Sissy Godiva

ISBN 9781611524840 Cover Design:
Written Ink Designs
| written-ink.com Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License. All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

I’m no queer, no stinking way!
You know, we’re just friends, went to school together and know each other from the neighborhood, that’s all.
Yeah, sure, sure.
But I know that when I first laid eyes on Sissy Godiva, it was love at first sight. What else could it be? I’d follow her anywhere and do anything her little heart desired.

Oh, what rot! Being in love with a stinking fag boy? That’s crazy, nuts, absurd, perverse
. Still, when I saw her dressed as a girl I was struck dumb, unable to do anything except watch her standing with her mouth slightly open as she puffed on her cigarette, then turned and disappeared into the crowd on the New York City street.

Hell, I knew who she was. A few years back I’d been in high school with her, a dull little snotty, faggoty kid that I kept away from, and she’d been smart enough to keep away from me, too.
Damn, I wasn’t a fag like her!
Yet I had to admit she was really cute in her fake feminine way, and she must have known she had me. After all, I’d seen Sissy Godiva a few times that summer, even followed her home at a safe distance one evening—I thought she was stoned and wanted to make sure she was okay—as she pranced around in her girly clothes. I knew instantly what she really was, a transvestite. Still, did I really care?
Hell, no!
Some trannies make beautiful women, and I desperately wanted her. But watching her walk in her very tight clothes—her leggings looking painted on, with a certain bulge at her crotch—I almost ejaculated in my pants as she sashayed down the street. I didn’t know what to do, what to think.
Say something, you asshole! Okay, I’m not queer!
But I felt like a jerk.
Oh, don’t be such a moron, stay away from those fake women. But she sure was damned pretty, in her trannie way. Aw, hell, I should have at least smiled at her, winked and said, “Hey, baby, how you doing?”

But saying something cool wasn’t my way of doing things—as if I knew how to do them anyway—especially in the free love sixties, all sex, drugs, and rock and roll. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t cool at all. Shy, yes, and timid and tongue-tied in the face of someone smirking and grinning at me, then just disappearing down the street.
Bitch, cunt, whore! But wish we could’ve disappeared together, maybe I’d even have taken her up to the roof. No one was ever up there. I sure would go up there and have sex with her.

But I didn’t have the nerve to do that with a
boy
pretending to be a
girl,
did I? What for, I thought.
I’m not queer!
After all, Sissy Godiva was really Joseph, a snotty, wimpy sissy, a girlie boy, someone who lisps and talks funny—but who still had the courage to dress as a woman and get away with it. Men were after her, I knew that. There were even bars for them, trannie bars like the Giddy Up! Bar on Avenue A. I sulked, staring at the anonymous Lower East Side crowd on the street, then I started hurrying home to jerk off.
Story of my life.

But she’s a stinking fag transvestite, what do you think you gonna do with one of those?
Sissy Godiva had already transformed herself from a boy into a girl. Was I supposed to do the same if I wanted to get with her?
What would that look like? Real cute,
I imagined, but frowned as I went into my apartment building.
You’re a moron. She thinks you’re a jerk and doesn’t really like you. I was being nothing but a fool, a big asshole fool!

By then I’d made it up to the top floor, where I lived with Mom. As I always did, I glanced back down the stairs. I stood on the landing and pulled my prick out and began to jerk off.
Where was old Mr. Phillips
,
our next-door neighbor? Was he looking? Asshole, let him look!
I’d been rubbing myself all the way up and now began masturbating for real. A few strokes and the jism came barreling up and out, a hungry explosion that blasted out of my cock-head to a welcoming and cheering public thronged on the stairs below—or so I imagined.

Did I hear the peephole drop on his door? Damn, he’s always in, probably peeking through his keyhole and jerking off. I felt myself turn red, but I started smirking. Oh, to hell with Mr. Phillips, that old perverted faggot!

I pulled down my trousers and underwear and sat in the armchair I’d positioned months ago before the full-length mirror next to my bed. It was a comfortable old chair that I’d dragged up from the street. It had seemed to take hours bringing it up four flights by myself, but I was glad I had it. It was my favorite spot in the apartment—well, whenever Mom wasn’t home. I’d sit naked in the chair, just imagining someone like Sissy Godiva all dressed up. Or undressed. I’d stroke my dick, pulling the shaft up and down, a gentle, tender stroke, a squeeze, a tweak. I’d imagine she smiled shyly before her wet lips started dancing around my cock, gulping it down.
Oh, baby, suck it!

I was near to cuming, my cock-head pulsing and shining at me but I wouldn’t touch myself.
Oh, no!
Letting my hunger ache itself out, feeling my arousal desperately near to erupting, scratching at me, tearing my veins and skin apart, though I only let myself gently caress my constricted balls and never once held my penis as I awaited the satisfying eruption. And slowly, very slowly, I could feel it…building and bubbling through me…

…and Sissy Godiva would be there, my aching penis bobbing before her as she dipped her tongue to it, licking, kissing, swallowing the massive organ and having to open her mouth wider and wider to take it, until she almost tore her mouth, until she finally made one last lunge and swallowed me whole.

Oh God, I was cuming!
My spasm erupted from my cock, my obedient hands gripping the chair painfully as the semen shot towards my face, my open mouth, my tongue eager for my own scum.
God, it was beautiful!
I was ready to slurp in gallons of my own scum if only Sissy Godiva would spill hers on me, too.

Sissy Godiva, what a wonderful name. I don’t know how she got it, but there were stories, rumors, hints that she’d been seen sashaying naked along St. Marks Place wearing just a boa. Some said she’d had nothing else on but her skin, others said that she’d been wearing flesh-colored leggings, and still others said they’d seen her wearing pink leggings. But leggings or not, and whatever their color, everyone said her stiff penis stood straight out, outlined in the leggings—if she was wearing any leggings. The legend of Sissy Godiva was born right then and whipped through the neighborhood. After that, I watched desperately for her, though I felt like just another bystander trying to catch her eye her whenever I saw her.

I was still spurting when I squeezed my penis, gripping the yearning, spitting muscle as it cried for another release and… o
h, God, there it was again,
a second explosion tearing through me! But this time it trickled out, dripping weakly, then making one final spurt.

I was totally wasted, panting chaotically.
But, oh boy, that was nice, real nice.
Then I heard a sort of rubbing, or tapping, as if someone was feeling the apartment door. I heard it again, then a cough and someone clearing their throat.

“Vinnie,” a voice called, “can you do me a favor?” I heard the rubbing sound again. I sighed. It was fruity old Mr. Phillips, my next-door faggot neighbor. “I’m all out of cigarettes,” he called.

What the fuck?
I pulled my pants back up, frowning that my scum had splashed onto my yellow T-shirt. I was sure he’d seen me jerking off in the hallway. I shrugged and went to door, opening it a little. Mr. Phillips was leaning on our doorframe. His legs were really weak and he always had to hold onto the wall or furniture when he tried to walk, drag himself along, and lean hard on something whenever he tried to stand.

“Hi,” I said, trying to look sleepy, as if I’d just woken up. “What is it?”
He looked me up and down, rubbed his mouth. As usual, he had no pants or even underpants on, just a shirt that he hadn’t even buttoned up.
“I was wondering, when you go out again, would you get me a pack of Newport cigarettes? You know, those sissy cigarettes I smoke? I do adore those menthol ciggies—you got some for me last week and I still have a few left, so no rush. But I’ll be out by this evening, so please can you do that for me?” He winked at me and smiled like a girl, faggoty old Mr. Phillips. I felt my dick twitch.
I yawned at him again. Then I noticed his penis, half hidden by his shirttails, stiff and staring out at me. I felt myself start to blush.
I cleared my throat. “You have to give me the money,” I said, then yawned again.
“Yes, yes. Here’s a dollar, that should be enough for two packs of Newports. That’ll last me till next week. Sorry if I woke you up, didn’t know you’d be in bed this early.” He winked and licked his lips. “What a nice boy, and in bed so early, too. Hmm, I’d love to see that. Oh, yes, and keep whatever change is left. You’ve earned it.”
Not bad. I nodded at him, thinking. Forty cents for one pack, eighty for two, and that would leave me twenty cents. I could get a pretzel and a soda with that. He’d told me to keep the change last week, too. I yawned at him again.
“Okay, when I go out I’ll get the cigarettes.” I made a move to take his dollar bill and shut the door.
“You’re very sweet. You should come by. I hardly ever see you anymore.” He blew me a kiss.
I felt my face turn bright red.
What the fuck was that about, blowing me a kiss?
I didn’t know what to do for a moment, then blew him a kiss in return.
“Such a nice boy,” he said. “I like boys like you.” He winked at me.
I started to close the door and said, “okay, I’ll get them later today, when I go out.”
“Take your time, sweetie. Take your time,” he winked again as I shut the door on him.
“Jesus,” I muttered, and went back to my chair. I was still hard and my cock was aching for another release. I thought how often I’d used to drop in on Mr. Phillips. I squirmed
uncomfortably.
Oh, to hell with him! Just get him the stupid Newport cigarettes, the favorite of faggot smokers like Mr. Phillips, who really know how to suck them up.
I laughed and decided to go out. I got up and went out of the apartment.
Mr. Phillips was still there, standing stooped in front of his apartment door like he’d dropped something and was picking it up. He stood up and his penis sprang out from under his shirt again. He turned red.
“Don’t forget my Newports, sweetie,” he sang out, his halfhard penis swaying before him.
I felt myself turn red, too, and muttered, “yeah, yeah,” going down the stairs, thinking about his penis.

It was early afternoon, just past twelve, and 1
^st
Avenue was packed with trucks and cars streaming who knows where. An early-August heat wave had oppressed the city for days, and there was no relief in sight. The diner on the corner, the East Side Cafeteria, was packed with people eating lunch.

I went up to the cash register just inside the front door. A fat Polish woman was doling out change to a customer. The name “Sophie” was embroidered above her large left breast. I loved our European neighborhood, Polish, Italian, Ukrainian, who knew what you were going to get? I grinned at her.

“Two packs of Newports,” I said, leaning on the counter, glancing from the robust Sophie to the candy on display in the glass case she sat behind.

“Wait your turn, honey,” she said, sparing me a glance from the customer. “I don’t understand young people any more,” she said to him. “They don’t have any manners.”