Husband and Wife Ch. 01

Some men can't process how much they want to suck a femme dick. Some can't process how much they want to have one. My husband was the former; I was the latter.

You see, miracles do happen. You are taught the world exists in a particular fashion, that there are possible and impossible things. Men are men. Women are women. Might makes right and the flag means freedom. But I have seen the truth. I have become my truth, and behind the veil of everything you were led to believe is the true freedom, a liberty that no authority can ever seize or destroy: the power to inhabit your own body. I had to do a great many things to inhabit mine, to craft and shape it into the proper vessel for my immortal spirit. Secret knowledge and ancient rituals; medicines scientific and eldritch alike. Things that terrible powers find atrocious, even unthinkable. They fear how I have used my freedom.

But my husband? He gets to fuck it.

You know it wouldn't be smut if you didn't get my measurements. 42-34-38E-7", for the pedants. Doctors have told me it should be impossible, but all I can tell them is: hormone replacement therapy and waist training. My husband certainly doesn't mind, gripping on my hips that flare beneath the corset as he grinds his cock into my cushy ass. I rest on Sundays but otherwise, if I'm awake, I'm always in a corset. It's like having a weighted blanket hugging your torso at all times, supporting your back and lifting your breasts. Even an underbust does wonders for my cleavage.

That's why my husband finds me in the kitchen washing dishes, and from the very way he lays his hands on my cinched waist I know what he has in mind. He growls my name in my ear and lays a firm kiss on my neck before his teeth begin to cradle my flesh. I use the last of my thoughts to put the dishes aside and then I am his, fitting my curves to his stature as I melt against him. His heavy member has already tented against me, digging into the intersection of my bottom and my thighs. I love it.

He is shorter than me, but I won't say by how much. I'm not a giantess, at least not in my own mind, but still he has to look up to meet my eyes. I can press on his shoulders and easily force him to his knees. But he can sweep me off my feet, as he carried me across the threshold. He can put me how he needs me, and I am not above returning the favor.

He turns me around to face him and I see the lust burning in his eyes as he pulls me against him, crushing our lips together. Even after all these years his kisses thrill me. I treasure his shoulders with my fingertips as his spread over my hips, holding me tight. Now I'm tenting my skirt too and blushing to hell as our cocks begin pressing together. I break the kiss only to moan.

"I want you," he says, "I need you."

I smirk, "Need me how?"

He grunts and grins and picks me up by the waist, placing me on the counter. Hitching up my skirt, he lays a hand on my naked thigh and his teeth return to my neck. I whimper as he works his way down. His hand goes to my breast, his thumb finds my nipple, and my mouth cannot hold back my cry of pleasure. I have always been sensitive there, but I use a breast pump that makes me especially so -- which, incidentally, is why I lactate.

I can't get pregnant, thank goodness, but there's no reason I can't lactate. You could too, you know? Regular stimulation gives your body all the signals it needs to take the hint, and slowly but surely you can make yourself a nursemaid, whatever your physiology. Is that something you'd like, dear reader? To feel as I feel, with my pendulous udders aching to be milked? Take comfort: all it takes is grit and ambition and time.

"Your blouse is damp," his smile sparkles in his words, "My poor cow."

"Moo!" I laugh, before he draws out my breast with tender touch. As his lips wrap around my areola I sigh with relief. I can milk myself if I really need to, of course, but I have been known to tolerate some ache to let my husband be the one to do it. The pump is clinical, but he can make me cum. He certainly seems intent on such as he sucks hungrily, with vigorous tongue and gentle teeth.

I can cum all kinds of ways. It's not just where you cum from, but how too. There are rolling hills and mighty cliffs, cascading waves and towering tsunamis; from my breasts, my cock, even my ass. I've only met one other woman who could orgasm from breast stimulation, but at least I know I'm not alone. I'm throbbing in my panties but it's my tit where I feel it building. He doesn't just focus on my nipple, but cradles the whole breast with his hand and elicits my milk with his mouth all around the areola. It's coming, I know. It's coming! I hold his head to my chest and grind against his pelvis as I gasp between clenched teeth until I mount the crest of this first hill, calling out his name as I cum. Then he does the other one, and I cum all over again. His method is proven; I am defenseless, without fail.

I can feel how hard he is, and he can feel how hard I am, but he's taking his time. He knows that what we have is special and he savors it. He savors me, down to the very taste.

"Remind me to fuck your tits later," he says as I'm coming down. I'm so flushed I can only nod weakly. Before I know it his teeth are on my thighs, softly grasping the skin with heavy breaths. Desperate as I am for him to touch my throbbing root, his hands have my legs restricted. All I can do is wait as he teases my inner thighs until he places his face against the twitching bulge in my panties.

He is a man that loves to suck a femme dick. Mine sprawls forth as he pulls away my underwear, rising and thickening under his attentions. He catches it between his lips; even that makes me quiver. He looks me in the eyes as he takes more and more, and I look over my wet naked bosom to see his expression of fulfillment.

"Take it all," I beg, "Please my love."

It doesn't matter to me whether you think of me as a man. Everywhere I go, I am treated as a woman. Small men ogle and their wives feel shame and anger... or, sometimes, their eyes guard lust as well. But how I am treated and who I am are different things, and I pass through this world as I do as much for safety as self-fulfillment. My curves can't stop a panicking stranger who wants me dead for 'lying,' but I can throw a man far enough for him to reconsider. When push comes to shove, you have to know how to shove.

The truth is, I think of myself as something more than a man or a woman. I have seized upon a power of agency that I was taught did not exist, and beyond all that stricture I find that male and female are feeble constructs rather than physiological realities. The sexual dimorphism of human beings is much messier than generally imagined, and our potentiality messier still. Mortal institutions place us in boxes and tell us what to think, how to dress, how to love, how to feel, and it leaves you dead long before you die. As they say, you only live once. This is how I have chosen to live: as a goddess.

My husband is naturally my most faithful priest. He worships at the altar of my cock, groaning muffled prayers as my head tickles his throat. He bobs along my hardness and teases my crown with his swirling tongue, and I reward his ministrations by moaning his name and dripping precum. Soon he'll be gulping down my blessings; for now he is lost in the act.

My member is a bit smaller and softer than it once was, however large it remains. It even smells different, having a musk like lavender and honeydew rather than acrid meat. Many women feel alienated by their penises, going so far as to have them transformed into pussies. They utilize the height of industrial medical science to manifest as themselves and for that I have the utmost respect, but... I quite like my junk, actually. I don't find it makes me any less of a woman, to be able to pound my husband's ass into the sheets. Anyone can use a strap-on for that, besides, and it doesn't change their identity. Contrary to what you might think, genitals have no inherent gender.

I squeeze my thighs around my husband's face as I whimper. He holds them tight, gripping my softness as I feel my orgasm building. His sucking becomes an insistent pull, coaxing my load with ravenous need. We lock eyes and that's all it takes: I see the love there and the wanton desire; the hunger, the satisfaction. He spent a lifetime dreaming of me and here I am, all his at last. Then I throw back my head and cry and begin to cum. He swallows enthusiastically, drinking eagerly from the font. His eyes roll back in his head and I feel him shiver as he crests his own small hill while I summit a mountain of release. This is a dream come true for the both of us, and we have promised each other a lifetime of the same.

Looking down between my heavy breasts I see him withdrawing, spreading my quivering thighs to allow him to return to his full height. He kisses me and I taste myself, the thick savory flavor, and I cherish it. I place a hand on the back of his head and wrap the other around his waist to hold our groins together, feeling his straining staff twitch against me as I go soft. For now I need his tender kiss, but soon he will require me to service him too.

"Turn around," he whispers in my ear, "I want to breed you."

That word, breed, makes me shudder. I can't get pregnant, but I can still treasure how he fills me with his baby batter. I desire his intent.

"Yes sir," I grin. I slide from the counter onto trembling legs, my eyes pleading with his as I rotate my hips to press my ass against his stiff cock. I tease him by wiggling my bottom with a smirk, eliciting a pleased groan, but that is only the beginning. My panties since discarded, he lifts my skirt and places a hand on the curve of my ass before smacking it gingerly. The bounce and wobble there elates him and excites me.

He takes a small bottle of lube from his pocket and wets his cock. Then he is spreading my cheeks and I feel his insistence on my bussy.

"Are you ready?" he asks.

I reply, "Always."

Then he slips inside of me, my eager hole welcoming his length. His is bigger than mine, and I am beyond grateful for the fullness he gives me. He begins to pump his cock inside of me and the bliss makes me gasp. I press back with each thrust, huffing in time and muttering, "Yes, oh yes, oh gods yes!" as he only grunts. His animalism heightens my lust, this sense of being bred by a virile stud with no thoughts but of me. He nudges my prostate with each plunging shove and I feel yet another orgasm building.

You sometimes hear that women can cum many times, and it's true for me at least. I have had girlfriends who were themselves very one-and-done, but I can return to erectness swiftly and even flacidity does not abate my libido. Truth be told, it is common for me to lose count of my orgasms, especially in my husband's care. Now that I inhabit my body, after all that I have done to make it possible, I don't want to waste a single second. I have become myself entire and I will adore every experience to its fullest.

"Good," he groans amid thrusts, "That's a very good bitch."

"I'm your bitch," I squeal, "I'm all yours!"

He repeats, "Good."

His cock thickens inside of me as I squeeze my ass around him, and I know his orgasm is coming in tandem with my own. His grip digs deep on my hips and his breathing becomes rigid, and I have to say only one more thing to make him explode.

"Breed me, my love!"

And then he bursts. Holding me fast against him, I feel him pulse with each rope that he pumps into me. It pushes me over the edge as well, flying over the top of a wave in a vast sea of pleasure. We howl each other's names until our voices fail.

He rests his weight on my back and breathing heavily he whispers huskily, "I love you."

"I love you too, my bull."

"My bitch," he laughs. I whimper as he pulls out and stuffs his member back in his underwear. I straighten my skirt and go to put on my panties until he stops me.

"I still want you. Let's clean up in the shower."

His eyes glint with need as mine go doe-like and I know in my heart, as sure as the sun does rise, that I will love him forever.

The trick to transition is starting as early as you can. If you're lucky you'll know what puberty blockers are by the time you need them, and then you can begin a chosen puberty at your convenience. I wasn't quite so fortunate, but I managed to confront my truth sooner rather than later. I found the words for how I had always felt and the methods to reach that impossible self, and I couldn't bear to deny myself any longer. I won't lie, I burned a lot of bridges as I came out to myself. My truth annihilated me, but once I came together again I possessed more power and presence than I ever had before. I could imagine my future because I at last understood intimately the body that would come to live it. After decades of feeling apart from my very skin, it finally lay flush against my spirit. I feel everything now; I am alive for the first time.

Regardless, dear reader, know this: it is never too late.

Before marrying my husband, before I became myself, I dated women who looked how I wanted to look, who exhibited the femininity I wanted to exhibit. I couldn't separate whether I wanted to fuck them or be them, and I believed any examination of the distinction to be quite dangerous. What would happen to my privileges and my opportunities if I acted on my needs? But that's the thing about needs: you cannot deny them. I regret nothing, and I would not trade the world for the bravery it took to take that first step toward myself.

I will never forget the sight of my thin hips, nonexistent waist, and flat chest hiding under a croptop and pleated skirt at the end of my past life. My insufficient form glared at me in my full-length mirror as the scale of the task dawned before me, towering like the sun. I cried for hours and I grieved for years for the life I could not bring myself to lead any longer, but I have come to understand that I had only the illusion of choice. The alternative was not to remain in the closet but to die, if not in body then certainly in soul. Nothing could equal the lifetime of regret that other self chose to suffer. When he perished in anguish, he dreamed of me.

So I often choose to admire my reflection. As my husband explores my wide hips and nibbles on my neck, I regard in the bathroom mirror my heavy breasts that still ache with milk and the elegant hourglass of my waist. This is no gift from god for I am my own goddess. This is a miracle of my own making. My husband certainly thinks so. I feel his thick pole beginning to nudge at the cleft of my ass, hard again already. I'm getting stiff myself.

"Come on," I bounce away and move toward the shower, "Dirty boy. Let's clean up."

He grins like a fool, his gaze locked on my curves. He cannot muster words but only chuckles lustily. I open the door to our large shower, spacious enough to lay down in. Two sets of shower heads grace us with warmth from either side as he pulls me against him. Our wet cocks squirm against each other and I moan into his kiss. His lips travel to nibble on my earlobe before he whispers, "I love you."

He continues as his hands move from my waist to cup the cheeks of my butt, "I love the shape of your body, and all the shapes it has taken and will ever take, down to the last curve and crevice. Your autonomy inspires me; your intimacy honors me."

Then he's muffled between my breasts, having kissed his way to my chest before squashing my boobs around his face. I can't tell if he's still talking or just growling with happiness, so holding him close by the shoulders I begin to laugh.

"I love how you treat my body," I tell the ceiling as he adores me, "I love how you want me and how you take me. I love how you trust me and how you receive me. I am more of myself with you. I love what we are building. I love you, my husband."

He grunts, "I love your huge tits," and I can't help but giggle. "They're just about massive, babe."

"I like them too," I blush, "They took a lot of work."

"All the best things do."

He has soaped up a loofah and runs it over my neck and down my shoulder. The suds slide over my cleavage as he lifts my arm to wash it. The subtle force of his touch and the rough texture of the loofah seem so sensual unto themselves that I find myself sighing, content in this tender moment. He slides it back down my arm and across the tops of my breasts to the other arm. The teasing almost makes me huff, but I don't insist. I know he has an agenda.

When he does reach my breasts that sensuality becomes erotic. Holding my arms up by the wrists, he washes down my breasts and marvels as the soapy bubbles slip over the roundness. The way he moves the loofah in circles around my nipples drives me wild, and I thrash my head back and forth as he holds me fast. Then his attentions move on and he is soaping up my waist, my hips, my butt, and my legs. And then, finally, my cock.

With one sudsy hand he grips my rising girth, keeping me close with his other on my ass. He strokes my growing member as he devours my neck, and while I moan I dig my fingers into the breadth of his shoulders. His name passes breathlessly through my lips, and then he pulls away.

"Your turn," he smirks.

"No fair," I pout, "You got me going."

"You're always going, babe. That's not my fault."

"Whenever you need me," I wink as I take the loofah, "I'm ready."

I love how a man his size can blush. He remains flustered as I press my curves against him, running the loofah across his sharp angles: the bend of his shoulder, the slant of his pecs, the arc of his hipbones; then I am on my knees before him.

"If I recall correctly," I tease, pushing my boobs around his cock, "You said something about titfucking me?"

"I do recall," he says, lowering his hands to caress the outer curve of my breasts, "That's what you want, huh?"

With mouth agape and pleading eyes, I nod. "Uh-huh."

Cradling the heft of my chest now, he chortles deeply and begins to move his hips. The head of his cock disappears into my cleavage and then bursts into the air, launching the water that pools there. Over and over these little geysers touch my lips until I bend down to capture his crown in my mouth. His thrusts lengthen as he gives in to the oral invitation, and with flicking tongue I make him gasp.

I love feeling his hardness between my breasts. I love to feel them jostle as he works his hips. With every bounce I know that they are real, that this is no dream but something I achieved. With his dick vanishing into the depths, even how he groans makes me turned on just to be alive. So I tell him:

"I love feeling you fuck my tits. Fuck me, my love. Cover my tits in your jizz."

"Oh-ho," he mutters nearabout senselessly, "Uh. Uhn."

"Good. Good. Let it come. Cum for me."

His thickness throbs and then he's launching his sperm across my breasts. Globules land and wash away, but I gather a few into my mouth. I admit it: I love the taste. His essence empowers me.

He stumbles back against the wall, having been rocked into stupefaction by his orgasm. He watches me scoop up his cum and lets loose a breathy, "Holy fuck. You're so hot."

"You'd better think so!" I titter, "We're in this together, darling."

He puts forth a clenched fist, a symbol of solidarity. "Together."

"Now get over here! I'm not done washing you."

"Yes ma'am. Of course ma'am. I love you ma'am."

Kneeling on the shower floor after swallowing another mouthful of his spunk, I laugh, "I love you too."

I suppose you could call my husband a chaser. That was the word at the bar where we met, anyway. Friends of mine, other trans women, would put on music shows there and congregate for memorials. Other trans people and queers of all stripes wove in that space a tight-knit community, with plenty of muscle to bruise and bounce any bigots or fash. I found it through a support group. We'd go there afterwards for drinks, to talk the loud shit we reserved from the weekly meeting's tender context.