A Clean Shirt

byAllyourbase©

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Dear readers. Guess what? I have kept my promise. Here is my very first attempt at a happier than usual story. Please, don't hesitate to let me know whether I succeeded or failed. Thanks to my proofreader and friend Kurokami and his girls/bois. Initially, I was not going to publish this. Writing it was an experiment for myself, to see how it would feel to experience a dynamic like this, to find out what would make it hot for me, on both sides. Personal motives. But I have been told it deserves an audience, because there is so little out there on Literotica like this. So, there you go, I hope it serves a need, gets you off ;) This story is dedicated to those people who have made me see the thrill of certain words, and the fun of playing with gender. I hope you like it. Enjoy.

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He enters the train at the airport station, but he doesn't carry much. Crisp and clean, his suit still is. Short trip to London?

He doesn't look bad, though he's probably at least fifteen years older than me. Grey hair, light eyes, not very tall. Nice jawline, just a little stubble on it. Nice body... Not so groomed he looks gay. The look that says he still works out, no fuss, just because it's a good idea, though it won't get him a six pack anymore like it used to.

Under that clean shirt, some of his chest hair is probably grey.

For some reason, that arouses me.

I observe how he takes some reading material out of his briefcase - a bit too closely maybe, because he glances my way.

I look away. The window in the tunnel doesn't show anything but my own reflection. Without thinking, I take off my cap, softly, slowly caress my new, short haircut into place again. I should probably stop wearing caps at some point in my life...

I feel him take another look, now that he thinks I'm not watching.

I don't get why. I'm pretty fuckin' sure I look like a dyke.

I'm not. Not... exactly.

Oh, wait, I get it. I have to get used to it, with this new haircut. I've noticed the confusion I cause since then. It makes people look twice.

As soon as we're out of the tunnel, he makes a phone call. Friendly, to thank someone, insisting to thank someone for something. He slouches a bit on the bench, his elegant leather shoe tapping the floor as he talks and smiles into nowhere. He glances over now and then, aware he's talking in a public place. His other hand plays with the crease in his pants.

I like his voice. I like his hands. I... like his attitude.

I probably stared too much this time for real. He finishes his call, smiles at me apologetically. I can't help but grin back. He is sexy.

"Sorry, sometimes you just have to force someone to take a compliment."

"Yeah, no problem," I answer. "It's more fun to hear than fighting."

I smile sheepishly. His expression shows he is surprised. Yes, I know. I know I have a sweet, sultry voice. It makes it instantly clear why my chin is so smooth, my facial features more delicate, my hands so small. I wonder if he likes this new information.

He looks at me, intensely. A hint of a smile plays over his face. Yes, there you go, he sees it. A silence falls, quickly approaching awkward. My cockiness disappears fast.

"Absolutely," he says. "Nothing like making someone happy with the right words."

He turns to his papers again. I might be imagining it, but he seems to be suppressing a smile. God, I thought I was good at spotting flirting, but I have no idea what that means. Whether it's amusement or condescension, I can't tell.

A well dressed lady with a small suitcase scurries by. She's one of the last people to look for a seat. She doesn't notice me, exchanges a smile with him and chooses a seat not far from ours. His eyes follow her appreciatively, cling to her ass. I watch him with amusement. It's interesting to see this tiny crack in his professional exterior.

Yep, straight.

Fuck. I like straight men...

By now I curse myself a little.

Why do I keep making these paradoxical choices, expecting them to work out... If I followed the rules it would be easy, you see. If I want to look like this, I should date girls. Though here I am, looking like this, sitting a few seats from a man who ogles pretty women's shapely asses, and I want him.

But if I want men, straight men to want me, I should stop wanting to look like one.

At least, that is what my last boyfriend had said. And that was even before I cut my hair. It was just because I stole his ties.

Well, borrowed really, he made such a fuss about it. 'Where is my blue striped tie?' Nag nag. With that condescending air of him. Childish. Yeah, it was stupid to hide them in my bag in the morning, tying them on the train, because it creased them and that annoyed the crap out of him. But I only did that because he wouldn't let me take them in the first place...

Hey, they looked good on me! Jeez.

And, O.K., I stole his shirts as well. I loved them, those clean, button down shirts. He hated that I did that, because my boobs stretched them in an ugly way.

I agreed with him on that.

Ridiculous reason, though, to not want to fuck me all of a sudden... it's not like I was so girly when we met, after all. Though I guess the real cause was him being a douche.

He might've been right, though. What straight man likes girls who look like me?

Still, the first thing I did after we broke up, was buy some ties of my own. And next a binder...

I take a deep breath, fold my arms, and look out of the window, at the hypnotic, straight lines in this cultivated evening landscape. The polders stretch out to the horizon smoothly, like well made hotel beds. Patches of houses, gardens, placed around neatly like folded clothes in a closet. I think of my ex's button down shirts. I wish I was wearing one of them, in stead of the random T-shirt I threw on this morning. Those crisp shirts; white, grey, striped. I so wanted him to fuck me in them. I craved for his hands sliding over the fabric covering my chest, grabbing my tie. Someone taking me like that, hard. I push away the painful memory of the one moment I tried that, of his disgusted expression when he said:

'Jesus, take it off, you are disturbing. I'm not gay! What's next, you're gonna ask me to wear panties, huh?'

Like any of that would be a problem...

Seriously though, why do I even replay these scenes? Screw him. There must be someone who thinks this is sexy. Someone besides me...

Quietly, I rub the sore spot my binder has created on my ribs today. I feel a little fucked up and very horny.

The sun is setting. I look forward to arriving home, so I can masturbate, thinking of unbuttoning the shirt of this man sitting across from me, just to see his grey chest hair. I hope he has a treasure trail.

I will imagine feeling those little hairs against the back of my hand. Against my tongue.

I will think of his hands, those strong, elegant hands, grabbing my hair, touching my face, holding my head in place as I suck him off. Of his toes curling up, the tension in his thighs, when I take him deep. Of that voice of his, calling me a good boi, such a good, good boi.

My shorts are getting wet...

"Excuse me, sir." The pretty lady from before has risen from her seat, and addresses the business man with a flirty smile. "Do you know how long it takes before we reach Central Station?"

"No, sorry," he says. "It's my first time traveling here as well."

Then he looks over to me.

"Maybe that gentleman knows, though."

Huh, what did he just say? I'm caught by surprise... He knows I'm not..., he has just seen it, heard it. Right? Automatically, I start:

"I'm not a..."

But I stop, because when I look him in the face, I see a smile I didn't expect. I'm not sure whether it means what I think it means, but it means something. I look at the lady, who is wondering about what just happened here, and I answer her.

"I'm not... exactly sure, but it's probably about twenty minutes from here on."

She's confused, clearly, but doesn't want to show it. She glances over to him, back to me, quickly thanks me and goes back to her seat.

I bet she even forgot what I told her.

Twenty minutes.

Yes, twenty minutes, twenty fucking goddamn horrible minutes to think of what she must be thinking about me. To regret my fuckin' visit to the hairdresser last week, my fashion choice of this morning, and everything else... If only I had kept that messy ponytail. Oh, man, what I would give to have this space to my own again right now...

Because what is even worse: what he just did gave me an incredible rush.

When we exchange looks again, I have lost all my swagger. I want to crawl under a rock.

But then he winks... - did he just... wink? - and softly says:

"You're welcome..."

Oh what the fuck.

I stare out of the window, but the landscape rushing by isn't offering any solace. It goes on and on and carries my dirty thoughts, stitches them together like a sewing machine.

His teeth on my chin.

My chin in his hand.

His hand traveling down to my boxerbriefs.

My boxerbriefs shoved down my legs.

My legs twitching against his fit body.

His body pressing me in the mattress.

The mattress getting wet from my cunt.

My cunt stretching around his large...

The voice of the lady announcing the arrival at Central Station is almost lost on me. My brain has turned to cotton fluff. Coming back to reality is hard. Standing up is hard. I straighten my T-shirt, zip up my hoodie, hoist up my jeans and my wet boxerbriefs. My body awkwardly does what I ask it to.

He gets up as well. I shoot him a crooked grin. Christ, I'm horny. I wonder if he can tell...

Every sound is amplified, my senses are heightened in some way. I'm so aware of the bodies around me. I feel him close. We don't exchange a word. Waiting for the doors to open with the other travelers, I feel like I'm standing there together with him, as if we're traveling companions. My heart beats in my throat.

I hope nobody can smell my arousal.

On the platform, I can breathe again, find my cool again. The evening air is cold and soft and dark like black silk sheets.

He walks next to me with his modest suitcase. Casually, like we know each other. As the lady with the suitcase walks past, hoping in vain for some eye contact, he says to me:

"Show me where the cabs are."

Is he commanding me, or am I leading him?

When we get to the cab, I know what is going to happen. I've been dangling the key of my bike lock in my hand for some time now. My bike is behind the station. This is play. At least for me it is. We're testing each other.

"Share a cab with me," he says.

I play with the keys in my hand, deliberately, for just a second too long. I shoot him a mocking, defying look, from under my cap. He stares back. It makes my knees go weak.

It was not a question.

Wordlessly, I get in.

He doesn't ask me where I need to go. I don't tell him either. I don't tell him anything.

The silent city glides by behind the glass, its streets lit by neon and decorated with people, framed in the window like it's fashion photography on the pages of edgy magazines. Far away, gritty, yet unexplicably desireable. Slowly, with every turn, I feel myself slip a bit more. His quiet demeanor, his sternness, the way he just takes me with him, it's overpowering. I want this. I want to not have a choice. I want whatever he's going to do to me.

When we get to the hotel, it's not play anymore. I hold my foolish questions, the stupid small talk, like I've held my tongue the entire drive. My mind has as little to say as my mouth. I get out, follow him inside, avoid everyone's eyes. My heart thumps in my chest.

"He's with me," he announces to the hotel clerk behind the reception desk. I keep my head low, hide him behind the visor of my baseball cap.

As we step into the elevator, while pushing the button to the top floor, he speaks.

"You're a rare find, you know that, kid."

I shift my weight to my other leg. I'm not sure if he wants me to reply. He doesn't look at me. It's like he never spoke. Until he says:

"And I'm guessing, since you're still here, that feeling is mutual."

His face breaks into a sexy, naughty smirk. He glances at me, a bit apologetically. Loosens up. Finally. I grin back, blush a bit.

"Well, yeah..." I mumble, raising an eyebrow. "Talk about rare finds."

At the top floor, the doors open to a well dressed couple waiting to go down. They nod at him, and stare at me. We try to suppress our smiles. To them, it must be a curious sight: a distinguished gentleman in a suit, and a boyish girl - or a boy? - in sneakers and a baseball cap, here, in this expensive hotel.

"They think you're gay," I tease him.

"They think you should be wearing a suit," he replies. He opens the door to his room.

"And I agree." He winks. He looks me up and down. "I am gay like that."

The way he looks at me makes my stomach flutter.

He closes the door, he pushes me against it. His hands rest on my shoulders, keeping me there. I stare in his eyes. His eyes twinkle. I bite my lip. God, he is sexy, so fuckin' sexy. I just want to drop down on my knees and unbuckle his belt.

He presses his body against mine. Yes, he's very fit. Softly, his tie rubs against the zipper of my hoodie. My hands go to his hips to pull him in. I want so badly to feel his crotch, hot against mine, his cock growing in his pants.

"Oh, are we a little eager, kid?" he grunts, grinding himself against me. I blush. His condescending tone turns me on. I can smell his aftershave.

He takes off my cap. His hand moves through my hair.

"So there I am on the train, and this boy sitting across from me turns out to be a girl. So cute. All boyish nonchalance. She must be a lesbian, like they always are, I thought. Which is a shame, really... because I have a thing for women like that."

He draws out the words, watches how they arouse me, make my breath tremble.

"But you... you kept staring at me with those big, hungry eyes of yours. You aren't a dyke..."

He caresses my red cheek, his fingers linger on my jaw line, as he stares me in the eyes sternly. My breath becomes shallow.

"You're a faggot..."

Man... I cringe at that, but he ain't wrong, really. He closes in, his nose softly against mine, our lips almost touch.

"... just like me."

He takes my chin in his hand, firmly. I can taste his breath. I can see the lines in his skin. His face looks rough in this light, forbidding. I want him, but I don't dare move.

"And I'm way too old for you." He smiles an irresistable smile, creasing his face. "But I'm starting to think you like that..."

Apologetically, I grin back. "Yeah," I mumble. Yeah, I like it. My hands play with his tie, with the jacket of his suit. "I have a... thing for men dressed like you."

"Oh, you like my suit, huh?" he whispers against my lips. "I wonder how it looks on you."

The idea that he wants to see me wearing his clothes blows my mind. Involuntarily, I moan. My mouth wants to taste his, I lick my lips. But he doesn't give in yet. I can almost feel the cool cotton against my skin.

"You'll probably look like you're playing dress up in your daddy's clothes. Did you try on your daddy's clothes when you were young, hm?"

I blush hard. He pushes into me, his hand softly on my throat, his lips against my face. I can feel his hard-on pressing into me. He likes that idea... he likes it a lot. He chuckles.

"Tell me that dirty little secret, girl. Did you? His shirts? His boxershorts maybe?"

I can't answer. I really can't.

"Now be a good boi and let me see what's under these clothes," he grunts.

I love that he calls me boi...

He undoes some buttons on my jeans. I lift my shirt to give him access. He takes a look at the grey checkered boxerbriefs I bought at the men's department of a large warehouse. I feel exposed.

"You're such a dirty little crossdresser," he says. "Aren't you?"

I lower my eyes, because I probably am. I'm not a boy, I just like to pretend I am one. So I guess I am one of those freaks, a pervert who has a thing for wearing clothes of the opposite sex... But I can't help it.

"Well, aren't you?" He asks. He grabs my chin again, makes me look at him.

Fuck. Shame wells up inside of me. I try to hold back tears.

I've detested this most about myself. The craving for anything masculine. Not knowing, when I wanted a man, whether I wanted to have him, or be him. Or both. And then some boy would let me in, and I'd end up raiding his closet.

It's always been this messed up ball of sex and fetish and gender confusion, a lot of gender confusion. Until I didn't know whether I was really still female inside.

I still don't know, for fuck's sake.

But as I stare in his eyes, I suddenly feel the relief of being seen, recognized, for the first time.

Finally, I nod.

"Yes, Daddy," he spits out.

"Yes... Daddy," I say, under my breath.

Christ. Did I just say that? This is crossing a boundary, but I crossed it. I curse him for turning this into play, it's not how I am at all. Or am I? Blood rushes to all kinds of places now. I feel guilty for loving this, but apparently I do.

"Good boi," he calls me. I shudder. Finally he kisses me, with a demanding mouth, hard, deep, the stubble on his chin scraping my skin, his tongue in control of me. So satisfying, so arousing. It goes straight to my clit.

Shit, I'm really lost. He pushes all my buttons and some more I didn't know I had. Whatever he's going to ask me, I will do it.

He unzips my hoodie, explores my chest, like he just bought a new toy. He can feel the binder pressing down my tits, I know he can. He pulls up my shirt, his hand slips under it, caresses my belly, plays with the elastic of my tight top, slides over it. He rubs me where my nipples strain against the fabric, with a flat palm. He scrutinizes my face.

I can't help but tremble. My god, nobody has done that before, and it feels incredible. My nipples are sensitive, restrained like this. He's getting me worked up. My knees start to give in.

My hands move to his belt, but he grabs my wrists.

"Let me suck you off," I say. "I want your cock."

"Ask for it," he says, and he smirks. "I like that sweet voice of yours."

For a moment, I hesitate.

"Please, let me suck your cock?"

"Please what?"

Oh god, he's going to make me say that...

"Come on, you know how to ask properly now," he says. His hand caresses my chin. He kisses me softly. All my defenses are stripped down, as he whispers: "Ask me properly, boi."

"Please, Daddy," I say softly. "Can I suck your cock?"

"Good, very good." He pushes me down to my knees.

He really is a gentleman pervert, with the fly of his grey suit open, his white briefs pushed down a little, so he can free his cock. He firmly grabs a fist full of my hair, and pushes his cock against my mouth with the other.

"Open up," he grunts.

I obey, and he pushes in, sliding over my tongue, into my throat. His hand cups my chin. He smells clean, good. He slides back, until the head of his dick is on my tongue. I can taste his precum, salty, warm. I moan around him, want to touch his balls, but he pushes my hands away, tells me to keep them behind my back.

Holding my head in place against the hotel door, he slowly fucks my mouth, carefully, but deeper every time, and just a bit rougher, testing how much I can take.

"Oh you're a good boi... such, such a good boi. This is so good," he says.

More and more, he makes me choke on his cock. First just a little. And a little more after that.

"You can take it," he whispers. "Can't you?"

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