Flower Boy

This story contains dark, graphic content and potential trauma cues for sensitive readers. This work is pure fiction, by and for consenting adults. Any resemblance to real people or entities is unintended and purely coincidental.

This is a short love story between a gay, trans-masc sub bottom and a gay, cis dom top. I'm experimenting with erotica genres that are far outside my usual wheelhouse. Thus, I ask my readers to forgive any conceptual or typographical errors.

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Flower Boy

I gripped my shirt, pulsating the fabric against and away from my chest. Even for Atlanta, this August had been unusually humid. Accordingly, I now realized that wearing a long-sleeved shirt with dark-washed jeans may have been a poor choice. I aired my shirt out, seeking vainly to dry the sweat that accumulated as I walked to my favorite bar.

As I futilely billowed the fabric, feeling the air flow across my chest, I smiled. Despite my annoyance at my own sweat, I reveled in the contrast between my flat, muscular chest and that same chest just six weeks back.

Six weeks had passed since my top surgery. And tonight, I'd finally felt recovered enough to return to my favorite LGBT+ friendly bar. Though, if I were being honest, 'recovered enough' hadn't been my true metric. 'Courageous enough' was probably more accurate.

It was hard to articulate what had kept me from going sooner. Between the HRT, some weight training, and now this top surgery, my body was as close as it had ever been to a body that felt like mine. Indeed, I'd spent many mornings since the operation examining myself in the mirror. I posed topless for myself for hours on end, standing in various poses that I'd seen in Mangas or fashion magazines. I would go to the opposite wall from my full-length mirror, face myself, and model strut, turning my head to the left and right as I swung my shoulders and chest. I felt like myself. And vain though this may sound, I felt fucking stunning.

But going out and seeing my friends in real time seemed like a greater leap. Specifically, I felt the same anxiety that one might feel before sharing a new project or giving a friend a draft novel for a first read. What if, after all my talking about my excitement about my new body, it looked disappointing? What if the external changes were so minor that those around me didn't notice?

I sincerely didn't know which would be worse; visceral disappointment, or not noticing at all.

This fear probably explained my choice of attire for the evening. I wore a too-tight button-down shirt with angular, geometric patterns. If anything could accentuate my new shape, it was this shirt. To compliment the piece, I wore dark-washed jeans, a baseball cap emblazoned with my favorite sportswear logo, and bright blue sneakers. Though I would never tell a soul, I also wore—as I often did—height-increasing insoles.

I knew that my friends were good people. Even the ones who aren't also trans-masculine—most of my friends fell outside this category—understood how important this operation was to me. And I trusted my friends. I reassured myself, breathed deeply, and entered the bar.

When I walked in, one of my oldest friends saw me first. She elbowed the person next to her, seizing the others' attention.

"OH MY GOD!" They screamed, nearly in unison, "It's Jax!!"

The following hours could not have gone better. They screamed. They gasped. They hugged me. They congratulated me. My night was nothing but warm, welcoming, and self-actualizing. I felt like I was on top of the world.

We spent the night dancing and drinking. This bar was like home to me. I was truly glad to be back.

The next several hours whirled by. But one by one, my friends had to leave. Several had work shifts in the morning. Others were just too tired.

I had never been a night owl. When my friends and I went out together, I was typically among the first to go home. Nothing tends to be as inviting to me after midnight than my warm bed. But tonight, I felt far too jazzed up to go home. As my last friend left the bar—and I made sure that she got to her rideshare—I sat back at the bar and ordered on last drink. This was when I first noticed him.

At the bar's edge, in a corner and tucked away, sat a completely unfamiliar face. He was significantly taller than me; though at 5'4", I set a low bar. His dark brown hair, which contrasted starkly with his alabaster skin, covered his head in a disheveled mop. He didn't look like he got out much.

Despite this, I could see an impressive musculature through his gray tee shirt. His arms were nearly too large for his sleeves. And I could tell that his neck was quite thick, despite the fact that he was looking down at some papers. Maybe he didn't get out much, but he certainly found his way to a gym.

I didn't often have the self-confidence to approach a stranger at a bar. Indeed, I strongly preferred to be the one approached. And inhabiting this new (or at least, what felt like a new) body would have otherwise made me more anxious. But a combination of the night's encouragement from friends and my inebriation made these inhibitions fall away. There's nothing that a little booze and encouragement won't do for a person's self esteem.

I slowly slid down from my barstool, picked up my drink, and wandered over to sit by him. Upon later (and more sober) reflection, this 'sly' move more likely came across as awkward and weird. But I was too inebriated for such irrelevant details.

"So," I leaned on the bar, trying my best to act casual, "What brings a handsome fella like you here to read a stack of papers at two in the morning?"

I pulled out my phone as if to show him the time, looked at the screen, then corrected myself.

"Oh," I looked stupidly surprised at my own phone, "Actually, three in the morning!"

The man looked up at me, surprised that anyone would talk to him.

I later realized that my approach bordered on being creepy. This guy, who looked about five years older than me, was minding his own business and shuffling through disheveled papers before I sauntered over to hit on him. But my drunk ass failed to appreciate such social nuances. The man looked at me for a moment before responding.

"I'm grading papers. What brings handsome guy like you to a bar at 3 am?"

I blushed when said, 'handsome guy.' I wanted to turn this into a conversation, but I also didn't want to ruin anything by being too intrusive. And I also needed to cross the usual bridge.

I am a gay trans man. I never felt right in the body that I grew up in. Though growing up, I ostensibly fulfilled my family's expectations by displaying an immense attraction for boys. In my prior, fem-presenting body, finding a hookup was profoundly easy. But transitioning complicated things; hitting on guys in bars and connecting with them over dating apps is more complicated when you're not in one of a few 'in-demand' categories. And since transitioning, I frequently found myself in an uncanny valley between objects of interest. Whether my internal narrative was true or not, I often feared that transitioning had put both straight men and gay men out of my reach.

I took a deep breath, and 'crossed that bridge.'

"Well," I hesitated, inhaling before letting it out, "I just had my top surgery a few weeks ago. So, I'm celebrating!"

I expected rejection. I expected that usual micro expression where the guy realizes that I'm—in one way or another—not in the narrow category of what he's looking for. I then expected the usual coldness and polite (or impolite) cooling off and backing away. Joyously, this guy did neither.

"Hey! That's awesome! Good for you! Can I buy you a drink? Or," he looked down at the glass in my hand, "Maybe another when you're finished?"

"I'd love that," I smiled at him and put my hand out, "I'm Jax. Nice to meet you."

He put his hand out to meet mine.

"Nice to meet you, Jax. I'm Simon."

We chatted for the next hour. I learned that he was a PhD candidate teaching an introductory course on sociology. In return, I shared my boring life as a (very) amateur author and as a literature major at the same university. We laughed and connected on our shared futures. We were both doomed to low-income jobs, trapped in the economic black hole that was academia.

The time approached four in the morning when I felt fatigue set in behind my eyes. The familiar heaviness hung just behind my face like the sword of Damocles. I knew that, if I wanted to hook up with this guy, then I would need to seal the deal very soon.

I looked at the papers that sat untouched over the last hour.

"Hey," I hung my head a bit, still eyeing the messy stack, "I'm sorry if I've kept you from finishing your work."

"Don't be!" He replied hurriedly, "I've really enjoyed getting to know you, Jax. And I feel like it's about time to start heading home anyway."

He looked at me nervously, but expectantly. I returned his expression. We held each other's gaze for several moments until a smile grew on each of our faces.

"J-just to reiterate," I stuttered, scratching a pattern into the wood between our drinks, "I'm trans masc. You're cool with that, right?"

"You're a guy," he responded without hesitation, "I'm into guys."

I blushed. He continued.

"But are you into me?"

He looked at me, still maintaining his nervously expectant expression. I looked down at his chest, suddenly finding it difficult to maintain eye contact.

"Well, y-yeah! I mean, look at you! I just—"

He put his hand on mine, holding it in place. He then leaned toward me. He held his face next to mine for a moment before speaking. His mouth was so close to my ear that his lower lip brushed my earlobe when he spoke.

"You keep telling me that you're 'trans masc,' as if that's going to scare me away," he whispered softly into my ear, "But what I'm hearing is that you're a bottom with an extra way to make me cum."

That was the moment that I fell head over heels for Simon.

---

What was supposed to be a one-night stand turned into a string of ostensibly casual encounters. These gradually turned into me hanging around his shitty apartment. This was only partially because his shitty apartment was marginally less shitty than mine.

Serendipitously, I was at the point in my transitioning where I was constantly horny. Nothing quite hits like masculinizing hormone therapy. And I was pleased to quickly learn that Simon's voracity matched mine. I worshipped his body. And within a few weeks, his tongue—and his cock—had explored every part of mine.

After dating him for several months, I learned that Simon was kind, intelligent, validating, and had many other good qualities. But Simon also had a way of taking the characteristics that I disliked in myself, coaxing me into intensifying those characteristics, and thereby demonstrating that such characteristics were in fact, beautiful. This was the thing I loved most about Simon.

He made no effort to hide his dark sense of humor. He often found ways to stun me into silence.

"Hi there! I'm Simon, this is Jax," he once introduced us to a rideshare driver, "We're just a couple of faggots going out on the town. Fun story: One of us has an extra hole. Want to guess which?"

As soon as the words left Simon's mouth, my back straightened, and I sat upright in the backseat. My body felt as stiff as a board. Happily, the driver enjoyed the joke. He laughed and spent the rest of the ride casually chatting with Simon.

I can often be snarky. Indeed, depending on my mood, my words can unintendedly come across as acidic and biting. But Simon never fails to conceptually escalate my wild, crazy ideas and roll with the punches. To this day, Simon is particularly skilled at doing so in my moments of self-hatred.

My favorite example took place while I was taking a course on medieval literature. For context, nearly all my professors had respected my pronouns. I was a good student. I was respectful to all my professors. And most professors respected me in turn. But one professor took a different approach.

"And who in the class can tell me how the author from this week's reading contrasts against David of Sassoun from last week's reading?"

The professor enunciated each consonant as he stood at the front of the lecture hall. His silver, wiry facial hair, which looked comically akin to Colonel Sanders, flapped mechanically as he spoke. He straightened his small silver glasses, which looked cliché under his receding gray hair.

I read and understood the material this week. And I knew that I needed to participate more in class discussion. I raised my hand.

"Ah," the professor pointed at me, "We finally get to hear from Jax. Let's see what she has to say about the reading."

This professor often made it a point to enunciate his syllables. But he seemed to place special emphasis on the word, 'she.' I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Most professors here were kind and respected my pronouns. Maybe he just forgot. Maybe he wasn't being malicious.

I hesitated for a moment before gathering myself to reply. I did my best to summarize the reading, connect it to the prior reading, and elaborate on how the authors disagreed.

"Well, thank you Ms. Jax. Does anyone else disagree with her? Anyone want to comment with what she said?"

My earlier, gracious interpretation was wrong. He's just an asshole.

A few classmates winced at the unnecessary emphasis that he placed on feminine pronouns. One such peer raised her hand.

"Excuse me, Professor," the student timidly squeaked, "Jax uses 'he and him' pronouns."

I was grateful for this student's audacity. Though my internal safety mechanism told me to shrink and try to ignore the professor's behavior, I appreciated those rare and brave students who spoke up for me. I shot her a politely grateful smile, which she returned. The professor stared at her for several moments with a deadpan expression. He then looked at me with the same expression. The class was silent.

"Does anyone have an answer for my question?"

He moved on without further acknowledgement. Fuck this guy.

I fought back tears as I walked from class to Simon's apartment. As I hurried along the sidewalks, I had to wipe away an occasional tear that leaked through my face like water droplets leaking through a dam. The last thing that I wanted in this moment was more attention. As soon as I entered Simon's apartment, the dam gates lifted.

Simon rushed to my side and held me close.

"Sweetie!" He held me tightly in his arms, "What happened? It's Tuesday—was it that fucking professor again!"

I nodded.

"He's such a fucking asshole," I blubbed, "I need to drop that course. I need to talk to the dean. Or somebody!"

"Just burn his house down."

I couldn't help myself; I chuckled with tears still running down my face.

"I'm not kidding. I can access the Uni's HR records. I can get his address. Let me find out where he lives. Tonight, we'll stop at a gas station and get a few gallons in some tanks. We'll get some matches at a convenience store, load everything into the trunk, then burn that motherfucker's house down."

"N-no, I'll j-just drop the course."

I sighed. It always surprised me how much better I felt when I was with Simon.

He sounded genuinely surprised. "Okay, I guess. We're not doing anything else tonight, right? Let's burn this fucker's house down."

Though holding Simon as close as I was, and as cared-for as I felt in that moment, I could think of several things I'd like to do with him that night. To this day, I'm only about 80% confident that Simon was joking. But either way, his ride-or-die energy made me feel unequivocally safe with him, in all ways.

Simon never dampens my fire, no matter how destructive to myself or others I can be. He throws gasoline into the blaze and laughs right alongside me at the destruction. I truly, truly love Simon.

---

Asshole professors notwithstanding, I earned my bachelor's degree and began attending courses to earn my master's. If nothing else, it was a cognizable excuse to put off looking for a job, beyond my occasional bartending or catering gig.

Simon and I ended the leases on our shitty apartments. This allowed us to combine our modest resources to move into the least shitty apartment that either of us had ever lived in. It was toward the ground floor, but this building was a small high rise in downtown Atlanta. Though the view wasn't magnificent, it boasted a shared community space near the top story that allowed for an excellent city view.

While pooling our resources was a coherent excuse for explaining the move to my friends and former roommates, this wasn't the biggest reason for the move. I mostly wanted the convenience of fucking Simon whenever I wanted. And I frequently took advantage of this convenience.

We had spent the first few months of our relationship further exploring each other's bodies. My flame for him never dulled, nor his for me, and we never seemed to tire of ravishing one another. We had since escalated into exploring the power dynamics in our sex lives. We experimented with switching roles as the dominant and submissive. But ultimately, I usually took a submissive role.

We played with harnesses and leashes. I spent days wearing a little collar with a bell around the apartment. We experimented with arbitrary little rules that Simon would make up and that I—being the 'Good Boy' that I was—would obey.

Some days, for example, Simon set the parameters that I was not allowed to speak unless Simon gave me permission. If I had something to say, I was to approach Simon and open my mouth. If Simon decided to allow me to speak, then he would kiss me on the forehead, and I would speak. If Simon decided not to allow me to speak, then he would kiss me deeply on the mouth.

The concept made us both so horny that, each time we tried this, we would spend the day fucking. This usually started after Simon would give his first nonverbal, 'No.'

We would always set our kink-play parameters in advance. And as a dom, Simon was excellent about establishing a red, yellow, and green light system to check in on me. Nonetheless, as our relationship developed, Simon became more and more confident in his role as the dominant in our home. Eventually, both in and outside the bedroom, Simon was my 'Sir,' and I was his 'Good Boy.' And I loved being his Good Boy.

Simon enthusiastically explored my body, despite my occasional dysmorphia. With the HRT, what had originally been labeled as a 'clitoris' had been growing to form a small cock. And Simon adored my little cock. Though he still fucked every hole that he could. Including my cunt.

Simon's power in that role came to a head near our two-year anniversary. I had been home from class for several hours when my Sir walked in through the door. He had just conducted a test-run of his thesis presentation with his colleagues.

He bounded across the room and wrapped me in his arms, pulling me in for a kiss.

"Has my Flower Boy been a Good Boy today?" He grinned at me expectantly.

"Yes, Sir."

'Flower Boy' was an affectionate nickname that Simon gave me. Even if I found the double entendre low brow, it delighted me. This pet name emphasized the way that Simon made me feel from the night we meant. To my Sir, I am a guy. But I'm a guy with one more way to make Sir cum. Having a cunt makes me more, not less. Being trans-masc makes me more, not less. My Sir loves that I have both a cock and a pussy, because both make him exuberantly happy.

"Goooood," I could tell from his tone that he was horny. In what was probably a Pavlovian response after two years' conditioning, this tone made me horny. "Why don't you go to the bedroom and strip down? Sir is going to give his Good Boy a reward."