From: thebard@char.vnet.net (The Bard)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.erotica
Subject: Grounded
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Date: 15 Feb 1994 15:42:31 -0500
Organization: Smut Lobby
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Keywords: mm trans teen
X-Moderator-Review: 3: black hookers and transvestites are getting old by now

Archive-name: grounded

                Grounded
                  Magoo


    "You're grounded!" Jake's father yelled at him.

    Jake looked from his father's red-face to his mother. 
As usual she was nodding her head like one of those 
novelty doggies people use to keep in the back of their 
car. She always did that when his father started yelling-- 
silently nodded her agreement no matter how wrong the 
blow-hard was. And tonight he was as wrong as ever. Friday 
night. All the kids were out at the burger joints with
their cars and girls; everybody except him because his 
blow-hard father wanted to make some stupid point about 
grades.

    "This is the worst report card I've seen. You're a 
disgrace as a son!"

    Fuck you, Jake said to himself looking away. Here it 
comes.

    "You're gonna wind-up bum digging ditches, if you're 
lucky. When I was your age an education was something only 
the rich could get. Now....."

    Jake wished he was big enough to take his father out. 
On could whack across his fat mouth was all he'd like to 
give him. A good whack and then saying something real cool 
like, "You fat bald-headed dreeb. I'll kick your ass if 
you ever raise your voice at me again."

    Maybe next year if he put on more weight. Gotta get on 
one of the teams-- wrestling, soccer, anything to bulk up 
so I can take the blow-hard out nice and clean; no 
wrestling on the kitchen floor with mama screaming to stop 
or anything; just one clean Mike Tyson knock-out punch.

    "No go to your room and stay their all weekend. And 
while you're there I suggest you do a little studying, 
dumbkopf!"

    What did the fuck call me? a voice in Jake's head 
screamed. He looked to his mother in protest and there she 
was just nodding her head as if she hadn't heard a thing. 
Crestfallen, Jake walked to his room.

    "The little shrimp ain't no son of mine, I tell you. 
No sir, Ethel. That ain't my kid. We got brains on my side 
of the family."

    "That's quite enough, Bill. Don't overdo it."


    Jake slammed the door to his room. "`That's quite 
enough Bill...Don't overdo it...'" Is that all she can 
say? His own mother, and that was all she could say....

    From his window, Jake saw them as they walked to the 
driveway to the car. Mom wasn't too bad, but the Blow-hard 
had asshole written all over him. A suit and a tie. Nobody 
wore a suit and tie anymore. At least Mom looked kinda 
cool in a almost mini-skirt. She could still getaway with 
a dress like that. She was built like him-- small-boned 
and lean; delicate. What was it the girls always told him?
"Jake, you've got such good bone structure. Boy, would you 
have made a beautiful girl."

    Jake turned from the window and walked from his room. 
He went through the living room to the kitchen and opened 
the refrigerator. He removed his father's two remaining 
bottles of Sam Adam beer from the shelf. "Fuck 'em," he 
cursed outloud, thinking about his father's mouth-frothing 
warnings regarding Jake's beer drinking. "Fuck 'em."

    After polishing off the first beer, the thing he 
wanted to do-- needed to do -- became clear. He went to 
his room, slipped-in Meat Loaf's Bat Out of Hell II into 
the deck and turned it up full blast. The old house began 
to shake. Then, holding the second beer firmly in his 
hand, he went from his own room to their room down the 
hall. He kicked the door open. "Twin fucking beds. I don't 
blame Mom."

    Besides the twin beds everything else in their room 
was like out of a magazine. Real people didn't sleep here; 
"Gee-zuz, no wonder why I'm fucked up with parents like 
these."

    Jake placed the beer on the desk nearby the door and 
went to the chest-of-drawers. He bent down and opened the 
bottom draw. The panties were neatly folded in two rows. 
He hesitated for a moment, then reached for the sole black 
pair. Opening another draw he extracted a bra and a pair 
of panty-hose. He then placed all three items on his 
father's bed and went to the closet. After rummaging in 
here for a moment he found what he was looking for-- the 
red mini-skirt his mother had stopped wearing years 
earlier. He threw this on his father's bed then rummaged 
around on the floor until finding the stiletto heels he 
was looking for. He then stepped from the closet to the 
bed and gazed on the bounty. A crazy sticky warm started 
in his chest, then a delicious tighting over the surface 
of his scrotum. He let out a horse laugh. He went for the 
bottle of beer and consumed it in one long chug-a-lug. 
"Fuck 'em."

    A half-hour later, he teetered from the house to the 
garage and rolled his BMX bike out into the driveway. The 
stiletto heels were like walking on stilts but he didn't 
mind. Once on the bike, he found that the mini-skirt made 
riding extremely difficult, but he didn't mind this 
either. By the time he reached Tom's house he was 
exhausted. Tom's bedroom was around back. Jake rode past 
the front door, down the driveway to Tom's bedroom window. 
He placed his BMX down and tapped on the window.

    "Holy shit!" Tom said.

    Jake did not hear these words, but rather, read them 
from Tom's lips. Tom frantically opened the window.

    "Jake, what the fuck are you doing?"

    "My dad, grounded me, so I'm gonna make a few extra 
bucks turning tricks."

    "Wha-- are you out of your fucking mind? You look like 
a hooker!"

    "That's the general idea. C'mon, I'll let you be my 
pimp. We'll split everything 50-50."

    Jake could see Tom was quickly getting over his shock. 
Money had a way of doing that to Tom.

    "Jeez, do you think you can really pull it off?" he 
wanted to know.

    "Sure; I mean, how complicated can it be?"

    "Yeah...Ok, let me get my bike."

    A few minutes later, the two were biking down Kennedy 
street on their way to Martin Luther King Avenue. Once 
there Jake told Tom where to stand and what to do. He had 
figured the whole thing out while they were riding over. 
The intersection of King and Kennedy was a known hooker 
stroll. There were lots of little nooks and cranny's were 
the pimps could hide while they kept an eye on their 
hookers.

    "Ok, ok, you stay here with the bikes while I get a 
customer," Jake said handing the larger boy his BMX.

    "Jeez, Jake, I mean, how do you know what to charge 
them and everything."





    Jake hesitated. His face took on a puzzled look.
Finally, he seemed to have an answer. "They'll know the 
price. I'll just ask for $10 more than what they offer."


    Tom's face wrinkled with respect for his buddy's 
shrewdness. "Yeah, cool. That'll work, man, yeah."

    Jake smoothed his skirt and began walking towards the 
intersection. It felt funny walking on the heels after 
bicycling for so long, plus his mother's mini was skin 
tight around his hips.

    "This is my corner, bitch."

    "Huh?" Jake said, eying the black girl in 
astonishment. Where had she come from? he wondered. He 
hadn't see her a second ago.

    "You must be new around here," the black hooker said. 
"I've never seen you before. Well, anyway, that's neither 
here or there. First rule: never try to work another 
corner."

    "O--oh, I didn't know," Jake said suddenly feeling 
scared and foolish. The girl was taller than he and seemed 
as rough as sandpaper.

    "But I tell, you," the black hooker said, suddenly 
smiling a wicked, calculating smile, "you might be good 
for business. You young, cute, blonde. The tricks like 
that shit. Maybe we can be a team, you know, salt and 
pepper."

    Her name was Tasha. She talked a mile a minute using a 
language Jake understood only about 1/4 of. But this may 
have been because all of a sudden the traffic was going 
crazy. Guys were tooting their horns and calling from 
their cars like nuts.

    "See what I mean?-- salt and Pepper. We a team, 
sistuh. We got it going on."

    A big diesel slowed down.

    "Hey, Tasha who's your friend?" the beefy driver 
called.

    "Her name is Anita and she charges $50 paid up front."

    "No problem, hop in Anita."

    "That's $25 now, $25 after."

    The driver quickly thrust a fist-full of bills out the 
window which Tasha snatched from his hand even quicker.

    "Now, you take it easy on her, Hogan. She's just 
starting out.


    Jake hopped into the cabin and gave the trucker 
directions to his house. As the truck accelerated he 
looked to the rear-veiw mirror and saw Tom awkwardly 
following while wheeling the BMX to the side. Tom was soon 
a speck, then vanished from the mirror completely.

    "Where are we going?" the trucker wanted to know.

    "To my house," Jake answered without thinking.

    "Hey, baby, I like that."

    The trucker reminded Jake of the guy who plays 
Roseanne's husband. He was that big and beefy. Jake 
shivered at what would happen once they got to the house.

    "Pull into the driveway," Jake ordered him.

    "Hell, I don't know if I can get this rig in there, 
sweetie."

    "Well, just park on the street, whatever, but c'mon, 
we have to hurry."


    Jake knew the neighbors were looking. He could feel
their eyes. Mrs. Cucio would surely be recording all. Then
Bill Karnes down the street, his father's golfing buddy,
was probably suffering another heart attack by now
watching. It didn't matter. It was too late to turn back
now. Besides, the trucker had already paid for him-- at
least half of him.

    "Upstairs the room at the end of the hall with the
twin beds in it," Jake told him pointing upstairs.
    "I'll be up there in a second."

    The big man bounded up the stairs like a sprinter.
Jake moved just as quickly to the bar in the living room.
Behind the bar was his father's liquor cabinet. Jake
walked straight to it, then, taking off one of the heels,
he smashed the small pane and unlocked the cabinet from
inside. He removed the bottle of Jack Daniel's and
beginning drinking from it immediately.



By the time he got upstairs to find the trucker naked and
laying on his mother's bed, his fright was gone.

    "Not the other one," he said to the trucker.

    "Huh?" the man grunted.

    "Not that bed, this bed," Jake said pointing to his 
father's bed.

    "Oh, sure," the man said lifting his bulk and swinging 
it over to the other bed.

    "And roll the bedspread down to the sheets. I got a
feeling this is going to be gross-fucking-city."

    "Hahahaha," the trucker laughed.
"Gross-fucking-city'-- you kids say the craziest things.
It kills me, every time, I tell ya. `Gross-fucking-city'--
Hahahahaha.... Where do you come up with such vocabulary?"


    The scream woke Jake from demon-filled dream. It was 
his mother's scream. She was standing there next two his 
father in front of Mrs. Cucio and Mr. Karnes. All faces 
were aghast as if frozen by some horrific sight. Jake felt 
someone's leg over his thighs; a tree-trunk of an arm over 
his chest. It was the trucker, naked and hairy and snoring 
like a locomotive. On the top of his head, he wore Jake's 
mother's panties as if it where a sleeping cap. Jake 
wondered about this until his father's voice riveted his 
attention back to the four horror-stricken faces.

    "Gee-zuz Kaa-ryess!" his father gasped.

    Jake could not remember his father ever evoking the 
son of God's name quite like this before. Even the day he 
had called him from the police station to tell him he had 
just totaled his new station wagon and was being held for 
DUI.

    "Looka 'em," old man Karnes wheezed his hand at his 
heart. And then old man Karnes gasped and dropped like a 
sack of potatoes, right there in front of everybody.

    Jake felt a laugh began at the bottom of his throat. 
He was naked and sweaty, had his mother's bra and heels 
on, and was entirely pinned under the impossible weight of 
the sweat-drenched trucker in his father's bed with old 
man Karnes dying on the floor, and yet, he felt a laugh 
began at the bottom of his throat.


    "So, tell me dad," he said in a voice that sounded 
even to him like that of some dwarf from hell.

    "How long does a dude get grounded for something real 
cool like this?"


                    End



*This series will continue if sufficient response is
E-mailed to me. You may also want to E-mail the moderator
of your rating of this story, as well.


Magoo.

thebard@char.vnet
Copywrite 2.7.94
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