Sweet Sherri

A half hour later, she fumbled out the keys to open up her two-bedroom walkup in Hell's Kitchen. All things considered, for a 21 year old now living as a woman, it wasn't too bad, considering the rent she paid with her roommate would hardly get her a studio close to her job. Apparently the low-dose estrogen she took didn't hit her brain hard enough, because for her obvious visage in a few of the pictures on the walls, it looked very much a guy's place. Random papers, a stack of college textbooks and an empty glass coated the table. "Great, that freakin' reminds me," Sherri muttered to herself. "I have to make it out to Queens at some point this weekend."

With an exhausted sigh, she tossed her baseball cap in the general direction of nothing and dropped her bag on the floor. She walked into her tiny bedroom, illuminated by an equally small lamp, then shucked her sweatshirt off. Her shoes and jeans followed in quick succession, along with her sports bra. A shiver when up through her nipples, just enough to tempt her into some manual relaxation with some of her porn collection. Alas, her exhaustion got the better of her, and an ungraceful tit-first collision with the bed beckoned, taking her off to sleep the sleep of the tried.

***

Magically, it seemed, Satan turned the fires up in Hell's Kitchen. Either that, or the sun light finally hit her eyes, causing her to rub the sleep out of them. She first reached for a bra, then, realizing it was out of reach, stumbled onto her feet to find something. Once she found a suitable white one to squeeze those silicone sacs under her skin into, she set about walking into the kitchen. Almost by feel, she walked into the kitchen, grabbed a glass, opened the fridge and poured herself a glass of orange juice.

"What's up?"

"Hey Stan," Sherri said as she walked over towards the living room. "Another fun all-nighter, eh?"

"Well, I won't have you to pay half of my rent forever. How was your night with the straights?"