Sunday Afternoon

Come Sunday afternoon, I'm desperate.

Thirty-six hours ago we talked about a potential scene. Hemming and hawing over the words, as I always do, I stuttered as I tried to say just what I wanted. You listened eagerly, worked with me on the details, and by the end of the conversation neither of us could wait.

It's been thirty-six hours of teasing, and foreplay, and getting worked up with nothing on my clit, or in my cunt. The perfect foundation.

I'm sitting on the sofa reading, wrapped in a blanket, as you finish up some coursework. I can feel my clit, have been feeling it constantly for the past day, swollen and sensitive and gently pulsing on the edge of my awareness, reminding me of its presence. Wouldn't it feel so nice to reach down and just start stroking ...

"Hey," your stern voice cuts through my reverie, and I look over at you with a start, "hands where I can see them." With a grin I wiggle my fingers overtop of the blanket. I'm invested. I'm not going to spoil our fun.

"You can touch your nipples if you want," you offer, before turning back to the computer.

I sigh, but now that you mention it, why not? I open the bathrobe I've been wearing all day and slide my hands over my chest, tracing the lines of my top surgery scars and biting my lip. They're still so sensitive, years after they've fully healed. Lightly, with the tip of my right index finger, I stroke circles around my left nipple. The sensation immediately closes my eyes and pushes my head back til it's resting on the top of the couch cushions, like I've reverted to primordial goo. I'm full of pleasure, already open and relaxed, and just a few light touches are enough to set my whole self in motion. Within minutes I'm lost in it.,I pull my other hand out of my mouth, slick and read for my other nipple. My hands, crossed over my chest like someone gently laid to rest, pluck and stroke at my tender buds, adding more and more fuel to the fire steadily burning between my legs.

Time passes, I'm not sure how much. I open my eyes to see you closing the browser and rising from your chair. You walk the few steps to where I rest, chest bare, nipples hard. You reach down gently, grab my short hair in your right hand, and pull me up. Fuck. Your hand in my hair, fingers gently scratching my scalp under the short buzz on the sides and back of my head, always goes straight to my cunt.

"Come on" you say, and I practically skip after you to your bedroom.

We have a decent collection of femme clothing from our respective pasts. You went through your femme phase right after coming out, in the couple of years before you met a butch trans girl and realized that that was an option. You haven't worn a bra in years, and wear combat boots and beanies more days than not, but your old chunky heels and bodycon dresses are still in the back of the closet. As for me, college was my high femme chapter. The dregs of a makeup collection still clutter our bathroom counter, and more than a few pairs of lacey underwear are still part of my rotation, albeit on laundry days when all my boxer briefs are dirty.

When you lead me to the bedroom and pull back the comforter on the bed, it looks like you've gathered every piece of lace you can find in the house. I scan over the collection. It's arrayed like a doll's dress-up set, fresh out of the box, a line of lacey bras on the left, then panties, a bodysuit, everything in neat rows. You're almost never this organized.

You've moved behind me as I stand gaping at the aesthetic array. I come down to earth to the feel of your hands squeezing my chest. "Time to get my secret femme boytoy dressed up" you whisper. God. My cunt fucking melts.

Can I explain the complex sociopolitics of aesthetics, gender, and desire that make it super fucking hot that I, a lazy-masculine person, am about to be dressed up like a high femme at a sex party? No. Of course not. My brain cells are rapidly deserting their posts and all the higher order thoughts are being replaced by raw fucking need.

I whimper as you approach the bed and grab a tiny red thong. You hold it out to me, motion, and I grab it and slide it over my thighs. I'm positive there's a wet spot on it the moment it hits my cunt.

You let me choose from between three lacey bras; the red one wins. What can I say? I appreciate a good monochrome palette. You caress my nipples as you slide the lace over my flat chest, sending fresh jolts of energy across my body. You're just a few inches taller than me. Enough that if I'm wearing heels and you're not, I see the top of your head. I lean my head back against your neck, and you reward me by gripping my hair again, firm, and rolling my head around. I sigh as a fresh wave of heat hits me. This is exactly what I want.

A pair of black tights goes on next - I'm actually shocked that we still own tights - then a dark blue bodycon dress. With those on I look almost demure, reserved, more like Twiggy than a burlesque dancer. The tight fabric cradles my wide hips, draws attention to my pear-shaped figure in a way I don't usually go in for anymore. I'm aware of my own curves, of their beauty, for the first time in ages.

"One more thing," you say thoughtfully. You look engrossed in the scene, chewing your lip, musing over my getup like it's a painting you're creating on my body. You reach around the side of the bed, into a shadowed corner I hadn't noticed before, and pull out a pair of blood-red platform boots.

I can't explain why, but the boots make it real. As I slip them on and tie the laces I think one thought, loud and alone, "you're dressing me up. I'm dressing up for you. I'm femme again."

When I rise, you meet my eyes and twirl a finger. I spin in place, hands slightly away from my body, wrists cocked coquettishly, twirling my neck around fluidly as I finish the spin with a dancer's balance. You grin, and close the distance between us so fast I feel like I haven't stopped spinning. In a moment your hand is on my back, the other on the back of my neck pulling my mouth to yours. I eagerly open, savor the taste of your soft, full lips, sucking your tongue gently past my teeth. I'm excited, excited for your kiss, for the fuzzy feeling in my belly and thighs, for the angle of my ankles in the heeled boots, and most of all for the process of a story we wrote becoming real.

Without warning, you push me onto the bed. I land hard. Not painfully, but forcefully enough to focus my attention on where you stand, tall at the foot of the bed. You raise an eyebrow at me and I freeze. Something's changed in your gaze. Slowly, you peel the shirt off your chest, over the tiny breasts you grew when you were on E. Slowly, you pull off your joggers and briefs, and your semi-hard cock bounces into the freedom of the air. I stare at it, then up into your eyes. Then, slowly, I open my legs. It's a far more brazen motion than I ever plan to perform. I didn't think about doing it, and I can't believe I have, but there I am, tights-covered legs spread towards you, high heels resting on either edge of the mattress.

Lust jumps into your bright eyes. You run one hand from my ankle up to my hip, slowly moving your weight onto the bed as you reach up under my dress. My clit nearly twitches. My breath comes short and staccato. Your hand is so close to my cunt, but, with an evil smile, you pass right over it and gently stroke down the other leg. When you reach my ankle you come back up, both hands gripping my open hips, and look down at me.

"Here's rule number one," you begin. "Your most important job is to keep my dick wet. With your mouth, with your cunt, I don't care."

I nod feverishly and am about to lift myself up and start sucking your cock when you grab the crotch of my tights in both hands, and tear. A gash opens over my cunt, and a sudden rush of cool air meets my skin. You slip two fingers around the gusset of the red panties and pull them to one side. I can feel a string of my cum following them across my thigh. I want you, but I don't dare move. I hold your gaze, hole exposed and dripping. I wait. I want.

Slowly, you rub your fingers around my outer labia, massaging the flesh and spreading my wetness all the way up to my clit. I throb percussively, whisper, "please fuck me." Is it eloquent? No. But it works.

You sink two fingers into me, the first thing I've had in my cunt in a day and a half of teasing; I howl. They go in easy, you sink in fluidly all the way to the body of your hand. Your thumb touches my clit, and I grind my hips desperately against you. Immediately, you pull your thumb away. "Uh uh uh, no moving" you chastise, and I still my hips. You're stroking my ribbed insides, playing a cosmic song that comes out my throat as a long groan, interrupted only by inhalation. I can hear the wet sounds of fucking. Already I'm soft and wet and ready, need no opening up, and in a handful of seconds you pull out and slide your cock into me. My cunt is full of all the lube you need. I gasp, gasp at the fullness, the stroke that reaches every inch of me, pumping heat in and out of my body and making my muscles flutter and twitch around you. We fit so well together.

With each thrust I relax, loosening the clenched shoulder, jaw, and neck muscles where I carry my stress, discarding stray thoughts and preoccupations and entering a focused, meditative space. When you pull out, I don't have to think about what to do. I push you back gently, lower my torso to the bed, and suck the head of your cock into my mouth. I can taste myself on you, slick and salty and tangy. You let me ease my mouth open around you, working over the head of your cock and then partway down the shaft. I bring one hand around to massage your balls the way I know you like. You reward me with an appreciative groan. I suck you in deeper, then hit the back of my mouth and pull up again. I grip the base of your cock with my other hand, moving it and my mouth in tandem, forming the illusion of deepthroating. After a few minutes, my lips grown tender and soft, you gently pull my hand off of your cock. I don't move it back, waiting to sense your plan. Gently, I feel your fingers through my hair. A moment later you grab fiercely, pulling a whine out around your cock.

You start setting my rhythm, slowly pushing me further and further onto your member until I'm gulping and glugging as your cock slams against the clenched muscles at the back of my mouth.

"Relax" the word is drawn out, whispered, soothing. You slow the pace you're setting for me, holding your cock right at the back of my throat. "Relax" you whisper again. I try. I inhale around your cock and let myself slow down, become aware of the muscles in my throat, clammed shut out of fear and habit. Gently, I loosen them. You push past, barely, a half inch at most, and I start to gag. "That's it" you encourage, pulling out to let me breathe before pushing in again. I soften, feel the head of your cock slide a little deeper past the wall of muscle. I feel tears spilling from my eyes and wonder what I'd look like if we had some shitty gas-station eyeliner and mascara to add to our kit. I make a mental note to bring it up after the scene.

This time, you don't pull out. You hold there, my head trapped between your hips and fist, the muscles of my throat contracting around your cock. I try to relax, but after ten seconds I gag. You pull out immediately. My mouth is fucked out, sensitive and dripping with spit, and I'm so lost in it I don't even close my lips when you pull out, just look up at you with a wide 'o' mouth and wider eyes. You reach down and spread the spit coating my mouth, running between my lips and your cock, all over my face.

"That's a good slut" you praise. You've never called me a slut in bed before. We negotiated it, theoretically I knew it was coming, but for some reason I haven't been thinking about that for the past forty-five minutes. The words hit like a wave, submerging me, soaking my clenched thighs. I rub them together, frictioning my clit as best I can as I look up at you and smile. Fuck. Apparently there's a praise kink hiding somewhere in there. You reach down and pull the hem of the bodycon dress over my ass - I lift slightly on my haunches to help - then up my torso and over my head. It gets thrown off the bed, discarded, and I lie there in ripped tights and soaked panties and a lacy bra, throat sore and cunt gushing, every bit the femme slut we planned to turn me into.

You spread my legs, reaching through the hole in the tights to pull red fabric off my sticky opening, and slide into me again. I buck eagerly towards you, pushing you deeper inside me. At this angle, I can't get any friction on my clit unless one of us touches it, so I'm diving fully into the feeling of my cunt consuming your hard cock. My lower lips lap greedily around your base until the need for friction becomes greater than the need to be filled, and I pull out just to thrust back onto you again. You pick up my rhythm, and I relax as you take it over. My groans and moans come steadily, the only sound in the room other than wet fucking, until you reach over to the bluetooth speaker on your bedside table and turn on a playlist you've curated just for this.

My cunt feels glorious, delicious, full, but the pleading need from my clit is getting harder and harder to ignore. It feels like it's overflowing the small organ, reaching up to my nipples and hardening them without any direct contact, keeping my cunt soaked and open.

You're patient. For the next hour we go back and forth between my mouth and my cunt on your cock. You'll pull out, I'll take your softening organ in my mouth until it's hard enough for you to give me another lesson in deepthroating. When I beg sweetly enough, or whenever you want, you flip me over and plunge into my cunt again. With each rotation, my moans get deeper, my thighs more soaked, my clit more throbbing.

You've got me on my back, holding my own legs open and up towards the ceiling so the red boots bob obscenely at the level of your shoulders. You lean down between my spread legs to whisper "What do you want?". I can't believe you're asking this because there's just one thing I want right now, and you know that.

"Please touch my clit," I finally say. You reach down and lightly place your thumb on my clit. After all the lack of touch on that one spot, all the overstimulation to every other part of me, I buck and moan as if you had just shoved a wand on high into my crotch. You thumb my clit for just a second before pulling away.

You grin wickidly and fuck into me, pulling a loud groan from my throat as you point out, "asking to get your clit touched just means you're going to have to wait longer until I do." I moan, part arousal and part despair. You have incredible patience. It's one of the things I love-hate about you.

Without pulling out or breaking your rhythm, you reach down and grip the flesh around my hips, grip so hard it hurts. The pain is crystal-clear and beautiful, cutting through fatigue and impatience, leaving only my need and my senses and you. Without a word you release, wind back, and slap the exposed join of my hip and ass.

You wind back again, hit again, harder, the same spot on my other cheek. I moan and clench, basking in the sensation. You pull out of me, lie down, and pull me on top of you. I slide down onto your cock, relishing the feeling of fullness for a moment before picking up my hips and starting into a slow rhythm. When I open my eyes, you're looking straight into them.

"What do you want?" you ask again. All I want is for you to touch my clit, to make me cum, and I know I can't ask for that. So I don't say anything, I just look at you with wide eyes, pupils blown to hell, and whine. You laugh a little, "Come on, what do you want?" I keep my silence, fucking you slowly, looking down at you pleadingly and hoping that you'll just understand what I need, just give it to me, not draw it out any longer.

Suddenly, you fist my hair and pull my neck back. "You want me to touch your clit, don't you" you hiss. I can't see you from this angle, can only see the ceiling, and I whine again.

"You were thinking it, weren't you"

"But I didn't say it!" I protest. The sensation of your cock inside me is distracting, perpetual, rhythmic.

You change your grip on my hair and pull me close to you, my ear right against your lips.

"A good slut wouldn't even think it." Well, fuck. Your words go right to my cunt. I feel myself swell and weep around you as my eyes close and I let out a long, defeated groan.

"But you didn't say it," you acknowledge, "so I'll give you a choice. Do you want to wait longer, or do you want me to get the belt?" I grumble, but it's not even a question.

"Belt."

You flip me over so my back's on the bed, legs open. "Stay," you say, pointing at me.

You leave the room. I stay, savoring the ache in my ignored clit, in my very-paid-attention-to cunt. You re-enter carrying a braided leather belt, and twirl your finger. An obvious command. I turn around, presenting my ass, and wait.

You run your hands over one cheek, then the other. The first strike is gentle, tentative. I moan and wiggle my ass at you appreciatively. I'm working on getting you to realize how much I love this kind of beating, that you really don't have to be gentle, but it's difficult for you. The sounds I make encourage you, though, and you pick up the pace, launching into a steady rhythm of medium-force strikes. Individually, none of them is particularly hard, but they build on each other, sensation layering over sensation, and I'm panting and gripping the sheets and moaning in a different pitch, now, the pitch of pain. You don't stop. You strike harder.

"Color" you request, and I pant, "green." You slide your cock inside me, picking up a slow rhythm that stays deep, and I relax.

Smack!

I wail into the mattress, arc my hips away from you as pain takes over my perception. Shit. That was the buckle end. You reach forward and massage my ass with your hand.

"Color" you say again, and I wail "green!" This is it, this is what I've been chasing. I push my hips back towards you.

Crack! the buckle-end of the belt lands on my other cheek, drawing the same tortured reaction from me. You wait for me to recover, to push back towards you, then hit me again. Despite my pain, I grin to myself. I'll get a good beating out of you yet.

Your hands come down firm on my thighs, gripping and massaging the reddening skin. You bend down and whisper, "you know why I like hitting your ass"? I don't know what you're getting at. The belt - my belt - rests next to me, in the narrow strip of bed I can see with you pressing my head down into the mattress. I swear you put it down in my line of sight on purpose. My breath is shallow and quick with a pain that melts under your hands as you speak.

"Hm?" you prompt. Oh right, you asked me a question. I shake my head, then groan. That's not enough, with the mood you're in.

"Because it's so cute?" I venture, then curse inwardly and screw my eyes shut. At least my face is already mostly hidden. You chuckle and smack me again, just a tease.

You lean down again.

"Because of how wet it makes my cunt."

Your whisper heats my ear, and you thrust into me to make your point. I make a noise that's half groan and half exhale and half agreement and half desperation, and grind back onto your cock.

When we talked about this scene, about what words to use and what to avoid, we touched on the objectification of calling parts of my body 'yours' but I had no idea how much it would do it for me. I'm not very good at hiding my reactions when I'm bottoming, and you've been picking up on how much that phrasing turns me on, using it more and more frequently. For a moment, lulled in the steady rhythm of your thrusts, I want to respond, to say yes, it's your cunt, fuck your cunt, please oh god please keep fucking your cunt - but then the wall of shame hits, and I bite my lip and turn my head into the pillow.