A Femboy and his Blob

The line moves again, and I tug her along this time. Puddles is going to be irate.

P: Status report.

L: Speak -- er, think - of the fucking devil. I'm bagging a sissy, Puddles. I'm practically at the door.

P: My models indicate you have dawdled, unless there are unusual mitigating circumstances.

L: Gabby is an unusual mitigating circumstance. She's a fucking angel. She'll taste great.

P: I doubt she is remarkable by my standards. Regardless, carry on. The status report is that you have dawdled. You are fortunate the lining is so resilient. From saliva and mucus alone, I estimate it is at ninety-seven percent integrity.

I know he's done with me. He's not big on formal goodbyes.

I manage to hide my telepathic squabbling from Gabby. She's lost in thought. I take her hand again. I squeeze it reassuringly. We're almost to the doors. She moves closer to my side, turns her head, and lifts onto her tippytoes. I'm not that much taller, but it's cute. I don't turn my head. I let her find my ear. I feel her breath, and it makes me smile.

"I love my sissy cummies," she confesses. I can tell from the change in her voice that she's being honest with me -- telling me what she really wants, no fetish or kink bullshit.

It's fine with me. I'll make sweet, sissy-hole love to her with my big femboy cock. I'll make her have a sissygasm, hands free -- maybe even her first one, like that. Then Puddles will make sure she has the sissy cummies to end all sissy cummies. She'll give him everything she can spare. She'll have the night of her life -- and, again, she'll live through it. Puddles will tweak her a little bit as a reward, and she'll love that too. She won't move up on the slave ladder, though. That's not the deal. I'm the slave princess of the human race forever. Puddles and I will find her somebody nice, if she wants. We'll find her somebody awful, if she wants.

"But I also need to be spanked," she adds, mimicking my hissing S, shooting it right into my ear.

If not for Puddles' clever tweaks, my cock would've strained against its cage at that. I shiver in delight from the feeling of her breath, and then squeeze my boi-hole around my teaser. I feel the hurts-so-good ache in my B-spot. I generally try to wait until I'm on my knees inside the room, but Gabby's special.

It's a done deal. We exchange information and set a date. Even though she's mine -- ours -- I do make two more requests. One of them is weird enough that I'm the tiniest bit nervous.

"Make sure you have lots of sissy cummies saved up for us," I tell her. I put some real authority behind the request. "You can eat a lot the week before - a lot. Take some Se-Pak. My master and I are going to be gentle and loving, Gabby, but we're going to milk every last drop out of you. Make sure there's lots for us to milk."

"Yes, um..."

Oh, dear. I'd completely forgotten.

"Elle," I say. "Ellie, since we're going to be such good friends. I promise it'll make it so much better, Gabby. Wet sissy cummies are so much better than dry cummies."

I feel her nod eagerly. I squeeze her hand again. She squeezes back. God -- er, Xenu - I love sissies. They're easy mode, and they're all so sexy these days. Females are still hard mode. They both got easier over the decades, but sissies got way easier.

"Also," I say more casually, "it's generally considered polite to bring something along when you visit someone. My master and I like snacks. We really, really like snacks. Bring lots for us. When in doubt, check the calories. The worse it is for us, the more we like it."

"But you're so thin," Gabby says. She is, too, but she has to work at it.

"I get a lot of exercise," I reply coyly. "Also, my Master is a very rich, very powerful man. He spends a lot of money on me."

"Oh," she says. Then it dawns on her. "Oh! Your voice..."

I nod. "Thank you for noticing, by the way. My master's very proud of it, and I like it too."

"I love it," Gabby says. "Do you think, maybe, someday...?"

I turn and surprise her with a kiss, right on her glossy lips. It's a quick peck with no tongue, but it gets me a surprised, happy sissy squeak -- plus two wide eyes, flashing that beautiful sky blue.

"If you're a good little sissy for one of Master's rich and powerful friends, who knows?" I reply. I'm not just blowing smoke, either. People do favors for Puddles, without even realizing who he is. They get favors in return. If all the pieces fall in place for Gabby, there's a chance that Puddles will see her one more time after our date, even though she won't see him. She might get lots of tweaks. She'll never be quite as sexy as me, though. That's part of the deal.

Otherwise, I think we're still a few decades out from low-cost, high-quality, real-time voice modding. It's tricky, and only on the list because I insisted. There's also a lot of pushback from the alphabet agencies.

The light above the door changes; I catch it out of the corner of my eye. They make it so that it's easy to spot, even if you're not paying attention. These days, glory holes are a much more social affair. They know people will be distracted sometimes.

"Is it okay if I go next, Gabby?" I ask. "I've got a million cocks to suck tonight."

"Of course, Ellie!" she replies. "I'm so happy I met you."

"Likewise, my little angel," I reply. "We'll see each other again very soon, promise."

With smiles all around, I head into the glory hole station. It's well-constructed, clean, and designed to offer both anonymous and less-anonymous encounters -- plus streamlined egresses for all parties that maintains their separation by role. Honestly, they did their best, but some things just get ruined a little bit by legitimacy. It's okay, though. Times change. Overall, the R&R booths have made more people happy. They've nudged us closer to that hypersexual utopia.

I head to my preferred booth, knowing it'll be empty. It's usually for two or three people, but I'm the world's best cocksucker and cock-jerker. I roll my shoulders and crick my neck a few times, mostly because that's what they do in the movies. Even without Puddles here, I'm going to dominate -- well, you know, figuratively. Double-figuratively? Ah, you get it.

* * * * * * *

L: Cocks cocks cocks cocks COCKS!

P: Status report noted. Point made.

I'm a machine. I'm a symphony conductor -- no, fuck that; symphony conductors are lazy pieces of shit. These aren't batons; they're instruments, and I'm playing two or three of them at once. Once my mouth gets on a cock, it's game over, and everybody wins. At least one of my hands is always stroking another. The farthest cock has to wait a bit when my mouth is all the way over. Ordinarily, that would send a ripple of discontent back into the cock line; when I'm in here, it doesn't - quite the opposite, in fact. Word gets out in a hurry that The Mystery Mouth is in the building. I get so, so many cocks.

The ones that get my hand are so disappointed at first. Then they start to come around; I really am that good at jerking them. Then my mouth sucks them in, tasting the mounting bouquet of flavored lubes, and they lose their shit -- and, very quickly, all of their cum. All of the males they're attached to are wearing plugs or teasers, I'm sure. Some probably brought dildos to fuck themselves with. The whole point is to cum. We're all on the same team. That's why most of the cocks come through the holes pre-lubed. It's just good manners.

Xenu, I love sucking cock. I imagine every one as a tentacle. I worship them like they're my owner. I beg for their cum and demand it at the same time. I deepthroat every single one. The wet, obscene noises I make turn everybody on, and let the other two cocks know that their fun is only just beginning. Every cock is reasonably long and girthy. The heads are pronounced, and I love the way their ridges feel on my tongue and down my throat. Every load of cum is thick, plentiful, and delicious, and the way each cock swells up and spasms during the orgasm is just divine. Most of the cum shoots out violently, at least at first. My mouth, tongue, and throat make sure I get every last drop. I picture the males' faces, and remember the meme from so very long ago: 'TFW you nut, and she still succin'.' Mostly, it makes me feel sexy and powerful. Sometimes, though, I remember a particularly hilarious expression and laugh around a cock. It's a little awkward, but I recover quickly. I give those cocks some extra-special attention by way of apology. They never seem to mind the hiccup.

All of this is a testament to the work we've done over the decades. Males are so much happier now, regardless of which line they favor. So many more of them love their own cocks, and I love them too. They love how much cum they produce, and how powerfully they ejaculate it, and, well, ditto. Almost nobody is hung up about butt stuff -- heck, not even females.

Speaking of which, I'm doing a full workout with my muscles down below. I've had seven B-spot orgasms by the time I feel that telltale warning signal -- all of them wet, all shooting into my stomach-pouch. Unlike my occasional bouts of laughter, my orgasms only seem to enhance the experience for my teammates. It must be instinct. I guess a doubly-cum-drunk cocksucker is a great cocksucker. Thanks to Puddles' permanent tweaks, I never collapse. My knees get weak and my legs shudder, but only because it feels so good when they do.

L: Xenu, I'm almost full already, Puddles. I wish you could experience this with me.

P: Likely for distinct reasons, I do as well.

I hit the warning buzzer below the central hole. It's the polite thing to do. I'm too far removed to hear the disappointment from the cock line outside the building, but I know it's happening. I feel a sense of pride. If I were this good at writing smut, I'd win the Nobel fucking Prize in Literature. Is there a trophy? It'd be a cock. They'd make it a cock, just for me. I wouldn't press my luck. I wouldn't ask for a cock-tentacle.

Actually, yeah, I would.

I finish off six more cocks, because everybody still in the building was headed towards my booth. I don't feel bad for the other suckers and jerkers. They need to bow down before their femboy princess. I do feel completely full. I even have a cum bump. I stand up, roll my shoulders, stretch my limbs, and saunter out. The Mystery Mouth has left the building. Nobody's waiting for me. They wouldn't fucking dare. There's still plenty of superstition surrounding the glory hole phenomenon, hearkening back to the more-repressed era of my youth. If your glory hole has a regular sucker-cum-jerker who's a true champion - that's literary fucking gold, by the way, 'sucker-cum-jerker' -- you do not go looking for them. You'd be risking killing the goose that sucks the golden dicks. That, right there? That is not literary gold. That's total shit. I can admit it.

It's amazing how little time I actually spent in there -- two hours, maybe? I didn't check the time beforehand. I remember Gabby; she was next in line after me. I finally feel a little guilty for being so awesome. She deserved some cocks tonight. I hope she got them.

I take a deep breath, savoring the clean nighttime air. Sex stuff aside, Puddles and I have made some progress with the rest of the world's woes. Well-off neighborhoods like this one were never in such bad shape, but I can attest from experience that the air quality has improved; it's obvious from the smell, the taste, and the feel that there's more oxygen and less carbon dioxide. The world's also cooled down, generally; summer will unofficially start in May this year, not April. Things got bad there for a while, though mostly elsewhere. We're on an upswing. It's also quieter. There are fewer cars on the road, and they're all hydrocells. They hum just obtrusively enough to alert pedestrians. A few birds are still chirping, even this late. It's not quite time for the katydids. Life is good. I start the walk back to my sedan. I take my time. Puddles can't get too upset. I'm carrying precious cargo.

I can hardly believe it, but I run into somebody on the way there. It's a guy: classic male, handsome enough, cishet all the way. I catch him staring. I give him a look that says, "I don't mind you checking me out, and you're not bad either, but, well, places to be and all that."

He keeps staring. He doesn't get the message, even though it was as clear as day. Trust me, my nonverbal communication skills are top notch. I definitely told him exactly those words, with a look.

He approaches. Ah, well. He's handsome, like I said.

"I'm so sorry," he begins.

I stop, and give him the Level Two version of the look. This time, it penetrates his thick skull at least a little.

"I know," he says. "I know. I'm a creep. I get it. It's just... you look so much like him."

Well, well, well. It's a red-letter day. This guy just stumbled onto the magic words -- and he's handsome. Did I mention that already? He's well-dressed, too: casual, but put-together. He's just close enough that I can smell him. He smells nice -- inoffensively masculine. He probably has a nice cock, too, because almost every male like him does these days.

I let him off the hook. I extend my hand.

"I'm Elle," I say, "and, yeah, he was my great uncle, I think. Sorry; I'm not big on the family tree labels."

A couple of things happen in rapid succession. He hears my voice, and his reaction is a lot like Gabby's. It throws him, but in a good way. That makes him look at me again. I definitely already got the first look, from a distance, but then he got sidetracked when he noticed the resemblance. Now he's looking again -- looking, looking - and he's realizing that I am ridiculously fucking hot. He's also grokking the fact that I'm a five on the slut scale tonight. I wonder if he can smell cum.

He slowly takes my hand. He feels my skin -- my soft, smooth, sexy skin -- and I can see his pupils dilating. I can practically hear his cock straining underneath his light-kahki slacks. He wants me. He's mine. He's Puddles'.

P: Status report.

L: Okay, seriously, that's just fucking creepy, even for a telepathically-linked alien. I was just thinking about you.

P: I assume you were also praying for me, to complete the old human adage referring to useless and self-absorbed gestures.

Catty, catty bitch.

"So," I say in a singsongy voice, "you are?"

The guy gets flustered, which is super cute. "Wow, yeah, okay, I'm being a spaz now," he says, demonstrating keen self-awareness. "I'm Grey, Grey Morrison, and there was absolutely no reason for me to tell you my last name. Wow. I was right, though. Wow. Dr. Lawrence Straczynski. I want to say I'm his biggest fan, but, well, I'm probably not even in the running."

L: Fanboy.

P: NO.

L: I'm bagging him, Puddles, Cruise on a fucking fighter jet.

P:... do so efficiently.

L: I will.

P: All evidence suggests that your assurance in this context confirms exactly the opposite.

L: You do realize that telepathic communication does take some amount of time, right? You're authoring some of your own misery.

P: Touché. Status report received. You are indulging your vanity, and only partially compensating me for the delay.

Grey and I release each other's hands. I decide to multitask: indulge my vanity and bag Grey at the same time. I shift around a little, expressing primal, feminine interest, plus just a little bit of shyness. The former is mostly in the hips. The latter is a combination of the legs and shoulders. The latter is also a huge fakeout. I'm about to steamroll this poor guy.

I raise my hand to my lips, brushing against them with the tip of a single raised finger. I drag it down, letting it part them. Then it trails down my chin, and then over my choker. Finally, I lower my hand back to down to near my micro skirt. I clutch at its hem, and then swivel at my hips just a little.

"Grey," I say, "can I break the tension? Do you think I'm pretty? Do you like looking at me?"

"I, uh," he stammers. Then I hear him quickly whisper, "Xenu fuckin' Cruise." He lowers his hazel eyes for a moment. Thankfully, he mans up, and finds my gaze again.

"I think you're the most beautiful, uh..."

"Femboy," I say, letting him off the hook again.

"...you're the most beautiful anything I've ever seen," he says. "And so, the most beautiful femboy, also, clearly."

Not bad, Grey. Not bad.

"Well thank you," I say. "And I think you're very handsome, Grey. There; now that's out of the way. The air is clear, and we can talk. Walk with me? Let's find a bench or something."

"Uh... I'm going to say something I'm going to regret," he says.

I raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Your voice is incredible," he says.

I smile, and start walking. He falls in next to me as I pass, and we head east, parallel to where my sedan is parked. I remember a bench around there somewhere. We've got more green spaces and public spaces these days. It's nice.

"Well thank you again," I say. "I do love compliments. They make some girls, and a lot of sissies, shy, but I think us femboys take to them better. Do you think so?"

"I, uh... I never really thought about it?" he says, raising his voice at the end.

"Hmmm," I say, feigning concern, "so you don't really think about femboys? Not a lot of experience with them?"

"You know, it's the strangest thing," he replies, "I find myself thinking about them more and more. And I think I'd love to get more experience with them."

I smile again, and bite my lip. I know he sees me do it. I can feel him glancing over at me constantly. I like him. He gets flustered easily, but he's good on the rebound. My hand finds his. We walk side-by-side, and I set our arms into a slight swing.

"I was really young," I tell him, finally giving him the other thing he wants. "Most of my memories are of 'Dr. Pops,' the crazy old man who was all goofy on the euphies, ranting about stuff that might've been brilliant, insane, or both."

"Oh," he says. "I'm sorry. But yeah, the timeline... sorry. He was family."

"He was," I agree with a nod. "We loved him, but not like we loved grandpa. The way he left things with the company was a mixed blessing. We got our peace and quiet, mostly -- well, except from him. And he did have enough money to have professional care. It wasn't all bad, either. Having a crazy old relative can be kind of exciting."

"Uh... I guess so?" Grey replies. "Euphies, though..."

I shrug. "I get that. He was old. He'd lost most of his marbles already. It helped a lot."

In case you haven't figured it out, I've got this story down cold. Some of it is even backstopped. I hardly need to reintroduce myself, do I? It seems rather pointless. After all, I was a fraud back then too. I was just a younger fraud who got a much bigger thrill from being famous. It wasn't completely selfish, though. For a few years there, Dr. Straczynski was the most important queer, pro-sex, and pro-kink icon in the world. It moved the needle.

"Yeah," he says. "Totally understandable."

We find the bench and sit down. I turn to face him, and he mirrors the action. I place a hand on his knee. I silently let him know he can fanboy about the fictional version of me for a little longer.

"So, after the lubes, and The Adapter, and the pan-pill, and then, well, you know..."

"Sexual enhancement?" I ask coyly. "Genetic manipulation? Penile enhancement? Stamina? Refraction? Semen production? Consistency and flavor? Let's not beat around the well-trimmed bush, Grey. Dr. Pops made great strides in the realm of sex. You might have a great cock and great cum thanks to my great uncle."