I crossed over in 1994. Not against my will, mind you. No, none of us ever crossed over against our will. It is something we must want, something we must yearn for, something after which we must lust, eternally, in the darkest depths of our soles.
Now, I am one of them: a creature of the night, shunning the ways of light, condemned forever to a damned existence between twilight and dawn where the harsh embrace of the sun can never reveal us, touch us, or give away the fact of our existences.
I am now, one of them, without hope of ever going back. And I must feed. Lord how I must feed. The hunger consumes me, eternally, born of a lust which must be met but can never be fully satisfied. And yet I, like so few of the others who have crossed, continue to retain something of my God-given humanity. Though one of them, I am now neither wholly of them, nor wholly one of you.
But I digress: my story. It's several stories actually, covering my last four years. This, the first of them, starts at the beginning: How I came to be.
My conscience, back when I still possessed a modicum of morality, was torn. Maybe that is why I was there, why I encountered her.
The French Quarter, after sunset, is in and of itself, an aphrodisiac. The people, the smells, the lights, the noise, the music: all sing a syren's song, appealling to the baser instincts of the thousands who wander the streets there each night, seeking within that tolerant and hedonistic atmosphere, that for which they yearn, yet of which they are afraid.
I was tired. A day of travel and four days of twelve hour work had left me worn. Now, finally, the evening was mine to enjoy before the stagnating hours I would spend tomorrow, returning to the loveless home in which I'd imprisoned myself for nearly twenty years, far back north. I sought refuge and relaxation in a bottle, staring out from the bar at the Hotel Montelion, at the revelers on the street outside. One after another, an exquisite, exotic female would meander through through the crowd, catching my attention, that of the unaccompanied single men in the crowd, and of the (apparently) married men whose wive's promptly took umbrage at the attention they had paid.
Oh, how I longed to be...
But, no! I had worked too long, far too hard, to permit this abboration in my soul to reveal itself. With all my heart, I hated, resented, loathed this hidden imperfection which I had buried so far inside me as never to never be revealed. After my fourth glass of chardonay I decided to walk the streets, mingle with the crowd and find, perhaps, a companion with whom to share a drink.
As I walked past the Old Absynthe House, I revelled in the mournful sounds of the blues band within, singing of the injustices of life and love gone bad. How little they knew of lost love. Let them live without it for twenty years. Then let them sing a song.
Moving along, I watched the barker standing on the sidewalk in front of a nightclub. A statuesque black haired beauty, heavily made up, stood beside him. in neglige. Probably Cajun. A crowd had gathered and the barker was urging them to come inside to see the other beauties, "just like her." I stopped and studied her: tall, slender, small waist, narrow hips, long and thin-though-shapely legs, large hands...it was a drag show.
I studied her from afar. She was intoxicatingly beautiful. Sensuality poured forth in her ever move, every mannerism, every gesture. From amongst the hundred of people on the street, her eyes picked out mine. She smiled at me. A cruel, wicked, seductive smile. I stood transfixed, my eyes locked upon hers and hers onto mine. Slowly, ever so slowly, her arm extended and her index finger slowly uncurled to point at me. The barker ended his cacophony as the suddenly silent crowd turned to look, in unison, in my direction.
"Come inside, sweetie," she said. on the barkers microphone. "Come inside and join us," she purred seductively.
The crowd stared in my direction, all wearing an amused look on their faces, curious as to my reaction. Embarassed beyond description, I hurried away, melting back into the moving throngs on the street. "Too hot for you to handle?" she asked into the mike. The crowd erupted in laughter at my embarassment as I hurried back to the isolation of my hotel.
I cancelled my flight for the following morning and re-booked it for Sunday. I deserved a break. I'd worked like a dog for years and got nothing for it myself except watching my wife spend it on the car she had to have, the health club she just had to belong to and the daily "golf" lessons that never seemed to improve her game. I was tired: especially so after the fitfull night of sleeplessness I'd endured.
I'd dreamt, for inexplicable reasons, of her--the showgirl on the sidewalk. In my half asleep-half awake dreams, she had come to me, entering through the window of my antebellum room. Approaching the canopied bed, she stood before me, allowing my eyes to drink in her darkly intoxicating beauty. Then, as I recalled, she stood over me, moving her hands in the air over the length of my body. Yet, though her hands were a foot above me, I could feel her touch.
Without warning, I had dreamt, she had brought her full, red lips to my chest, nibbling each nipple in turn, then slowly down my stomach to my groin, where her lips parted as she took my erect member into her mouth gently sucking as she slowly, sensuously drew back my glans with her supple tongue.
"Join me," she said. Then my recollections ended. She was gone.
I got up, showered and walked to Decatur and Conti to have breakfast on the patio at the Bienville House. The morning was a New Orleans rarity: a cool, crisp late fall morning with virtually no humidity. The mid morning sun was above the building tops, shining now down onto the streets and sidewalks. It was as clear and bright as any morning I'd ever recalled there. In fact, it was too bright, almost annoyingly so. I squinted as I walked, stopping at the Woolworth store for a cheap pair of sunglasses.
My large breakfast, artfully prepared, was extraordinary in taste. It left me over-filled yet unsatisfied however. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep. Perhaps simply the job and marriage pressures I'd been experiencing. I wasn't sure. I did know, however, that in view of the lack of sleep and full stomach, a nap was in order. Returning to my room, I drew the shades, lay upon the bed and immediately fell into a deep, comforting sleep.
I awoke from my nap, with no recollection of any dreams, feeling better and more rested than ever I could recall. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was almost noon. Amazing what a 1-1/2 hour mid-day nap can do to lift the spirits. I walked to the window, relishing the texture and softness of the carpet squishing between my toes. Opening the window shade, I was startled: it was pitch-black outside. Don't tell me an unpredicted storm had moved in. Not on one of my few days off. I searched the sky for breaks in the overcast and that's when I saw it. A full moon. A moon so full and bright that even the stars were obscurred from view. I rushed to the phone and called the front desk.
"Good evening, monsieur. How may I help you?"
The time, please, I asked.
Night or noon?
"Monsieur, eet eez nightime."
I hung the phone up without replying. I had slept for nearly 14 hours! I must have been tired. But what now to do? I couldn't possibly fall back to sleep. I certainly didn't want to sit up in my room, alone, until morning then be trashed for the entire next day.
I showered and shaved, recalling as I did so, the strange dream which had filled my evening the night--no, now two nights--before. In my closet hung a multi-colored, patterned silk shirt which my wife had bought for me. Though I had never particularly cared for it, tonight it seemed appropriate. I pulled it on without bothering for an undershirt and buttoned it, following with my jeans. Dammit! After five days on the road, I was without clean underwear. Sans undershorts, I zipped and buttoned the jeans, walked to the elevator and boarded--the only passenger on it.
"Come to me," the voice on the elevator said.
I turned, startled. There was no one else on board. Soft impressionistic music came from the lift's speakers. The voice had not. Perhaps, I surmised, it had been a voice from a floor we passed.
I stepped out the front lobby door, directly onto the Bourbon Street sidewalk. It was a relatively cool night. But as the temperature had dropped, the relative humidity had increased and the air was now moisture laiden. Fixtures on the street now covered with dew. At one half hour past midnight, the streets were still jammed with people. I noted, curiously though, several differences in the crowd. Few were capable of appearing sober as they had, by this time, probably been drinking for several hours. Also, the frumpy wives with their husbands in tow, seemed to have all disappeared. The couples I saw now, generally appeared to consist of guys in the company of some of the most exquisite women I'd ever seen, or just groups of guys. Also, of the persons unaccompanied, it seemed there was now a higher proportion of women than men, a fact I found curious as one would expect the females to be off the street earlier than the "studs" on the prowl.
Moving along up Bourbon Street, I looked across at the drag queen bar. The barker was still there but the raven-haired beauty, who'd so captured my attention the previous night, was not.
Without further interest, I wandered aimlessly on up Bourbon, away from Canal as the crowds became increasingly sparce and the businesses and few persons remaining became increasingly unique: a voodoo shop here, a psychic's shop there, all male mud-wrestling at a corner bar. For reasons inexplicable, as the few left in the diminished crowd moved further up Bourbon, I turned left onto a side street, stepping aside to give wide berth to the huge black man walking my way, holding hands with the bleached blonde with "big hair" and the ultra-short vinyl mini-skirt. As they passed, she puckered her lips and blew me a kiss. "Not him, bitch," tha black man said indignantly. "Wrong type." I wasn't sure if I was insulted or relieved.
Old-style, louvered swinging half doors opened into the bar across the street. "Round Up," stated the sign above them.
I'd heard of it. A gay bar with about as eclectic a crowd as New Orleans offered. Crossing the street, I entered, found a seat at the huge, four-sided bar, and ordered a spritzer.
"Is that an appropriate drink for a big, strong man?" asked the deep but feminine voice from behind me. Not recognizing the voice nor wanting to risk intruding on a strangers conversation, I didn't reply, but continued to look straight ahead as I sipped my drink.
"I am speaking to YOU!"
It was her!
It seemed as though an unknown force compelled my hand to slowly lower my glass to the bar. With no seeming effort on my part, my bar-stool turned and I was facing her. My eyes swept from floor to her face before becoming locked in her gaze.
She wore black, thigh-high, patent leather spike heeled boots over impossibly tight, black, stretch vinyl pants. Tucked in at the waist, her diaphonous white poets blouse did little to conceal the view of her huge breasts, clearly perched atop the shelves of a black demi-bra whice barley covered her nipples. Over it, a zippered, glossy black ninyl motorcycle jacket completed her outfit. She was tall. Much more so than I had recalled from seeing her on the street. From my barstool, my eyes were at the level of her breasts and I strained my neck painfully to look up into her eyes, which I felt--somehow--compelled to do.
"Buy me a drink," she stated matter-of-factly. "Now!"
Yes, I said numbly.
"Yes, what?" she demanded.
Yes, Mistress, I replied knowing--somehow--that that was the expected reply.
"Good beginning," she said without emotion. "You will work well."
Strangley, I recalled little of our conversations. I knew she had questioned me for hours and that I had provided answers which She had deemed to be adequate; They must have been adequate for when I awakened, She was laying in bed beside me. I definitely recalled that it was 6:00 AM when we had gone to bed. And I definitely recalled the dropping jaw of the last shift desk clerk as we walked through the lobby, Cassandra's spike heeled-boots clicking on the tile floor.
I glanced at the clock: 5:00 PM--probably another half hour of light. I couldn't believe it. For the second night in a row, I had slept throughout the day and was now prepared to stay up all night. It would take me a week to get my bio clock back in rythm once I returned home and work.
I stood, nearly stumbling. Despite feeling rested, I felt incredibly weak. Not ill, just weak. Reaching out, I caught the corner-post of the canopy bed in my hand, steadying myself until I regained my equilibrium. Looking down, I noted with amusement, the lipstick covering my flacid penis. I must have had a great time...too bad I couldn't recall it.
Groping my way from bed post to bed post, I found the outside wall, drawing open the shades so as to get at least a brief glimpse of the waining daylight.
The blinds opened and the remaining sunlight flooded through the soutwest-exposed window of my room.
"STOP IT!!!" the voice shrieked from behind me.
Startled, I nearly stumbled as Cassandra streaked from beneath the covers. In one continuous, imperceptibly swift motion, she dropped the blinds then back-handed me across the jaw, knocking me across the room. Regaining composure, I found myself sprawled on the floor, staring at her stiletto heels and vinyl pants...she was still fully dressed, exactly as she had been last night.
My eyes moved slowly up her body to meet hers. I recoiled in horror. Her face! Her face was grotesque and terrifying. Dark circles under her reddened eyes. Deep lines in her once smooth face now covered in grey black stubble. Flaky crusts around her thin, parched-looking lips, apparently from the pleasure she had provided me the night before.
"YOU BITCH!!!" she again screamed, kicking at me with her right foot, catching me squarely in the temple with her pointed heel. "Don't you EVER expose me to the sunlight!" As my sight dimmed and I drifted into uncounsciousness, I saw her on her hands and knees over me, her face contorted as she snarled like a mad dog, lowering her drooling jaws to my crotch.
"Feeling better, my pet?"
I was on the bed, my head splitting from the pain inflicted by the kick. Casandra was over me, her fingernail gently, lovingly tracing a line down my spine from the base of my neck to my tailbone as I lay upon my stomach.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I lost my head. The light hurts me because I'm not used to it. I shouldn't have been so rough with you."
I wanted to turn over to say something but was afraid of what I might see. I couldn't bear the possiblity of looking upon that hideous face again.
She seemed to sense my reluctance. "It's OK, pet, let me help you."
I was even weaker than before. Without her assistance, I probably wouldn't have been able to turn over.
She rolled me over. Fearfully, I slowly opened my eyes to look at her. She was radiant, glowing, with skin as smooth, perfect and pale as Disney's Snow White. I sighed with satisfaction. How long had I been out?
"You were out for nearly five hours. We need to leave soon. We've an appointment at the bar. Let me help you to the rest room."
Cassandra took my arm, helping me to my feet, then steadied me as she accompanied me to the bath. I was barely able to stand unassisted. She helped me to sit upon the covered toilet stool.
"You know what I am, don't you?" she asked incongruously.
Yes, Mistress Cassandra.
"Yet, still, you find yourself attracted to me. Overwhelmed, in fact by my very presence, unable to separate your thoughts from me. Isn't that so?"
"What am I?"
You're a transexual, I muttered. Cassandra laughed.
"Oh, my pet, I am that but I, and those like me, are much, much more. We have traded off our God-given form to replace it with one in which we could find ultimate fulfillment--that of the ultimate seductress. Do you doubt me?"
I found it beyond comprehension.
"You, yourself witnessed my metamorphosis. We, and those of my ilk, can never expose ourselves to the light of day. You saw what the sunlight did to me. Only a meal can return me to my real form. Do you disbelieve?"
"Irrespective of your acceptance or denial of what you have seen, you DO find me irresistably attractive, don't you my pet?"
"Good. Now look into my eyes. Look directly into my eyes. Do not think of anything other than looking into my eyes and relaxing. You ARE tired aren't you. You ARE at peace as you look into my eyes. Are you relaxed?"
"Good. I am going to ask you some questions. You will be fully at peace as you answer me because as long as you answer me honestly, you have nothing to fear. Lie to me and you will rot in Hell, because I will send you there."
I was fully conscious, aware of everything she or I said. Yet, somehow, I was incapable of being anything but completely honest with her.
"Do you find me irresistably attractive?"
"Do I epitomize all that is sexual and seductive to you? Does simply being near me bring you sexual pleasure?"
"Are you willing to totally surrender yourself, mind, heart, body and soul to me in order to continue be near me?"
She paused. "Why, when you know I was once a man, do you admit that I am the embodiment of all that is sexual, all that is seductive, all that is lust, all that is feminine, and all that is evil? Why do you find yourself willing surrender to me in order to be near me? Normal, mortal men do not feel this way? Why do you?"
I hesitated, confused, trying to overcome whatever spell I was under.
...I, uh, I..I couldn't bring myself to say it.
I am not a normal man...I...I am a...
I am not a real...
"What ARE you? What should you be?"
I should have been...
I should have been a woman...
Soothingly, she stroked my forehead, comforting me as I began to weep. "Yes, my pet, you should have been. I know that. I knew the first time I laid eyes on you. I know the torture you endure. It was simply a cruel twist of nature that forced you to live in a male body and have to satisfy the expectations of a male role. You've tried so hard to fight it, all of these years, that it has worn you down, slowly but surely destroying you."
"What do you want to be?"
I want to be just like you.
"Tell me again."
I want to be just like you.
I want to be just like you.
"Three times," she said, that is all that is required." She drew bath water for me. Helping me to my feet, lifting me by the upper arm, her fingers nearly encircling my loose, fleshy limbs, she assisted me to the bathroom.
What is happening to me, I asked.
"As you bathe, I will explain."
I slid into the water, unable to support my weight on the sides of the tub.
The warmth of the water supporting and soothing my body, my headache had gone away but still yet, I felt weaker.
"Tonight," Cassandra began, "you will become like me. The process has already begun."
I asked if that is why I felt so weak.
"Yes," she offered, "and why, for that matter, I now look so glorious (if I do say so myself). I've been using you for nourishment."
"I've been drinking your fluids," she said, "your semen. I and those like me can only survive on a steady diet of semen. Without it, we die. With it, we thrive. There's only one problem. Each time we nourish ourselves on an individual, we suck out not only a bit of the fluids we require but, with it, a portion of the essence of his male. life force. Haven't you ever noticed that, in time, every man--no matter how macho--who is regularly serviced by one like me, eventually begins to exhibit some feminine tendencies of his own? Over the course of time, there are three options: abstain, transition, or die. Most find abstainence impossible. A few transition. The majority simply wither away and die."
I asked her if I was dieing.
"Yes, my pet," you are. "It's part of the process. I have to take you to near death before bringing you back, in order for you to transition. Let me help you from the bath."
Placing her hands beneath my armpits, Cassandra lifted me to my feet. My knees nearly buckled as she assisted me from the tub.
"Behold," she said, turning me towards the mirror.
I gasped at my own reflection. My maleness, save for the shrivled useless appendage between my legs was gone. My body hair had totally fallen away revealing pallid loose skin covering a thin frame with little or no muscle definition. My face was withered and wrinkled, my eyes sunken.
I began to cry. Please, Mistress, don't let me look like this. I don't want to look like this. Give me back my maleness or let me die.
"What is gone, is gone," Cassandra said cooly. "Unfortunately, more must go."
No, please, it will kill me.
"Perhaps," she said, laying me helplessly weak upon the bed. "But does it matter? she asked, looking straight into my eyes. "Answer me!"
No, Mistress, it does not.
"You are powerless to resist me; correct?"
Yes, Mistress, I replied. She was right. I gazed into her eyes, weakened to near death, yet still my cock tingled and swelled to its fully-erect position.
Cassandra dropped to her knees beside the bed, the light of the one table lamp glinting and shimmering off her vinyl mini-dress as she moved toward me. She lowered her mouth to my member and I felt the moist warmth of her mouth sorround it. I swooned as I began to pulsate, loading her with the nourishment she required, even as a darkened veil descended over my eyes.
"I've laid your clothes out for you. Don't expect that to ever happen again. You've 45 minutes in which to be ready."
Where was I? I looked about the room, a contemporary bedroom in pink and lime, lacy white curtains covering the windows.
"You're in your new room, now, Pet. It's my house. You'll be living with me from now on. Your hotel extension ended yesterday."
But what about my job, my family?
"Your family doesn't need you and you won't need your job. You'll be making more in tips than you would have earned in your career anyway. A missing persons report has been filed. You will never be found and will be considered deceased. Now hurry up and put on your uniform."
At the foot of the bed, beneath the turned down comforter, I found my "uniform:" a long-sleeved, red vinyl "mistress" mini-dress. A 36-C 1/2-cup bra, black lace thong panties, matching garter belt, dark, seamed nylons, and impossibly high-heeled black patent fuck-me pumps lay beside them. As I sat, the sheet pulled up over my neck, I leaned forward to inspect the clothes more fully. The sheet falling, I looked down to realize the 36-C bra was going to be a tight fit.
Cassandra sat next to me on the bed. "Don't be worried hon, you'll get used to them. It shocked me when I first transitioned."
"I'll explain. You took in my body fluids, just as I took in yours. Only mine, as yours now are, are transexual vampire fluids, carrying with them the amassed femininity of my 253 years as a woman. Yes, dear, you are now, for all practical purposes but one, a woman--and an immortal one at that. Look into my eyes. Good. Now feed yourself on me."
Bending from the waist, my breasts swung pendulously, my pointed, erect nipples brushing up against Cassandra's thighs as my mouth engulfed her small but perfectly shaped penis. In moments, she began spurting her jism down my throat, so fast that my swallowing couldn't keep up. Still she continued to cum: easily a pint. I swallowed hungrily until she stopped, then licked the remainder from the head of her shaft and the sheets.
I felt strange tingling in my breasts as I felt them begin to swell further.
"That is the last of it," Cassandra said. "You are complete. You've transitioned as far as you can go. We'll pick you up a new bra tomorrow. Double D oughta' do it," she laughed.
I dressed in the outfit Cassandra had selected for me and waited on the couch as she retouched her makeup. The room was dark, illuminated only by the lights of the street outside, yet I could see clearly.
On the way to the Round Up, we held hands as we walked. People stared at us but what did it matter? Flaunting our bodies and erotic vinyl outfits, we were obviously two hookers dressed to kill. It was 10:00 PM and I was famished. Stopping at a hotdog cart, I took a five spot out of my cling purse.
"Let him keep the change," Cassandra said, "you won't need it."
I gave the vendor the money took a bite from the dog as we walked. Despite my hunger, it tasted bland and unfulfilling. I tossed the remainder in a trash can.
I've got to eat something I told Cassandra. I feel like I'm going to die.
"Yes, Pet," she replied, "you will if you don't eat properly. Now, I'll let you in on a little experience. I've got some good news and some bad. First the bad: in your new form, you'll require about 20 feedings per night. The good: Imagine going to 20 meals a day in a restaurant where they pay you to dine.
She laughed again.
He stood on the opposite corner, his back to me. Khaki pants, blue dress shirt, wavy, longish blonde hair. He was well built with a great ass.
I stared at him from behind. Turn to me, I thought.
He did, fixating on my micro mini, my shapely legs, and overflowing breasts.
Come to me, I thought, and he proceeded across the street in my direction. Oh, this was going to be fun.
As he approached, Cassandra leaned over to give me a wet kiss on the cheek. Turning to walk into the Round Up, she called back to me: "Bon appetite."
I smiled even as the saliva began to run from the corner of my mouth.