Date: Wed, 14 Nov 2007 09:58:38 -0700
From: Tyla Flowers <tylaflowers@gmail.com>
Subject: Secondary Education, Chapter 11, Is This Nirvana?

Secondary Education
Tyla Flowers
TylaFlowers@gmail.com

Is This Nirvana?
Chapter 11

I awaken with a shudder.  A fractured ray of sunlight pierces the crack
between a pair threadbare quilts which have been hung as an makeshift
curtain.  From outside I hear the clamor of banda piped through the tinny
speakers of a catering truck.  A hot breeze wafts a rancid flume of stale
cooking oil, jalapeno and stewed pork.  I feel nauseous, and choke back a
heave.

I have mind-splitting headache, cotton mouth and my lower back is sore and
tight.  My throat is parched and hoarse, as though I have I screamed too
loud, for too long. I don't recognize the water stained ceiling above me,
or the dingy sarape that covers me.  I have no idea where I am, or how I
got here.

I lift up my head and push up on my elbows.  Two molten balls of liquid
metal explode against my chest and force me back to the mattress.  I lie
still, waiting for the sputtering caldrons to cool.  I squint through
crusted-closed eyes. The sarape is gathered into a ridge that blocks the
room beyond.  I push it back, and stare at two large, bruised globes of
flesh, forced together in a sweat-stained sports bra.

I scrape a crust of yesterday's eyeliner and sleepy dust from my lashes,
blink my bleary vision clear and focus on the strange mounds ascending from
my chest like a pair of newly formed volcanoes.  Am I still dreaming?  I
lift my hands and touch them.  Hot lava roils inside me, and I am blind
again from a scalding wave of pain. I behold a pair big, round tits on my
chest.

They feel hot and gravid, ready to erupt.

I think back at stealthy hours I have spent surfing the internet to
research the types of implants, the methods of implantation, and the
insurmountable barriers of cost and recovery time.  I have calculated how
many tricks I will have to turn to get $6700 that the best surgeons charge
for the boobs I want: 400 cc High Profile Textured Round Silicone.

How many nights have I dreamed of a sugardaddy who sends to a posh clinic
on Canon Drive?  In my fantasy, my benefactor pays for the procedure, the
pleasant spa where I will recover, and sends flower, candy and love notes.
I imagine myself walking down Rodeo, swaying in my Jimmy Choos,
anatomically perfect, elegant, and graceful boobs lurching a bit with every
step, like Halle Berry's.

I compare my dream with reality, and jagged fragments of memory return.
Roberto told me he would do something special for me, that I would be cut
and pumped.  I realize that I have Mara boobs, and I am a captive in one of
their safe houses.  I am locked in a hot, smelly room, in a bad part of
town, languishing on a lumpy cot.

My dreams are fulfilled as a ghetto nightmare. My new boobs are round and
fat, like the eye catching blobs of a Mexican streetwalker. Have I been
pumped, injected with a toxic brew of industrial oils?  Or are they used
implants that some Mara soldier carved from the corpse of a dead whore and
stuffed under my skin?

I jostle them, and when they jiggle, they send a clarion warning of
pain. They are so heavy, and so tender, that I cannot lift my torso up from
the mattress.  But I have to pee. If I don't get up, I will wet the bed.
The prospect of smelly, sodden sheets impels me to move.  I steady my new
boobs with my hands and try to roll onto my side and out of bed.

As my legs scissor against one another, another rapier slashes through my
groin, recalling the horrible morning when some boys at Fairfax caught me
peeing sitting down on the toilet, and took turns kicking and stomping my
groin until I passed out. I almost faint again.

I roll painfully back onto the bed, and cautiously explore my anatomy.  I
grope over the smooth skin of my abdomen and graze around.  My groin is
clad in elastic underwear, which encases my privates.  I poke my hand
underneath into a tuft of bloody gauze, searching out the source of the
radiating pain.  I find the tip of my cock, and walk my fingertips back
toward my ass.  When I touch my scrotum, I yelp.  It's swollen and the
gauze is soggy with blood and slick with ointment.

At the centerline, of my scrotum, I encounter a fringe of spiky filaments,
the tied off ends of a line of short line of sutures.  I finger them
gingerly, and spread my fingers to probe the swollen flesh of my scrotum.
Black holes of pain swallow my consciousness.  From the abyss I deduce the
meaning of the strange new landscape between my legs. My balls are gone.  I
am castrated.

The ceiling stains pulsate and swirl, like the changing boundaries and
rules of my startling new reality.  My new tits and the castration site
throb with each anxious pulse beat.  My most exotic and dangerous fantasies
have been fulfilled.  I am big-boobed and ball-less.

Since I was about 9 have been fantasizing about implants and castration and
a sex change operations, but I have been scared to go full time.  I like
playing with hormones and getting used as a sex toy by bad boys, but until
this morning, I could bind my little B-Cups, put on baggie sweats and
sneakers, and pass as a slightly effeminate boy.  I could go places as
Tyler the morning after Tyla, dressed up like a whore, had given blowjobs
or gotten fucked by ten guys she had picked up on the streets.  I was
comfortable with my ladyboy whoring because I knew I could stop if I
decided to be a boy. Most of the effects of hormones are reversible.  Six
months after you stop taking estrogen and anti androgens, the boobies are
gone, the balls grow back and start spewing testosterone, and you can be a
bad boy yourself.  And the trannie's life is such a pain in the ass, pun
intended, that I sometimes considered going back.

Now, my last exit from a total transition is foreclosed.  No more can I
slip back into being Tyler and masquerade as a boy.  If my dad ever gets
out of prison, or my mom survives her most recent junkie binge, they will
have to accept me as Tyla, their busty and beautiful daughter.  My cousins
in Fresno will have to lust over me as a girl, and my step brothers
somewhere in Cambodia will have accept or reject me as a sister.  I can
never go back to being Tyler.

I got shoved through the door to full time transsexuality by the
Mara. Roberto drugged, cut and pumped me.  I am his bitch now.  I stifle
back a sob of regret, and try to calm myself.  I tried to escape them, but
I am just as powerless to resist the Mara as I was to resist my own urges.
To be a big breasted trannie bottom whore was my dream, my karma, and now I
have gotten it.

I cradle my boobs in one hand and my wounded scrotum in the other and
arise. As I do, I discover more incisions in my arm pits, radiating agony
with every movement of my arms. Bloodstained bandages are taped there.
When I try to lift my arms to inspect them, my boobs smolder intensely.  I
have to hold my arms like a robot when I walk.

There are a couple of bottles of water and a collection of pill bottles on
a shabby linoleum table, and a scribbled note: "Take one of each for pain
and to prevent infection.  Apply ointment and new bandages to your surgical
sites. No shower."  I gingerly let go of my groin, and breasts. As they
droop they seem to explode, and I carefully swallow two of the Percocet, a
Diane-35 and an Amoxicillin and stagger to the bathroom.

The door is off its hinges, the toilet seat is loose and filthy, and the
toilet paper is soggy from sitting in a puddle beside the stool.  I pee,
and the cut behind my cock sizzles with pain. The sink is broken, and I
wipe my hands with a nearly empty bottle of Purel. I peel off the gauze
between my legs.  Contact with the air intensifies the post-surgical pain.
The bandage is a smeary collage of orange Betadine and blood. I swipe a
fresh line of ointment on my incision, smear more on fresh gauze, and pull
up the elastic panties to press the bandage firmly into my slaughtered
groin.  There's nothing I can do with the armpits. I can't reach them I
gingerly stagger back to my bed.

I look around my little prison, and pull open the improvised curtains.
Flies flit against the tattered screen.  Outside, a trash strewn street
lined with battered stucco bungalows. I am deep within the Mara's realm.

I notice a hummock under the sheets on the other cot.  I walk over and pull
the sheets aside.  It's Patty.  Her face is pallid, and her brow is damp
and cool.  She does not respond to my stroke.  I shake her, and her head
lolls to the side.

I recall the lessons of first aid.  "Patty, wake up, can you hear me?"

I forget for a moment about my own infirmity, and shake her shoulders.  Her
bulging breasts, half again their previous size, sway.  Her eyes roll back
in her head, and she lets out a little gasp.  But she doesn't respond.  I
listen for her breath.  It is inaudible, and makes only light tickle of my
cheek. I see my purse, and grapple for my phone.  My boobs and pits are
screaming warnings to me, but I am panicking.  My phone doesn't work.  The
battery is dead.  So is Patty's.

I lean out the window and cry out in broken Spanish toward the catering
truck, "Hola, Necesito un medico.  Mi amiga está enferma.  Mi amiga está
muriendo."  I need a doctor, my friend is sick, my friend is dying.  The
day laborers gathered at the catering truck look up, hoot sexual innuendoes
in my direction, and laugh.  I beckon them to come up, but they shake their
heads and look away.  They probably know better than to trespass in Mara's
house.

I turn to Patty, and try to remember the lessons from the first aid videos
we watched in Human Development class at Fairfax.  Was it two breaths,
followed by ten chest pumps, or the opposite?  I tilt back her head, and
mash my lips against hers.  They are still warm, but dry and
unresponsive. I breathe in deeply, my breasts heave agonizingly as I inhale
and exhale into her chest.  Once, twice, and then I plant my palm in the
narrow valley between Patty's double D boobs and compress her rib cage.  My
boobs shudder and ripple ten times, my arm pits piston, and my scrotum
wobbles, sending lightening strikes of pain all over me.  I catch my
breath, inhale, seal my lips on hers, and exhale again.

After a dozen cycles, I am bathed in sweat and faint with exertion and
pain.  Patty's eyes flutter, and she murmurs "párelo," stop it, but I
continue for five more cycles until her eyes open.

"Gracias," she whispers.  I bring her a bottle of water and an antibiotic.
She swallows it, sets the bottle down, and drifts away.  Her hand releases
the bottle and it tips.  I take a mouthful and squirt it into her mouth,
but it dribbles down her chin and into the crevice between her hugely
inflated breasts.

I watch her breathing for a few minutes.  It's shallow but steady. I am
aching and exhausted.  I lie down.  The Percocet takes the edge off of my
pain and my anxiety over Patty's perilous condition, and I rest my eyes.
The banda music fades, the ceiling stains billow and swirl, and the room
spins away beneath me.

I feel hands probing my boobs.  I push them away, trying to protect
them. But other hands force mine away, and pin them to the bed. I open my
eyes and peer through groggy, unfocussed eyes on a small group that has
gathered over me.

"I am the medico," The man nearest me speaks through a surgical mask. He
has silvery, curly hair and eyebrows. He pulls down my bra.  I notice a
tremor in his touch.

I try again to push his hands away.  "That hurts.  Help Patty, the girl on
the other bed."  Other hands again arrest mine.  I look over.  It's
Roberto.

"Patty doesn't need help from anyone but God."

I turn my head toward her cot.  It's empty.

"You killed her?  And now you propose to care of me?"  I am angry at the
doctor for his incompetence, angry at Roberto for forcing us to undergo
dangerous surgery in primitive conditions, and at myself for abandoning my
effort to resuscitate her.

The doctor forces my hands to my sides.  "Someone else did her procedure,
and injected her with liquid silicone.  It's dangerous, and she had an
embolism.  You have sealed implants.  I implanted them through your arm
pits, just like they do on Canon Drive.  I was the best cosmetic surgeon in
Tijuana.  You will do well.  These look good."  He replaces my bra, pulls
at my panties and peels back the bandages from between my legs.

"You have to change this more often."  He brandishes the bandage, crusted
with blood and puss.

"The pills made me sleepy.  There was no one to help."

"Your helper was the one who needed help."  Roberto pointed toward Patty's
vacant cot.  "I'll send someone tomorrow."

"No showers until tomorrow, and then, cover the site and don't get it wet.
But, it's healing well enough; I'll take the stitch out."  He snipped at me
and I felt a sting as the suture parted.  It oozed blood for a few seconds
and he covered it with fresh gauze.

"New bandages every four hours for the rest of today, eight hours tomorrow.
And don't lift your arms over your head, not even to wash your hair, for
three more days.  No physical activity for a week.  He thumped Roberto on
the chest.

"That includes sex."

"Is cock sucking sex?"

The doctor laughs.  "Ask the Bill Clinton.  Or better yet, ask Hillary."

The Mara all laugh. Even they get that joke.

"We have to get rid of the other one's body.  Take good care of the TChica.
She's the only one we have left."  Roberto and the Mara leave.

The doctor and I are alone. He locks the door.  The doors of the Maras'
Escalade slam, and they roar away.  The doctor hovers over me.

"Do you have any feelings in your balls and in your breasts?"

"Yeah, like a coyote is chewing my scrotum.  My boobs feel like a couple of
hot bowling balls sewed under my skin.  But that's actually an improvement
over yesterday."

"You must sit up in bed at least part of the time."

I sit up, and gasp as the bowling balls strain against their taut sacks.  I
flinch, and howl.

"Your pain management will improve over time, but this won't."  He gestures
a slanted line across my chest, and then points to my left boob.  "This one
shifted.  It's too low."

My face flushes with anxiety as he holds a mirror for me to observe.  My
left breast is an inch lower than the right, and canted more to the
outside.  My efforts to help Patty had not only failed, they had dislodged
my breast.  I looked like a freak, not a sexy woman.

"Oh, my god.  What can I do?"

"For the moment, put your bra back on.  We'll deal with that later, but
like yours, my services have a price."

"I have nothing to offer."

"Ah, but you are wrong.  You can offer me your own services."  He pulls
open his belt, unzips and exposes his cock.  It's small and withered, his
ball sack has shriveled, and his pubes have gone gray.  I look up at him.
His eyes are closed, and his face is alight with a greedy smile.  I lean
forward and sniff his cock.

"I didn't say smell it.  I said suck me, you little T-slut."

I get off the cot and bend on my knees in front of him. I flick him
teasingly with my tongue, kiss his tip, swipe my tongue beneath his
foreskin, and gather a cheesy mouthful of smegma.  I wipe it from the tip
of my tongue and smear it on his flabby butt, but he doesn't seem to notice
or care, for I have taken his still soft member into my mouth and I am
massaging it to life, puckering my cheeks, and inviting it into the hollow
of my glottis.  He springs to life, and begins rocking from to heel, in
rhythm with my motions.  My rocking makes my tits swing painfully and my
groin feels wet and raw from the movement of my torso as I blow him.

"Did you know I fucked you once before?"

I shake my head, and look up at him through watery eyes.

"It was before your surgery.  We were alone, and you were asleep, so I
fucked your cute little ass.  Even unconscious, you were a good little cum
bucket."

I am angry at this admission.  I could tell Roberto, but maybe he wouldn't
care.  Maybe a surreptitious fuck was part of the surgical fee the Mara
negotiated.  I know they think of me as a pretty little fuck hole for them
to cum in or sell.  That's what a trannie is.  We are she male freaks,
chicks with dicks.  No one really cares about us after they pop inside us.
They pay to cum, and pay so we will go when they have finished.  If they
want more, they pay again, and we gladly take the money as the only
acknowledge we will ever receive, or expect to receive, of our beauty and
value. That's why trannies make ideal perfect whores.  We only want to be
fucked and paid.  Being showered with money and semen reaffirms our
aspirations to feminine beauty.  I suck and get fucked, therefore I am.

I suppress my anger and stay in character.  As he hardens, I open my throat
to him, and when he pulls back, I pucker my lips around his cock's corona
and lure him back inside me.

He is grunting and moaning, "My slut goddess, my angel whore, you little
slab of Asian street meat, ay, yay, aiii."

He pulls back, jerks himself, and a stringy strand of semen gushes forth. I
close my eyes as it hits my cheek, my eye lids, and my nose, and then he
rubs the glans on my cheek.

"Squeeze my cajones."

I grip one of his balls in each hand and compress them. My chest is
showered with the ropey remnants of his load.

He grimaces.  "That was very good.  Now wipe yourself off, you little cum
slut."  I rise, emotionally and physically exhausted and wracked with
pain. As I stagger to the toilet he playfully smacks my butt.

"Next time I'll take some more of that."

I wash my face with cold water squeeze Purel onto the remnants of the soggy
toilet paper.  The cum is dripping into the seam where the tight sports bra
meets my stretched breast skin.  I wipe under the fabric, and wish
desperately that I could use the grimy shower.  But to do so would risk a
devastating infection.

I smile ingratiatingly at the medico, who has pulled up his pants and is
waiting by my bed.  "That was yummy.  You have a big load for a, um.., for
a doctor."

"That's barely half of the load I shot up your ass, my little T-whore."

"Don't doctors worry about safe sex?  It's not like you are the only one
whose been there, you know."

"The taker takes most of the risk, in my opinion.  In any case, I take
PCR/DNA tests regularly.  I will take a blood sample for you, as I now wish
also to test you."

He jabs my forearm expertly and draws a sample of my blood.  He takes out
another syringe, fills it with a fluid from a vial.

"You are going to need this.  What I have to do next is going to hurt a
little."

He pricks the needle in my arm and injects me.  The rush is instantaneous.
The filthy room takes on a warm glow, the sleazy medico seem like an old
friend, and the battling regions of pain, anxiety and anger that have
afflicted me melt into warm, liquid Nirvana.

"I feel wonderful.  What did you give me?"

"Ah, so you have never had heroin before.  Like you, the drug is a
dangerous but attractive mistress."

"Now I know what my mom's drug habit is all about.  I've never felt
better." He places both hands beneath my left boob and presses down with
all of his weight.  I feel like my chest is collapsing, and my breath
escapes in a anguished shriek.  But instead of reverberating and returning,
and inducing panic or shock, the pain and anxiety quickly recede.

"Is that it?"

"No, I want to bind you more tightly."  He wraps my boobs in a tight
elastic bandage.

"Don't take this off for two days. And afterwards, wear the bra for a week.
After that, you should be perfect.

"Will you come back and give me more medicine?"

"I would love to make you my junkie sex slave, but I think Roberto would
object.  My job is done here."

"That wasn't so bad.  Thank you."

He leans over and kisses me, and I kiss him back.

"What's your name, doctor"

"Call me Rodrigo."  He bows.  Until we meet again."

I had been in agony for an instant, but the drug annihilated my suffering.
But as my junkie mother's chaotic life has proved, you can't remove pain
from life with a drug.  You can only defer the reckoning.

I am alone again.  The door is locked.  I am still a prisoner in harsh
solitary confinement.  I look in the refrigerator at the six pack of out
dated yoghurt, the moldy bread, the grease spotted bag of leftovers from El
Pollo Loco.  I want to get the taste of cum from my mouth.  I eat a few
spoonfuls of strawberry yoghurt.

I am the Mara's captive trans hooker now, but they have given me the means
to become free.

The great thing about drugs is that for moment you can see beyond your
immediate, shitty circumstances.  The heroine is easing the pain and
anxiety of the present and lets me look into my future, when the doors are
open and the Mara are gone. I imagine myself as I will be when my bandages
come off. I will be a young, pretty, slender Asian with 36 D breasts.
Surely I can find all of the work I can take at $300 per session.  There
are about 10 million guys in driving distance.  If one out of one hundred
of them likes Asian bottom trannies, I've got clients to last a lifetime.
The Mara will put me back on the street, but a street needn't be just a
stroll.  It can be an escape.

I almost escaped the Mara with Antoine.  I can find someone else who will
help me, now that I have become more beautiful.  I will bleach platinum
streaks and dye a few strands strawberry.  I will get new hoop earrings
that will dangle to my neck.  I will make all of the other trannies
jealous, and will be able to get the best dates with the richest guys.

I will get a Macbook with broadband wireless, so I can have an ad on Eros,
my own website with sexy pictures of me for sale, I will make dates with my
I-phone, and receive them at an apartment so close to Peanuts that the guys
will be able to walk there with me.  And when we have finished I can walk
back and find another, and another, until my purse is stuffed with money
and my mouth and ass are so stuffed with cock that they are exhausted.  I
will have a bank account, mutual funds, health insurance, a Camry, a king
size bed with mirror beside it on the wall.

Now the heroine subsides and pain begins to throb.

The tissue surrounding the implant that Dr. Rodrigo shifted is on fire.  I
want more drugs, but one of the Mara has stolen the rest of the Percocet.
There is nothing I can do to make it go away.  I suppress my sobs because
it hurts too much to cry.  I can never cry again.

Fear returns. Who will come through the door next?  Will I hook up with a
crazy who hates trannies, or hates himself for wanting trannies, who will
kill me?  Will I get infected with HIV?  If I ever even get a sex change
operation, will anyone decent want a fake girl like I will be? How will I
survive when I can't hook anymore because I'm not young and hot?  Will I
ever get a real job, a real home, a real boyfriend?  Will I ever have a
real family instead of a couple of junkie criminals who disappear most of
the time?

My life is too precarious for me to allow myself these emotions.  I am so
weak and vulnerable, so alone and lonely, that I can show no fear or
hesitation.  Patty could have been my friend, but she has left me.  I try
to imagine what life could be like if I had a real friend.  It's impossible
to be friends with GGs or guys.  And the lives of other T-Girls are just as
dangerous as my own.

Now, I am alone with Patty's ghost.  I cry over her passing, my failure to
save her, and our lost future.  She tells me it's OK, that she got in life
to become what she most wanted, and left life happy.  She thanks me for
resuscitating her and forgives me for not keeping watch over her instead of
sleeping.  She promises that she will keep watch over me forever, that she
will be my angel and guide me to freedom in this lifetime and into the
Kingdom of Heaven.

Now, I know she is on a path of rebirth into this world of the Mara, the
world of cruel, violent men.  She was too attached to that world, and to
me, to leave it behind and follow the light.  I cry, because I know that I
am like her. I too am enamored of my feminine beauty and sensuality to
escape rebirth.  When it is my time, I will not be able to follow the
light.  I will endure another cycle of rebirth, perhaps one even more
trouble filled than this one.



TBC


If you liked this story, please post a comment or email me at
tylaflowers@gmail.com