Transgender Model

Bettina’s Backdoor Girl

They’d told me she was a lesbian, everyone I’d met so far intimated that Mrs Philips had a thing going with our female CEO, and the impression I formed when I first saw her was that she certainly gave off that vibe. But she would surprise me.

 

When I entered her domain, a glass walled vestibule with a priceless view of the London cityscape, Mrs Philips looked up from the computer monitor on her desk and peered at me over the rims of her spectacles. While she treated me to a severe stare, intimidating, like an old-fashioned head mistress in one of the better schools, an image flashed into my mind of Mrs Philips wielding a cane, preparing to whip the backside of some wrongdoer for some kind of misdemeanour. I got the sense that she ruled her pool of secretaries with an iron fist inside a velvet glove. Her professional reputation was formidable; to get past Mrs Philips to the CEO required an appointment – No exceptions. And If anyone dared to try, I could just imagine her using the cane.

 

Her demeanour as she scrutinised me was cold, aloof, as though she had better things to be doing than introducing the new boy of the firm to the boss lady. “Mr Jamieson,” she said, stating a fact rather than asking a question. There was no doubt in her mind I was Paul Jamieson. I’d been summoned for an initial interview by my new boss, Alicia Banahan, the CEO, nobody else had business up there so, by default, in Mrs Philips’ eyes, I had to be Paul Jamieson. Alicia Banahan interviewed all new employees no matter how junior in rank, and it was time for my five minutes in front of the big cheese herself. But first there was Mrs Philips.

 

When Mrs Philips spoke, I detected a trace of an accent in her voice, this confirmed what my new colleagues had told me, Mrs Philips had Dutch roots, and I could hear the inflection when she spoke so the gossips had been correct on that score. It might be an odd thing to say but she looked Dutch – blonde hair, blue eyes, oval shaped face; very pretty in a stern, no nonsense way.

 

Mrs Philips rose and moved around her desk, hand extended. In her heels, Mrs Philips matched my height at over six feet, even out of those dangerous shoes she’d be tall, I noticed as she drew level with me. Her clothing matched her grooming, immaculate, as befitted her status as PA to the boss of an industrial powerhouse. The woman smiled at me, eyes meeting mine. ‘So pleased to meet you,’ she said, quickly shaking my hand. I took all of her in one look, long legs, narrow waist and a comfortable bust, all wrapped in a businesslike dark skirt and a pristine white button down blouse. I’d heard them say she was late thirties. ‘You’re a little early,’ she continued, ‘which is good.’  With an elegant sweep of a hand Mrs Philips indicated a large, comfortable looking leather chair. ‘Please, take a seat. Coffee?’

 

‘Water,’ I managed to stammer, a little overawed by the woman.

 

Mrs Philips smiled at my nervousness. ‘Try to relax,’ she said softly, mistaking my disquiet for anxiety at the impending interview rather than her presence. Mrs Philips seemed to warm to me, thawing a little. Perhaps she wasn’t as terrible as they said. ‘It’s just a chat with Alicia, nothing too horrendous.’ She went into a room off the main area, returning with a glass of water. ‘I must say,’ Mrs Philips said, standing in front of me, one hand on a hip while she tapped one arm of her spectacles, which she’d removed, against her red-painted lips, ‘you’re a beautiful looking man.’

 

Well that surprised me, and I was so shocked by the bald statement that I coughed water, almost spoiling my suit.

 

Mrs Philips smirked. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said with an amused glint in her eye, ‘but I tend to be a bit forthright. I say it as I see it. And I happen to think you’re a very good looking young man.’

 

What else could I do in the circumstances? Already nervous about meeting Alicia Banahan, and no less anxious in the presence of the legendary Mrs Philips, being a callow twenty-two years old, all I could summon from my expensive education and limited experience was an inarticulate: ‘Uh … Thanks.’

 

‘I love your hair.’ I thought she was actually going to take a step towards me and run her fingers through it. ‘Alicia will make a comment about getting it cut, but don’t.’ She tapped her spectacles against her chin, staring at me with blue eyes, her lips pursed. I squirmed under the intense scrutiny. ‘Do you have it highlighted?’ she asked.

 

I managed to warble, ‘No, no, natural,’ adding in my nervousness, ‘always been a dirty blond.’

 

What the fuck was I saying? Dirty blond? Shit.

 

To my relief, Mrs Philips laughed. Then she embarrassed me by adding: ‘Just how I like them.’

 

Was she flirting with me? She couldn’t be. She was a lesbian, or so they’d said.

 

Mrs Philips turned at the sound of a woman’s voice.

 

‘Is this Mr Jamieson, Bettina?’

 

Alicia Banahan, referring to her P.A. by her first name, stood in the open doorway at the opposite end of the room.

 

‘It is, Alicia,’ Mrs Philips replied. ‘On time and all set to see you.’

 

‘Excellent,’ the CEO said to Mrs Philips. She turned to me, inviting with a smile. ‘Come in,’ she said, and led me into her office.

 

I didn’t see Bettina Philips when the interview ended, she was absent from her desk as I passed through the atrium on my way back to the department I worked in. Part of me was relieved she wasn’t there at the conclusion of the interview, while another part of me was disappointed.

 

The company adopted a dress-down Friday policy, cost, five pounds, all for charity. I was in the staff cafeteria on the Friday morning when I spotted the tall blonde, noticing her striking presence, tall, leggy, absolutely superb backside in impossibly tight jeans, as soon as she entered the room. The Flabbergasted, I realised that it was Mrs Philips swinging and swaying through the cafeteria. That view was worth five British pounds of anyone’s money; I’d have paid fifty, despite my tiny salary, to watch Mrs Philips in her jeans, metronomic buttocks swinging as she confidently, almost arrogantly, strode through the room.

 

Later, upstairs, while I was meant to be working but where I just sat in a semi stupor revisiting the image of Mrs Philips in those jeans and pillar-box red shoes, my desk phone rang.

 

I recognised the accent immediately. ‘Mr Jamieson? Bettina Philips here.’

 

My first thought was I was in some kind of trouble. There was no reason for that initial impression, but I couldn’t think why Bettina would have any other cause to call me.

 

‘Come up to my office,’ she ordered. ‘Now, please.’ The line went dead. There was no option but to comply.

 

‘A drink, this evening, after work.’ From Bettina Philips it was a command, she wasn’t one of the bosses as such, but she was a subtle power in the company. She named a bar and I winced internally – pricey and bound to be full of pretentious wankers on a Friday night. Still, I had little choice; I just hoped my meagre salary could cope. ‘Oh,’ the formidable ice-maiden added, ‘and nobody in the building is to know.’ She eyed me imperiously. ‘You wouldn’t lose your job if you told anyone, but it would effectively kill your chances here. A word to Alicia from me and …’ An arched eyebrow emphasised the unspoken. ‘Unprofessional of me perhaps,’ she added. ‘But what can you do?’ Then she dismissed me with a shrug and a vague wave.

 

I spent the rest of the day wondering.

 

Her entrance caused heads to turn. Hungry eyes followed Bettina’s round buttocks tightly packed in blue denim, tracking her course from door to my table.

 

I was proved correct; the bar was chaos, rammed with dickheads already half cut at 6pm. No sooner had Mrs Philips’ jeans touched the seat of the high stool than a waiter appeared. Bettina ordered a drink. The man disappeared into the throng with the order.

 

Mrs Philips opened, forced to lean close because of the hubbub around us she spoke into my ear: ‘I’ll apologise for being so forward, and for the explicit threat I made, it’s just that I prefer to keep my private life private.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘It’s bad enough as it is with them thinking I’m having it off with Alicia.’ Bettina laughed at my protestations to the contrary. ‘Oh please,’ she said. ‘I know what goes on, what they say.’ She reached out a hand. ‘Did Alicia suggest a hair cut?’ The change in subject and the touch of her fingers through my hair surprised me. ‘I told you she would,’ Bettina grinned after I stammered a confirmation. ‘I’m glad you haven’t cut it though,’ she finished.

 

The waiter arrived with our drinks. I hadn’t ordered another beer, but he’d brought one anyway. Just as I was worrying about how much this was going to cost me, Mrs Philips casually told the man to put it on the company tab. He smiled acquiescence, nodded, and pocketed a five pound note she handed him as a tip.

 

The next ten minutes saw us engage in banal conversation, office politics and potted life histories. I found out that Bettina had married Mr Philips, a much older gentleman, at the age of twenty. He’d lasted a year but she’d kept the appellation of Mrs. Simpler all round, apparently. She didn’t elaborate on the cause of the rift, not there in the bar, but I was to find out, in time, that Mr Philips was the one to thank for his former wife’s predilection towards anal sex.

 

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Mrs Philips instructed, in what I now recognised as her characteristically straightforward fashion. ‘I’ve got drinks at home.’ She eyed the crowded bar with disdain. ‘And I can’t stand this fucking row,’ she added.

 

Bettina’s a Back Door Girl

 

‘So, as I said just before your interview, Paul, you’re a beautiful looking man.’ Lost for a response I sipped from the bottle Bettina had handed me in her kitchen a few moments earlier, while the woman eyed me in a distinctly predatory fashion. Despite my disorientation at Bettina’s bold approach and the fact I was here in her luxurious, city apartment, her very desirability, not to mention incredible posterior, caused my cock to thicken in interest. There was definitely a sizzle of tension in the air. ‘Twenty-two?’ she asked. I sipped beer and nodded. ‘Perfect,’ Mrs Philips murmured, leading me into the flat’s sumptuous living room.

 

‘Come here, Paul,’ she said, placing her heavy, vodka-charged tumbler carelessly atop what looked to be an expensive coffee table. I took several steps to her. ‘I like you, Paul,’ the woman whispered. She ran her fingers through my hair again. ‘I think you’re sexy … Young and fit and sexy.’ She turned from me and walked across the room to turn a small dial on the wall. The lights immediately dimmed to seduction level. ‘And I like my boys young and fit and sexy.’

 

Oddly, of all things to notice, I noticed that Mrs Philips wasn’t wearing her glasses.

 

‘I wear contacts out of the office,’ she told me when I asked. ‘The glasses are purely for effect when I’m in professional mode. I know they make me look stern and severe … in a hot and sexy way,’ she added, grinning. ‘I like to tease them in the office.’ She paused and gave me a smouldering look. ‘I think some of the boys fantasise about me. Would you say that was true, Paul?’ She unpinned her hair, which she’d worn gathered in that casually messy style that is in fact difficult to achieve. I’d surreptitiously glanced at the wispy tendrils of blonde hair hanging decoratively by the woman’s ears for the hour I’d been in her company; I found her style alluring. ‘Do you think they think about me and pull their cocks’, Paul?’ Bettina sighed when her long hair cascaded free. Without waiting for my response, the woman went on. ‘I have some very special friends …’ She paused, staring at me again. My stomach flipped at the intensity in that look; I sensed something huge was coming my way. ‘I keep lovers, most of them about your age, fit, strong men who can keep it up for hours.’ I felt the heat from her eyes boring into me. My cock ached, pre-cum dribbling insidiously from its slit as Mrs Philips revealed more of her sex life to me in a low, husky voice. ‘Would you like to be one of my boys, Paul?’ she asked eventually.

 

I decided, or rather my penis decided that, yes please, we would. We wondered, my erection and I, just what being one of Bettina’s ‘boys’ entailed.

 

‘I think,’ the woman continued, taking my silence for approbation, ‘that I’d quite like you to be my special boy. The one who gets the thing none of the others do.’

 

How many boys were there?  Was this woman a nymphomaniac?

 

‘Do you know what my special boy does?’

 

I hadn’t a clue. ‘No, Mrs Philips,’ I responded, my erection pulsing, hands trembling.

 

‘Mrs Philips,’ Bettina laughed. ‘I like the way you say that, so formal. I wonder, Paul, will you call me Mrs Philips as you’re stabbing my ass with your cock?’ She pronounced it ass, like an American.

 

Stunned I blinked, my mouth hanging open like the village idiot. I’d be drooling from the mouth next instead of just my penis. It took me a moment to comprehend her meaning. Had I really heard that correctly? Mrs Philips wanted me to fuck her in her arse. The Special Boy got to give it to Bettina in the back door.

 

She came to me. Taking the beer bottle from my hand, she swigged a mouthful and then carelessly thunked the bottle onto the coffee table. When she kissed me, I felt a squirt of beer gush from her mouth and into mine.

 

‘Take your clothes off,’ Mrs Philips instructed. ‘Ooh yes,’ she enthused when I stood before her naked. ‘Somebody likes me.’ She nodded at my erection. ‘That’ll fill my ass nicely.’ The blonde grinned and said, ‘I think, as my husband so crudely put it years ago, that I’m going to enjoy having you packing my fudge.’ She pouted at me, adding: ‘That’s what I want, Paul; I want you to stuff my asshole with that cock. Stuff me so full of meat and then irrigate my rectum with your jizm.

 

She was incredible; the things she said to me were pure filth. I was shocked and surprised, inflamed with desire, and I’d do anything she wanted. If she wanted me up her jacksy then that’s what she’d get.

 

‘Mrs Philips,’ I moaned as she kissed me again.

 

She broke the kiss after stroking my cock a few times, and then pulled her tee-shirt over her head. When she turned and offered me her back I realised what she wanted and unclasped her bra. Next she teased me by unbuttoning her jeans and unzipping them, before looking back over one shoulder, blonde hair falling down her smooth, flawless back.

 

Mrs Philips eased the top of the jeans down to expose the cleft of her buttocks. ‘Do you like my ass?’ she asked. I gulped and nodded. She laughed. ‘Most men do … Oops, there’s a little more for you.’ The jeans slid lower, and a crescent moon of taut flesh made me gulp again. I touched my cock. ‘No, no,’ Mrs Philips scolded. The jeans came up an inch. ‘No touching dicky. Not until,’ she paused, smiling evilly, ‘not until Mrs Philips says you can, you naughty boy.’ I dropped my cock as though it burned my fingers. ‘That’s better. Now, here’s some more of my ass.’ Half of those globes were now revealed. ‘Would you like to kiss it,’ Mrs Philips invited, wriggling that part of her anatomy. ‘My husband loved to kiss it.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He also loved to take pictures of it …’ She paused, her eyes glinting as she lowered her jeans to the tops of her thighs. ‘And he loved to tongue my anus,’ she finally woman added in a whisper.

 

Moments later, with the jeans bunched at the back of her knees, Mrs Philips, still wearing the scarlet stilettos, knelt on a leather armchair, forearms along its back, and presented her derriere to me.

 

‘Lick me there,’ she hissed at me, eyes flashing diamonds. ‘Right there.’ A long fingernail pointed to the puckered stain of her sphincter as her fingers splayed her cheeks wide.

 

I fell on her instantly, dropping to my knees to worship at the altar of Bettina’s anus. I anointed the tight ring liberally, tasting the tang of her as my wet tongue squirmed into the forbidden opening.

 

‘Oh, fuck,’ Mrs Philips groaned. ‘So enthusiastic. I’ve never had one get straight to it like that, Paul. You’re so deep in there … that’s beautiful. I can feel you wriggling back there. You’re a natural ass man, Paul. Lick it. Tongue my dirty-hole.’

 

Not only did I lick Bettina’s sphincter, but I slurped and slobbered over her cunt as well. She gasped when I fingered her front and back simultaneously, groaning and calling me lewd names, exhorting me to filthier feats – and all for her pleasure.

 

‘My boys can use my cunt,’ she sighed. ‘But my special boy can have both. Do you want my cunt, Paul?’ Mrs Philips pushed me away from her body. I fell to the carpet, panting for breath. I was crazed with lust for the woman. ‘Or do you want to fuck me in the ass this time?’

 

‘I’ll tear your cunt up later,” I growled, my erection in my fist as I rose. ‘I’ll split your shitter first.’

 

Mrs Philips grinned up at me as she sat on the chair and divested herself of the shoes before struggling out of the restrictive jeans. ‘The worm has turned, eh, Paul? You’re going to tear up my cunt, are you? After you’ve fucked my ass? How delightfully wicked.’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘I think I’m going to enjoy you, Paul.’ Finally, after kicking the recalcitrant leggings away, she stood facing me. I had a few seconds to appreciate the full roundness of Bettina’s swaying breasts before she padded away from me on bare feet. ‘This way,’ she said, to the bedroom. I want to be comfortable when you jam my ass with your cock.’

 

I watched those buttocks as she moved away from me. Her accent and oddly formal diction aroused me almost as much as her body. I definitely had the impression there was more to Mrs Philips than taking it up the arse. I could easily imagine her at the centre of a gang-fuck. I wondered, very briefly since she was almost out of sight now, if she had her boys in a group, one of them, probably me now, pounding her back door while she took other men in her mouth and pussy.

 

Pushing that thought away, time enough later, I followed at a near run, my erection waggling ahead of me.

 

Her bedroom was a spacious arena, subtly lit, the focal point being a huge bed. The woman took a small tube of some kind of unguent, lube I was soon to discover, and pointed to the bed.

 

‘Lie down,’ she curtly instructed, typically Mrs Philips. She clambered onto the bed, kneeling next to me when I complied. The naked blonde took hold of my cock, sliding a fist along the length. She leaned down and kissed me again while I reached for her breasts. She broke the kiss and offered a long, thick nipple to me. I sucked at it, transferring my oral attention to its twin as I cupped those heavy tits in my palms. The woman murmured something indistinct, her hand moving faster on my cock.

 

Finally a low growl came from her throat. She slid the tube under a pillow next to me and, still making that low rumbling sound, swung a leg over my head. Her sex pouted inches from my face. I knew what she wanted. I took hold of the woman’s hips and pulled her down to my mouth. I heard her gasp when my tongue probed at the sluicing opening at the front of her body; another groan curdled from her when my forefinger popped her sphincter. I groaned myself when, after a brief waft of Mrs Philips’ breath across my thighs, I felt her swallow my erection.

 

Her sodden vulva, smoothly waxed, mashed against my lips. The blonde’s hips jerked as she fucked down onto my face, her clit sliding over the protuberance of my nose. She began to moan in earnest, lust obviously boiling inside her as desire slid from her cunt.

 

In reciprocation I bucked my hips, forcing gristle into the back of her throat. It was too much and she gagged and coughed, spitting my drool-soaked penis out of her mouth, her eyes watering.

 

‘Later,’ she gasped. ‘I’ll let you use my mouth later. But now I want you in there.’ She spun away from me, a knee brushing the tip of my nose in her haste. The woman stood at the side of the bed and I rolled onto my side to see her. ‘In my ass,’ she said, pointing to her buttocks. ‘Fuck my ass and make me scream.’

 

Whatever the lady desired …

 

‘It’s the control,’ Mrs Philips explained nonchalantly as she squirted a dollop of gunk onto a fingertip. ‘It might seem like I’m being submissive, letting you do me in my ass.’ She leaned forward, breasts hanging, and smeared the gloop over the dome of my cock-head. ‘But I’m in control. It’s only you, my special boy, who I allow in there. And if I don’t allow it, it doesn’t happen. Men, usually because they want to please me, and a horny man will agree to anything, are only too eager to comply with my every command.’ She lay on the bed on her stomach. ‘Squelch a drop of lube on my ass,’ she said, spreading her buttocks. ‘Even with a man wedged deep in my ass,’ she continued. ‘Even if he’s as horny as a hound with two cocks, I still call the shots. They know that if I’m not pleased then there’ll be no more of me for them.’ With her anus slick and glistening, Bettina rolled onto her side to appraise me with a serious, blue-eyed stare. ‘I’m going to let you fuck my ass, but I’m in control, Special Boy.’ I nodded, I understood. Mrs Philips spat curt instructions. ‘On your back. Lift your cock upright.’ She straddled me, her exquisite body hovering over my supine form. ‘Here I come,’ she muttered, her face a mask of concentration. ‘Easy,’ she said when my cock head nudged her body. ‘Nice and slow.’ I felt the natural resistance when the blunt dome pressed against her. ‘It’s going to pop,’ she said in a dark, treacly voice. ‘Slowly,’ she urged, grimacing with effort of balancing atop my hard cock. ‘My dirty-hole doesn’t want to let that big fucker in,’ Mrs Philips grunted, eyes closed, head lolling. Then I felt something give and she squealed. I felt her anus opening before me as I slid in deep. ‘Oh, fuck, that burns so fucking much,’ the blonde gasped, eyes wide. She looked down at me, her mouth hanging slack. ‘It burns my ass, it’s itchy. Fuck my nasty ass.’

 

I held her hips tightly as she began to ride up and down on my cock. Her breasts swung and shivered as she screwed her anus around my penis. The woman angled her body in such a way that I remained wedged inside her as she leaned low over me to kiss me. Panting into my open mouth while our tongues danced wetly, Mrs Philips jerked her hips, somehow maintaining the incredible pressure at the point in which our bodies joined.

 

‘Mrs Philips,’ I burbled, ‘If you keep this up, I’ll …’

 

‘Will you come in my ass?’ she asked, eyes wide with expectation. She was upright again now, hands spread across my chest as she jerked her hips quickly back and forth. Will you come in my ass and bathe my anus with semen?’

 

If she kept on moving like that, and if she continued to use the sewer language, then I’d be sure to squirt my load into her dirty-hole.

 

‘Not yet,’ she gasped as she swung her leg over me to dismount. ‘I want to come too, but I need something in my cunt and on my clit.’ She leaned across me and opened a drawer. When she returned she held a thick rubber cock and a small vibrator in her hands. ‘Now,’ she said gleefully, rolling onto her side. ‘Now we can do some damage.’ She offered her derriere, tight buttocks pressing against my stomach. ‘Put it back into my ass. Really fuck me. Hold my hips and bang the shit out of me.’ She laughed at the pun.

 

I did as I was told, gripping the jutting promontory of her uppermost hip after I slid back in. The tight ring of her sphincter gripped my cock at its root. She had all of me buried in there but still angled her hips so her bottom could accommodate as much of my length as I could stuff into her. She lifted one leg to expose her vulva to the angry buzz of the vibrator, its tone rising and falling as Mrs Philips rubbed the thing around and around the area of her clitoris. Then I felt something pushing against my cock, a force from in front of her body, and realised it was the rubber cock wedged in her pussy.

 

‘Fuck my ass,’ the woman sighed as she jammed the dildo into her other hole.

 

We fell into a rhythm of slick, squelching fucking. Liquid slurps and obscene farts accompanied us when Mrs Philips stabbed her cunt with the rubber cock and I slid my goo-smeared cock half out of her backside. We reversed the process, her withdrawing the dildo when I thrust back into the dark hole of her anus, keeping with that lewd cadence until everything clouded for me. Every empirical sense was overloaded. The sounds, the buzzing vibrator, the obscene squelching from the rubber cock in her cunt, the slick fapping of my own erection sliding through the gloop foaming at our conjunction, Bettina’s moans and filthy vocabulary were just part of it, there were also the sensations in my cock as her body fought to repel me. I could feel the pressure from the rubber thing in her cunt, through the thin membrane that separated the two invading shafts. The texture of her skin under my fingers; the smell of her hair in my nostrils …

 

‘Mrs Philips …’ I warned.

 

‘Do it. I’m going to come too. Just do it. Let it go. Fill me up with spunk …’

 

I recall, dimly, biting into her shoulder as the stuff spurted from me, bathing her sphincter. I think I took a handful of hair and roughly yanked her head back, twisting her neck as I wedged my cock deeper into her rectum and discharged the gooey load of jizm. We kissed, I’m sure of that. I held her head at such an awkward angle, craning over her as far as I could as we both let the pleasure cascade over us, my mouth against hers, our tongues quick and ardent.

 

Finally, as sensibility returned, we lay, still joined at her back door, panting and not quite believing how intense the experience had been for both of us.

 

A chuckle curdled from the woman when, eventually, my diminishing cock slid from her body. As soon as I slid from her a rush of some obscene gloop dribbled from the opening I’d vacated. The slide of santorum stained the bedcover, but no doubt she could afford a replacement.

 

The woman hefted herself onto her opposite side, facing me. I looked down and saw the rubber cock hanging from the sticky mess of her vulva like an impudent tongue.

 

‘Bettina’s a back-door girl,’ the woman snickered, referring to herself in the third person. ‘You can use my cunt if you like,’ she added. ‘But in my ass is the best.’

 

I was inclined to agree.

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