Chasers

January 18, 2025

Quinn was still shaking from the orgasm I'd given them. I watched their chest rise and fall as they caught their breath. Their long hair was the same black as the leather of the bench, and disheveled. The play area of the bathhouse was spacious and a small crowd had formed. A half dozen men watching us play on this side, another handful stood about ten feet away at the other end of the deluxe bed where another couple played. Some had their hands on their shafts, metal cock rings pressed tight to their pelvises. Jamal approached me then, placing a hand around my waist as I was pulling Quinn's toy out of their hole with a satisfying pop.

I was used to men being handsy, and though I wasn't particularly excited about it, I didn't react as strongly as I might. I was in a sex club, it came with the territory.

"The way you played with her nipples was amazing," he coo'd to me, a gravelly voice, vaguely accented but I was too ignorant to guess its origin.

"Thank you," I answered with a practiced ease, never all that fond of taking compliments.

"Do you think you could do that to me? I'd love to play with you, you are so sexy," he continued.

I turned to face him, and pushed my bangs back behind my ears. "Pardon?"

"My room, I just want to caress you, you are beautiful."

It was here that I ran into an unfortunate truth- I am a very easy target for these proposals. Hypersexual and transgender, I got my first validation as a woman by crossdressing for adult men on the internet when I was a teenager. Eventually I found out that I wasn't a "sissy", but chasers didn't stop existing because I made a personal breakthrough- and they certainly hadn't stopped wanting to fuck me. I should have politely declined, but I was never very good at saying "no", so I followed him to his room. The rooms at the club are small, with an extended twin bed, a small locker, and a full-length mirror along the wall. The walls are wooden, thin, and don't actually rise to the ceiling - on either side of your room, there are two or three others like it, little cells for private perversion. The door is wood, and slides closed with a small lock. Jamal's was at least clean.

We exchanged names as the praise continued to be heaped onto me.

"Are you local?" he asked.

"Yes," I lied, because that usually leads to fewer follow-up questions.

"I want to be your friend," said the older man I met about sixty seconds prior. Fuck. That was the wrong answer.

Jamal was taller than me, balding, with brown eyes and tanned skin. His beard stubble was salt and pepper, so was his prodigious amount of chest hair. He had a fair gut. If he was another girl I'd have said he had a tummy - but no, this was a gut, plain and simple. He sat on the side of the bed and appraised me.

"Are you transitioning?" he asked - a pointless question.

"Yeah, I've been on hormones for a little over two years."

He continued with one of the more concerning comments available. "I don't mean to be nosy, I'm just curious."

I knew something impolite was about to leak out of his grinning mouth.

"Do you plan to get rid of it?" he asked, gesturing vaguely to my crotch. The timeless classic "pre or post op?" question I'd been getting for years. I think I rolled my eyes.

"I go back and forth on it," I answered, stellar customer service pouring out of my forced smile.

"I really, my nipples are very sensitive," he explained, looking at me gratefully. I watched his lips while he talked and thought about whether he was going to try to kiss me. I really hoped not. His hands were on my shoulders, caressing, then traveling down to my breasts. I reciprocated, putting my fingers on his chest, finding and slowly circling his nipples. He moaned, louder than I expected, and I almost pulled away.

"I would love to take you out, I can just imagine you in a nice outfit - oh, fuck Phoebe - maybe some heels."

"Thank you," I sheepishly replied.

He leaned back onto the bed, and I awkwardly got on top of him. He rubbed his dick through the white towel around his waist.

"Look how fucking hard you make me," he said, as though this constituted a compliment. As though he wasn't in a sex club, wasn't looking at the pretty trans dolls having a good time, and as though he hadn't likely taken a pill to address his cock's stage fright. No, clearly this erection was my accomplishment and something to be proud of. For why else were girls like me on this Earth?

In any case, my clit was bigger, but it felt more polite to keep that to myself. I definitely didn't want to invite him to play with it.

"I also - this is embarrassing - I love the smell of pits," he said.

"Oh, cool," I replied. It wasn't.

"Can I smell yours?"

"Sure," I answered. I contorted above him on the bed, my hand bracing against the wall for him to sniff me, my left hand on his nipple, my knees on the bed. He pressed his nose into my arm pit and snorted like he was hitting a poppers bottle. Whatever mixture of rose, vanilla, and silicone lubricant he was smelling from me seemed to excite him, as he moaned and played with his dick faster. I wanted to leave, but if I left, I'd certainly see him in the club still, and I didn't need that either. To me it seemed like the best way out was through, and men don't last that long besides.

"People, you know, I'm pretty discrete about this. I don't judge, you know, but people see me out with a girl like you, they say mean things," he trailed off.

It took me a moment to register the comment, but I realized this was his admission of guilt. Chasers often do it- they have to say something to relate themselves to us, to apologize for their behavior. It is invariably a pathetic display. I'd had men go so far as to tell me they considered transitioning when they were younger. Others tell me they have a trans daughter, which introduces a whole new layer of concern in my mind. Jamal's version was telling me he wasn't brave enough to date a trans woman - not that any of us should be interested, really. He lusted for girls like me, passionately, but was too much of a coward to do anything about it outside the confines of a sex club. This might be the most he'd talked to a transwoman. Might be the furthest he'd gone. I wondered how much trans porn was in his browsing history. I had a moment of deep and profound sadness for this pathetic man quivering at my fingertips, before my feelings turned contemptuous.

I'd had hookups like this before, albeit not in a while, and usually while doing escort work. Sex where you just can't wait for it to be over. A movie where the most exciting part is the credits. His chest was hairy. Very hairy. There was no functional way to put my tongue to his nipple without getting hair in my mouth, so I licked my thumb instead. At least- perhaps all I was getting out of this, other than a story- was reducing this man to a puddle. Absolutely at my whim, even if my whim was to never lay eyes on him again. He moaned, he contorted. I made eye contact with myself in the mirror, telling myself this was going to be fine, and it was nearly over.

"Oh fuck,I could make you my wife," he shuddered. I bit back my laughter.

My thumb pressed into his nipple, and I implored him to take another sniff of me. Like a very sick puppy, he did just that.

"Is it okay if I cum on you? In this position?"

"Just cum."

He did. I felt the warm jizz hit my shoulder and chest. The rest pooled up on his stomach. I stood up, finding my towel.

"And this-" he gasped, "you know, this is my second load today."

"That's very impressive," I responded. I'm not sure if that was what I was supposed to say, but I didn't know what else to say to a chimpanzee in a refractory period. I think he asked for my number as I left the room, but I pretended I didn't hear him. I got dressed and left the club before I saw him again.