The Bishop's Head: Trans Beauty's Private Interview

The last chairs were up and the front door of The Bishop's Head was locked when Alastair finished the till. He was forty-two, broad through the chest and shoulders from years of shifting kegs, with dark hair going silver at the temples and a mouth that smiled easier than it scowled. The pub had become famous in the transsexual community for exactly the kind of night they had just survived: loud, sweaty, fucktastic, a place where beautiful trans women could dance until their heels hurt and nobody asked them to be smaller. Alastair did not host those nights from a safe distance. He loved fucking the women who partied under his roof, and he loved getting fucked by them just as much, and he had never once pretended otherwise. Regulars knew the stories. Some of them were the stories.

Tonight the music was dead. He had worked the bar sober, as he always did on a busy Saturday, and the only drink in him was water. The air still held perfume and the ghost of bass. He was wiping the wood when heels clicked across the floor behind him.

Nadia was twenty-six, and she was, without contest, one of the most beautiful trans women who had ever claimed a table in his pub. Long dark hair, a black dress that clung and then flared, lipstick still precise, legs that made the empty room feel smaller. She had laughed with her friends for hours and watched him whenever he passed, and he had watched her back—mouth, hips, the confident way she held a glass of soda she never finished. No one else remained. The friends had gone. The street outside was quiet.

"Closed," he said, though his voice had already softened.

"I know." She set her purse on the bar and met his eyes. "I want a private interview. Back office. You and me."

Want moved through him so fast it nearly showed in his hands. She saw it anyway. The mutual attraction that had been a low hum all night snapped into something sharp and hot, sexual tension thick enough to taste. His pulse kicked at his throat. Her lips parted. Neither of them looked away.

"Hallway," he said. "Door on the left."

He killed the bar lights. The corridor was narrow and warm. The office waited at the end: scarred wooden desk, tired leather chair, a couch under a high window that showed nothing but brick, a filing cabinet that had never held anything as interesting as the woman walking ahead of him. He shut the door. The latch clicked. Nadia turned, close enough that her perfume reached him—sweet over something darker—and the heat of her skin did the rest. She did not sit. Her gaze dropped to his mouth and climbed back up, slow, and the little room seemed to press in around the wanting.

"You can sit," he offered.

"I'd rather stand," she said, "until I decide what this interview is really going to be."

She took the guest chair after a moment anyway, crossing her legs so the dress rode up her thigh, and he sat because standing that close to her was going to end the talking before it started. A blank notepad lay between them like a prop. Nadia produced a pen, tapped it once, and smiled in a way that was not professional at all.

"The Bishop's Head has a reputation," she said. "People in the community say the nights are fucktastic because the owner doesn't just pour the drinks. I want the part you don't put on a chalkboard."

"Ask whatever you want."

"How many trans women have you fucked here?"

He huffed a laugh. "Enough that the number stopped mattering. They come because they can be loud and wanted. I want them. That's not a marketing line."

"And the other half." Her eyes stayed on his. "Getting fucked. Is that real, or is it a story that makes the nights sound wilder than they are?"

"Real," Alastair said. "I've been on my back on that couch. I've taken a cock in this office and thanked the woman for it. I like being fucked when she knows what she's doing. I like fucking just as much. Both. Often. No shame in either."

The questions grew filthier, and he answered every one. Did he like the taste of them. Yes. Did he like a hand on his throat. Sometimes. Did he come harder when they told him exactly how to move. Often enough that he had learned to listen. Nadia's voice dropped with each answer. The notepad stayed empty. What had started as an interview became two adults talking about sweat and holes and the sounds people made when they stopped performing, and the space between the desk and her chair felt smaller by the minute.

She set the pen down.

"I've wanted you," she said. The admission was plain and hot. "Not the reputation. You. For months now, every time I saw you laugh behind that bar like you meant it. I've thought about your hands on my hips. I've thought about your cock. I've gone home and fucked myself imagining this room and your mouth."

Alastair leaned forward. The chair creaked. He looked at her and did not soften it.

"Then stop asking me about everyone else," he said. "I want you. Specifically. That dress. That mouth. The way you've been staring at me all night like you were already naked in your head and waiting for me to catch up. I've been half-hard since you walked in at nine. If you want this, say it, and we abandon the interview. No story. No notes. Just us."

She stood. He stood. She came around the desk and he met her halfway, and the kiss was immediate and open-mouthed, tongues sliding, her fingers in his hair, his palms finding her ass through the dress and squeezing until she moaned into him. She ground against his thigh. He cupped her breast, thumb dragging over a nipple until it peaked under the fabric, and she bit his lower lip and laughed once, breathless, before kissing him again. His hand slid under the hem, up the warm inside of her thigh, and found her cock already thick and straining against her panties. He stroked her through the cloth. She shoved a hand down the front of his pants, gripped him, hot and heavy and twitching in his fist, and they both made the same hungry sound.

"Interview's over," she said against his mouth.

"Good," he answered, and kissed her harder, both of them eager, both of them choosing it with their hands and their hips and the way neither pulled back.

Nadia dropped to her knees on the rug, dress pooling around her, and opened his belt with sure fingers. Alastair braced against the desk, already breathing hard, and watched her free his cock. He was thick, flushed dark, a clear bead gathering at the slit. She looked up—twenty-six, wrecked lipstick, eyes bright with want—and licked that bead away before she took him into her mouth.

Heat closed around him. She sucked him with deep, hungry strokes, lips stretched tight, cheeks hollowing, taking him until her nose brushed the hair at his base and she held, throat fluttering, eyes wet and fixed on his. Then she drew back slow, tongue flat along the underside, and sank again. Wet sounds filled the office. Spit shone on her chin. Her hand twisted over what her mouth left free, slick and firm, while her other hand cupped his balls and rolled them gently, then not gently. Alastair's head tipped back. His fingers slid into her hair, not forcing the pace, just feeling it, anchoring himself to the rhythm she chose.

"Nadia," he moaned. The name broke in his throat. "Nadia. Fuck. Nadia."

She hummed around him and the vibration ran straight up his spine. She bobbed faster, messier, gagging softly and pushing through it because she wanted the depth, spit stringing from her lip to his shaft when she pulled off to breathe and then swallowed him down again. He moaned her name until it was nonsense, thighs shaking, cock throbbing against her tongue. He was close. She felt it in the way he swelled and the way his grip tightened, and she eased off with a filthy wet pop, kissing the swollen head, stroking him slow and mean so he would not finish in her throat before she got filled.

"I want you in me," she said, voice hoarse. "Over the desk."

He pulled her up and kissed her, tasting salt and himself, then turned her and bent her over the scarred wood. Papers slid to the floor. Her dress went to her waist. He dragged her panties down and left them tangled above her knees, and the sight hit him hard: ass raised, hole waiting, her cock hanging heavy and flushed between her thighs, already wet at the tip. He groaned and dropped to his knees behind her, spreading her with both hands.

He ate her ass like he had been waiting all night to do nothing else. His tongue was broad and wet, licking over her hole, circling the rim, pressing until she cried out and shoved back against his face. He spat and licked it in. He sucked at her, filthy and devoted, fucking her with his tongue while one hand reached under to stroke her cock in long, tight pulls. Nadia braced on her elbows, panting, cursing, telling him yes, deeper, don't you dare stop. He didn't. He ate her until his jaw ached and her hole was shiny and soft, fluttering open against his mouth, until she was dripping down his chin and rocking helplessly between his tongue and his fist.

Then he stood, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, lined his cock up, and pushed.

She was tight. The head breached and she gasped, fingers clawing the desk, and he held still—one beat, two—until she pushed back and said, clear and wanting, "All of it." He sank in, a slow thick slide that ended with his hips flush to her ass and both of them shaking. Heat gripped him everywhere. He took her hips and fucked her hard in doggy style, the desk knocking the wall, his balls slapping her, her cock swinging with every thrust. Sweat gathered under his collar and ran down his spine. The room filled with the sound of skin and her broken little moans and the creak of old wood.

"Harder," she said, and he gave it. Deep strokes that punched the air out of her. He reached around and jerked her while he fucked her, fist matching his hips, slick with her precum, until she was trembling and warning him she would come if he kept that up. He slowed just enough to edge her, pulled out until only the head stretched her open, and drove back in. Again. Again. Her ass rippled. He bent over her back, sweat dripping onto her dress, and bit the curve of her shoulder, moaning into the fabric, lost in how perfectly she took him. The desk was warm under her palms. Her cock leaked onto the wood. Every thrust shoved a broken sound out of her, and he answered with his own, low and wrecked, the two of them loud enough that the empty pub seemed to listen.

"Chair," she managed. "I want to ride you. Let me."

He pulled out, cock gleaming and aching, and dropped into the leather chair. Nadia kicked her panties free, turned, and climbed into his lap facing away. Reverse cowgirl. She reached back, guided him, and sank down in one greedy motion that made them both swear out loud. From this angle he could watch his cock disappear into her tight hole, watch the flex of her back under the shoved-up dress, the fall of her hair sticking to her neck with sweat. She planted her heels and rode him, bouncing, grinding, taking every inch on the drop. Her own hand found her cock and stroked it hard, fist flying, wet sounds mixing with the slap of her ass against his thighs. Alastair gripped her waist and thrust up to meet her, sweat-slick, the chair complaining, his chest heaving under the open shirt.

"Look at you," he rasped. "Fucking yourself on my cock. Stroking that pretty cock like you can't help it. Use me, Nadia. Take it."

She did. Faster. The office was nothing but heat and noise—wet, rhythmic, obscene—and their voices breaking over each other. He felt the rush gather low and mean, the point of no return clawing up from his balls. His hands bruised her hips. She clenched around him and stroked herself faster, panting his name.

"I'm going to come," he warned. "Inside you. I'm going to fill you."

"Yes," she gasped, still riding, still stripping her cock. "Do it. Fill me. I want it."

He slammed up and came hard, pulsing, flooding her tight hole in thick hot spurts while he groaned her name into the sweat of her shoulder. The feeling of him throbbing deep inside her tipped her over the edge. Nadia cried out, fist flying, and came across his chest in heavy stripes—over his shirt, his stomach, the open collar, hot and messy—while she clenched and milked every last pulse of his orgasm. They shook through it together, locked and gasping, until the thrusts went ragged and the only sound left in the office was breathing and the faint tick of the cooling pipes.

He eased out of her carefully, both of them wrecked, grinning like people who had gotten exactly what they came for. She turned in the narrow space between his knees and the desk. His chest was striped with her cum. Her thighs were wet with his. Neither of them minded. She leaned in and kissed him, long and slow and satisfied, a kiss that tasted like after, like salt and lipstick and the decision they had already made. His hand rested at the nape of her neck. Hers spread over his heart, sticky and warm, feeling it hammer and then begin to settle.

"The interview," Alastair said when they parted, voice rough and fond, "can continue anytime you want. You don't need an excuse. The office is yours. Come back and we'll pick up wherever we leave off."

Nadia smiled, mouth swollen, eyes bright. "Good. Because this pub made me happy the first night I walked in, and you just made it better. Expect many more private sessions. I'll keep asking. You'll keep saying yes."

She was already scheming the next time while the kiss still tingled on her mouth. Not next month. Soon. A quiet Tuesday, side door after close, the red dress she had not worn tonight, his mouth on her before either of them spoke a full sentence. She would ride him again, and then she would fuck him the way he had confessed he loved, slow and deep on that couch, until the famous nights and the private ones blurred into one long wanting. The plan sat warm behind her smile, already half-scheduled.

"Text me the night," she murmured, and kissed him once more, certain of the next time before she even stood up.