gyrating her body to the music, going down on her knees right at the front edge of the stage. She leaned back, offering her cunt to the man, working it, playing with the puffy folds of the labia, spreading the labia with her fingers, beckoning him into the passage.
“Vieni da me, ragazzone. Mettilo dentro di me!—Come to me, big boy. Put it in me!” she called out to the Italian, using the phrase in Italian she’d been given to memorize.
The man, who already had his erection out and was stroking it, answered the call, rising from his chair, taking the three small steps required to reach Claude on the low platform of the stage. She reached out with arms to gather him to her, hovering over her. Then she reached under his belly, grasped his cock, put it in place, and thrust her hips up, impaling herself on the shaft. His lips went to her nipples, one after the other.
He hovered over her, fully clothed in a tuxedo other than his unzipped fly and projecting erection, with smaller, curvy Claudine, naked, under him, moving her body languidly. Her long, lacquered fingernails flexed on his shoulders to match the rhythm of his thrusts. They fucked as the room went wild with approval.
“Sí dantron. ¡Dame tu semilla!—Yes, yes. Breed me!” she cried out as he jerked and came, jerked and came.
Later, in Luigi Salvitore’s hotel room, the Italian rolled off of her naked body and to the side, exhausted from breeding her again. He was asleep in short order, but he hadn’t gone to sleep before asking Claudine the question that she had been told to get him to ask.
“I wish you to see Naples,” he’d murmured. “I will pay for a first-class plane ticket if you will come there to me for a long weekend.”
It was exactly what Claudine had wanted to hear.
* * * *
Claude flew first class from Panama City, Panama, to Rome, Italy, with a change of planes in Miami, dressed as a male. He was a handsome enough male to be ogled and to receive attention even in that mode, but that included a gayness about him that meant those taking an interest were assessing him as a gay submissive. In the first-class lounge at the Panama City airport, Claude sensed he was getting that sort of assessment from a tall—very tall—and muscular black guy in his late twenties. He did wonder what a black guy that big and obviously athletic was doing in Panama, but, other than exchanging looks that quickly were backed up by another look from them both, Claude didn’t have his curiosity settled at that point. Though they were both in first class for the three-hour flight to Miami, they weren’t seated where they could see each other during the flight.
In his previous life, such exchanges of looks would be straightforward “can we hook up?” assessments. Claude was an obvious submissive, so there would be nothing complicated other than opportunity realized. Now, in his new life, there was the assessment complication of whether the top, who would have no idea that Claude had fully transformed into Claudine, would want that.
This break in contact only increased their obvious mutual interest when they found themselves in the first-class lounge in Miami and, even more, when they discovered they were on the same eleven-hour flight from Miami to the Rome airport, which was at Fiumicino on the Italian coast, a fifty-minute bus ride into Rome itself.
This time they were seated next to each other on the plane from Miami to Rome.
“What a coincidence,” the black giant said after the plane had reached altitude and they were being served cocktails. “Didn’t I see you in the departure lounge at Panama City? A coincidence to both be going to Rome from there and being seated next to each other.”
“Yes, a coincidence,” Claude said, noticing that it was very much apparent that the black man was taking up a whole lot more of his space, even in first class, than Claude was. It was sort of intimidating. But it was also sort of arousing. It was sculpted muscle, not fat that was taking up the space. He couldn’t help but look down at his seatmate’s basket and nearly hyperventilate at the bulge he could see there—and not just a bulge. He could see the line of a huge cock. The man dressed left—a considerable distant down his inner thigh. And he appeared to be hard. Could Claude hope that the hardness was in his honor?
“But, then, maybe your final destination isn’t Rome,” the black giant said. “It’s mine.”
“No, I’m headed for Naples. But I’m being given a couple of days in Rome before I’m being picked up to be taken to my friend in Naples. I’ve never been to Rome before and I wanted to do some sightseeing before Naples.”
“Being given a visit to Rome before being picked up by a friend in Naples?”
“Yes,” Claude answered. That’s rather an odd thing for him to say, he thought, but he was falling into what Claude was setting up to check on whether the guy was gay—and interested. And then he did fall into it.
“A male friend, I assume,” the black man followed up. “And a very good friend—perhaps an intimate friend.”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” Now that was just downright forward, Claude thought. “But why would—?”
“I guess you’re right. It’s a long flight. No need to get into that yet.”
“Into that?”
“Yes. I don’t see the need to pussyfoot around it. I’ve seen your act at the Tropicana in Panama City. I like your looks as a man, but you’re dazzling as a woman. Was that older guy in the tuxedo part of the act the other night? Do you do that with him nightly?”
So, there was no need to wonder what this guy thought about flirting with a trans. “No, he’s the man I’m visiting in Naples. He wasn’t a regular part of the act. He paid extra to become part of the act and is interested in an encore.”
“I can see where he would be. He certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. My name is Brody, by the way. Brody Anderson. I know you go by Claudine, but that is as a woman and on stage. What name to do you use as a man?”
“Claude,” came back the answer, a little testily. But then Claude relaxed. The black man was gorgeous and he’d already checked him out as a possible sex partner. He obviously was fine with fucking a trans. It was a long flight. What the hell? Claude relaxed. “You seem to know a whole lot more about me than I know about you at the moment, Mr. Anderson.”
“Brody. Call me Brody. And you know I’m a guy who came to your trans club performance at the Tropicana—three times, actually. So, you know enough about me to know why I couldn’t keep my eyes off you in the departure lounges—and in where my interests are. We can short-circuit a whole lot of beating around the bush on interests here.”
“Yes, I guess there’s that,” Claude said. His smile was returned. “If we’re sharing like this, can I ask what a guy like you was doing in Panama and why you now are going to Italy? That’s an American accent you have, I think. You seem to be traveling out of your sphere.”
“You mean what is a big black man traveling around here for—and I’m Canadian, not American. It’s about me being black—and big, isn’t it.” His hand went down to touch himself to make sure Claude understand what the reference to “big” was.
“Well, a big, muscular Canadian then. Size doesn’t scare me.” And cock size didn’t scare Claude. The surgeons knew the desired specifications for the rebuild. “Are you military or something? Because you look so squared away that you could be in some elite military force or something.”
Brody had given Claude a chance to say he didn’t want to go with a black man and Claude hadn’t raised an objection there.
“I’m a pro basketball player. In season I live in and play for Toronto. In the off season I roam around picking up summer leagues and exhibition play to up my income. I’ve just been in a Central America tournament in Panama and am on my way to the Italian summer basketball league.”
“I see. Interesting.”
“And you? You aren’t Panamanian, are you?”
“No. My mother’s Puerto Rican.”
“I wondered. I saw you flash a U.S. passport in the first-class lounge in Miami and you used the emigration check lines for Americans. Your father Puerto Rican too?”
“No. My father was Cuban, but he played in the States. He was a pro baseball player.”
“So, we have pro sports in common,” Anderson said. “Something in common among the differences.”
“The differences?”
“Yes, you being small and Latino and me being big and black.” He once again touched himself in Claude’s view to ensure the stripper got the reference. Claude, of course, did. Brody paused and added, “And you being trans and me being a committed and adventuresome top.”
“Yes, there’s that,” Claude said. “But I had good, understanding surgeons.”
“Who made you comfortable with size?”
“Yes.” Might as well make clear that Claudine had no problem with the black hunk’s size.
“Both of us being gay—sexually compatible, and players, I think we could go beyond flirting here,” Brody said.
So, there it definitively was, the “I want to fuck you, given the opportunity.” “Apparently so,” Claude said, keeping his voice quiet and calm, but looking directly into Anderson’s face, making clear he was getting the message and not rejecting the possibility. He reached over and touched the now-obviously hard cock straining at the material. “My, you are big,” he murmured.
“But the black part,” Anderson said. “I hope that doesn’t put you off or frighten you.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Claude answer. “Not any more than the size or the size difference do.”
“So, you’ve been with a black man before?”
“Yes. Fair play determines that I ask if you’ve ever been with a male-to-female trans before.”
“I’m looking forward to my first time—someday,” Anderson answered, with a smile. “Curiosity was what drew me to the Tropicana.”
After that, they moved away from the brink, each took the opportunity to do some snoozing, and when it was comfortable to chat, Anderson, who had been in Rome for summer basketball leagues before, talked of what Claude could and should see in Rome for the time he’d be there.
They stood beside each other in the baggage claim at the Fiumicino Airport, and when Claude’s bag came out the chute and he’d pulled it off the belt, Anderson touched his arm and said, “I’m being met by a car and driver. Can I give you a lift into Rome?”
“I don’t know if that will be out of your way,” Claude said.
“What hotel are you booked at?”
“I’m booked at the Best Western Prime Royal Santina next to the rail station,” Claude said.
“Another coincidence,” Anderson said, with a laugh. “That’s where I’m booked too.”
“Then I guess I would be happy for the ride.”
“I’m very much looking forward to it,” Brody said. “It will be quite a ride. Are you quite sure your surgeons provided—”
“Yes, quite sure,” Claude answered. The “where to go from here” understanding was complete.
* * * *
Knees trembling, Claudine, naked, knelt on the foot of the bed of Brody Anderson’s hotel room. He, also naked, a magnificent black god, knelt on the carpet behind her. He was palming her shimmering belly with one hand to hold her in place and was spreading her labia open with the fingers of the other hand. He was tonguing and gently nipping her labia and clit as she rocked back and forth on his buried face, moaning and groaning and whispering, “Sí, sí, sí, oh, joder, sí—Yes, yes, yes, oh fuck, yes.”
With a shudder, she came and Anderson stood, still palming her belly and spreading her labia. He put the mushroom cap of his erection in place, and she cried out her pleasure and encouragement as he slowly, ever so slowly, stretched and spread her channel with his thick, long invading cock. When fully saddled, he glided his hands up her torso to cup and squeeze her breasts and began slow pumping in the rhythm of his thrusts inside her.
Moving even further up into the clouds of arousal, she gasped and yelp and called out, “¡Oh, mierda! ¡Joder!—Oh, shit! Fuck!” as, after ten minutes of stroking inside her cunt, he changed holes, worked hard to stretch and spread her ass channel as well, moved one of his hands from her breasts back to invading and working her cunt with his fingers, as he fucked her in the ass.
There was no evidence that this was his first time fucking a male-to-female trans. He was working her like a pro.
After nearly ten more minutes of this, her knees gave out and she sank to the bed. Anderson hadn’t released yet. He ran his arms under her pits and turned them both to where he was sitting on the end of the bed and Claudine’s body, connected to him with his shaft buried up in her cunt, projected out in front of him, her legs streaming back around his hips and his hands gripping her wrists and pulling her back and forth on his cock. He fucked her to his release.
He was a master of the fuck, and she was putty in his arms. He was a bull of a man, and his big, black monster cock fully possessed and consumed her. She’d never been so stretched and possessed before. He was master and she was slave.
He turned them both again, rising to his feet and moving a panting and groaning Claudine on her back on the bed. Running his hands up her inner thighs, he spread her legs, bending them, and placing her feet flat on the mattress.
“Stay in that position,” he commanded. Trembling and panting hard she did so, the fingers of one hand going to her clit and rubbing it hard.
“Voy a llegar al clímax de nuevo—I’m going to climax again,” she whimpered.
“Yes, you are,” he assured her. He picked up the black King Cock dildo he’d used initially to open her up for him, leaned over her, clutching her throat with one hand, pressing her to the bed, and worked the dildo inside her cunt with the other hand. She writhed under him, arching her back, making gagging and groaning noises, and came as he worked the cunt with the dildo. Anderson moved the dildo to her ass and worked her there too, until, exhausted, she just collapsed under him, losing all muscle control.
He rose off her, saying, “Don’t move. Stay open. I’ll be back.” He went into the bathroom then and shut the door. She heard the shower going, but she did as he had demanded. She lay there on the bed, legs spread, moaning and groaning, panting lightly and assessing how her surgically altered body had handled the fuck.
Overall, it had been glorious.
She was careful to maintain the position the black stud had put her in, thinking he was going to fuck her again when he came out of the bathroom. But he didn’t. He did keep his eyes on her, as if he was daring her to move, while he dressed, but then, giving her a smile and a salute, he went to the door and opened it. This was certainly strange to her, because this was his hotel room.
As he exited the room, though, another man—older but with the look of an American Marine general, which was close to what he really was, entered and walked to the foot of the bed.
“Let me introduce myself,” he said. “I am Sam Winterberry. I head up a special unit of the CIA called the Candy Store. Our agents use sex to further the intelligence interests of the United States.”
“Excuse me. I don’t—”
“Shut up and listen. And don’t change your position. You must accept that you are the vulnerable one here.” He unzipped himself and pulled out a massive cock, half hard. It thickened as he stroked it and continued to talk. “I control my agents with this. You are a Cuban spy but you are going to become an American spy, as well—under me, and I mean that in all of its meanings.”
“You’ve got the wrong person. I’m just a stripper in a Panamanian club.”
“That’s just your cover. You also gather information for the Cubans using the same means the Candy Store does—through sex. You therefore won’t need much training to double for us.”
“Double for you?”
“Yes, you can continue to work for the Cubans, but you have to give us whatever you give them, and if we give you something to give them, you must do so.”
“Again, you have the wrong—”
“The Panamanian general Torres has been screwing you and is dealing with a king pin in a Colombian drug cartel, who has screwed you too. You are here in Rome because the Panamanians want to do an arms deal with an Italian arms merchant, Luigi Salvitore, and you are part of that deal too. The Cubans want to know about the arms deal. You are going to give them information on that. But you are going to give the information to us too.”
“Brody, the black stud, he—”
“Works for me, yes. He’s a Candy Store agent.”
“So our encounter wasn’t a coincidence? The flight? Staying in the same hotel here in Rome?”
“No, none of that was coincidence.”
“You had him fuck me.”
“Yes, and you don’t seem to have noticed the cameras that caught all of that.” He pointed to the devices acting as hooks the paintings each of the four walls were hung on. “The videos are insurance in case you run right back to the Cubans and fail to join us. The Cubans know Bordy works for me. He told me in passing at the door that you’re a great lay. I’m going to fuck you too, but no photos, I’m afraid.”
“Brody isn’t really a Canadian, is he?”
“No. He isn’t even Brody. He does play a mean game of basketball, though.”
“Will I see him again?”
“He did you royally, didn’t he?”
“He certainly did.”
“If you give us service that justifies rewards, yes, we can have him screw you again.”
“On Cuba. You don’t have any—”
“That U.S. passport you travel on. You’re an American citizen. You can work with us or go to prison for spying for the Cubans.”
“Bueno, joder—Well, fuck,” Claudine exclaimed and collapsed back on the bed.
“Yes, that’s the next order of business here. Spread your thighs,” Winterberry said, moving between her parted legs, saddling up and mounting her. He penetrated her very nice, surgically supplied cunt, and began to assert the Candy Story unit control.