by Penny Aimes
It was only a few blocks to her apartment, but downtown was always crowded, even on a Wednesday. A small pack of drunks was wandering up the sidewalk from the moustache-themed hipster bar around the block. Dreadful little scenarios painted themselves on the walls of her mind like the murals around the Mexic-Arte Museum; she’d never been harassed on the street, not really, but there was a first time for everything and—
He squeezed her hand and rumbled, “Hey,” and she felt it in the center of her body. As if he could read her hurtling mind, he pressed her to the side of her building and kissed her deeply, capturing her mouth with his and plundering it.
In an instant, she felt so attracted and grateful and protected that her brain began to overheat. Through the steam, that same unkind, unwanted voice reminded her: this is a game, an experience. You’re going through second puberty and you’re feeling a lot of things and sure, that’s the point, but remember this isn’t real. Remember he’s not yours.
Then he nuzzled his face into her cloud of hair and nipped her ear and she shoved that voice out of her head and locked the door. She’d be sensible in the morning.
For what felt like an hour (but was genuinely just enough time for the drunk UT bros to meander past, hoot encouragements at his back, and disappear into the night), they made out there. His hand slipped between her ass and the building, molding around the curve of her hip like it grew there. Her arms went around the back of his neck and she let the edges of her gel tips zip over his scalp. It made him growl into her mouth. Her breasts pressed against him in a way that made her knees weak; something about those sharp aching points being thrust out into the world and being so very excited to find her lover got to her every time, whether the answering chest was broad and flat and firm like his or soft curves that fit together with hers.
Then his free hand closed over one of them; searched for a moment against her bralette and found and tweaked, and it was good, and he twisted, and something like lightning shot up from the pit of her stomach and made her weak all over. She was somewhere else entirely, on another planet. “Please,” she said incoherently, and he finally guided her the last twenty yards to the door.
They got through the door and kissed in the entryway for a while. Got in the elevator and kissed there long enough for the doors to close and open again twice on the second floor. Got to her apartment and kissed, counterproductively, while she tried to find the key.
And then they were in her studio and they were kissing and there was no second part of the sentence. They let their jackets drop to the ground and tumbled into the bed together. His hands slid over the softness of her stomach and he growled, “I want to take your shirt off. Do you want that?”
“Yesss,” she hissed. And yes, and yes, and yes, until he was fully dressed, and she was in only her best (pink) club-going panties, and his hands felt like they were everywhere. But mostly on her tits. Either he was monomaniacal about consent or it was some special technique of his, but she felt drunk on yes. She said yes to calling him Sir. Then she said yes Sir to being needy and slutty and gorgeous and helpless.
His dark brown eyes were black with need and she saw herself reflected in them, tiny there in a way she never felt in real life. Yet when his hand touched the waistband of her panties she tensed, a feeling she would’ve sworn she’d forgotten how to feel.
“I want to take these off,” he said, finger curling around the elastic, and then, with ingenious sensitivity, “Does that scare you?”
“Yes, Sir.” She gulped, grateful that he hadn’t knocked her off the tightrope of yes; grateful and scared. She hadn’t told him the details. She always told people, because not telling people got you killed.
“What if you let me worry about it?” he asked; the same words he’d used before, and then he smiled—it was devilish on that hungry face, with those hungry eyes—and he said, “Seriously. Genuinely, my dear. What would happen if you let me worry about what I find?”
She took a deep shuddering breath. “You might not like it,” she said, plaintively. “You might not know what to do.”
“I want you,” he said, like an anchor dropped into a stormy sea. Like a fact. “I want whatever you have to give me. And I will learn. I’m a quick learner.” He pressed a kiss to her mouth and tugged the waistband down, angled across her hip. “Are you ready?”
Dennis
“Yes, Sir.” But she closed her eyes as he slid them down her legs, inhaling slowly through her soft, blurred pink mouth. She was afraid, he knew.
Dennis was not. Maybe he should be—he wanted to not fuck this up, the need to not fuck this up and the need to have this woman twisted around each other and towered over him and filled his world. But he felt the way he did sometimes playing sports, or in a boardroom, or with a willing woman who called him Sir so prettily. He felt immense and powerful and capable of anything—not at will, certainly, but like everything was possible if he played his cards right, and his sleeves felt full of aces.
He was certainly not afraid of anything in April’s underwear. He didn’t know a great deal about surgeries available for transgender women, or the effects of hormones, and he supposed that he had either imagined he would find something much like he’d seen with other women or much like the genitalia he saw every day. This was something...else, but it was the opposite of frightening. What he saw was small, and pink, and, “Cute,” he said, with delight in his voice. “My God you’re cute.” And he leaned forward and kissed it.
“I had an orchiectomy, so I don’t have testicles or produce androgens anymore,” she recited; she seemed determined to give this speech eventually. “But I haven’t had genital reconstruction surgery. I’m not, um, prepared for anal tonight. I didn’t expect—”
He took back control of the interaction easily, calmly. “And what do you call this precious thing?” he said, running a finger over it. It was sunken back into itself, half-hooded like a clitoris would be. He might have been concerned she wasn’t aroused if it weren’t for the wetness he found.
“M-my clit. Please,” she said.
“That’s not something you have to say please for,” he said easily, and let his fingers explore the wetness that had spilled out of her into the folds of skin below her clit. No depth there—well—maybe. There was a sort of something there after all, behind the skin. He pressed and was rewarded with a moan and a roll of her eyes.
His shirt had come unbuttoned along the line somewhere and he let it hit the floor, as well. “Show me how you touch yourself,” he said, his voice firm. Commanding. She inch-wormed her way back to the pillows, while he stayed sprawled across the foot of the bed and watched as she sat up, exhaled shakily, and pulled a Magic Wand from an end table.
“I sort of—” She sort of let her legs fall open and pressed the head against the top of her mound and the powerful vibrations pulsed through her indirectly. There was a tattoo on the front of her upper thigh, an explosion of watercolor wildflowers in reds, purples and yellows. It wrapped around her leg, stretching up to her hip and trailing vines and foliage along her inner thigh. It rippled as the muscles of her legs jumped with tension.
She closed her eyes, and he told her to open them. Her panting mouth trembled. “You keep looking at me,” she said plaintively, and added Sir when he raised an eyebrow.
“I like looking at you,” he said, and it was really that simple. He liked watching her manipulate the wand over her body; liked the way the vibration made her high, conical tits wobble. Liked watching her breath come faster and her eyes, pinned to his, darken with arousal. As she approached something resembling an erection, she shifted the wand around; pressed it against the folds of skin at the base of her clit for a long lip-biting moment, then ran it teasingly along the underside until she dripped.
He slid forward and, putting his hand over hers, steered the pulsing head of the wand back to her mound. He took her into his mouth easily. He’d made a co
nscious decision to see if men were his taste, back in college, and he’d ultimately concluded it wasn’t really for him; this was not a man’s body, a man’s cock. It smelled different, felt different, fit differently in his mouth. It was a long way from the iron bar currently trapped in his slacks.
She yelped. She’d closed her eyes again, the bad girl, and she hadn’t expected it. He would chastise her in a moment, but right now she was coming, as he’d promised her, pulsing in his mouth. Her spend was thinner, too, tasting only of salt, and he swallowed it easily.
She wasn’t expecting it when he moved up the bed to kiss her while she was still shuddering, or when he slung her around and over his lap, ass up. “Whoa!”
“Now, somebody came without permission...”
“You surprised me!”
“Yes, because you closed your eyes, doll. And this is talking back. How many for that, do you think?” He was always going to spank her, of course. Had been dying to since he watched her ass go up the stairs ahead of him at Frankie’s. But it was good of her to walk right into it.
“Three,” she said tentatively. “Sir.”
“No, that’s silly,” he laughed. She made a put-upon noise. “Try again.”
“Ten?”
“Ten it is,” he said cheerfully. “And two more for trying to undercut.”
She scoffed and gave him a look of such sheer indignation that he wavered. “We green?” he asked. Suddenly it caught up to him that he’d been pushing her limits a bit, and now he was manhandling her.
She blinked. “Yeah,” she said softly, looking back over her shoulder. “All green over here, Sir.”
“Good,” he said firmly, schooling his face into implacability again. “Count them off.”
April
April wasn’t exactly afraid of twelve bare-handed spanks at this point in her journey as a submissive. Her headspace was a little thrown, though, by the unexpected safety check, and without that lovely pink cushion, the first one stung like hell.
“One, Sir,” she said, wincing, and tried to sink back. It was always harder just after she came, too; her refractory period had changed dramatically on hormones, but it wasn’t entirely gone, either. And—
“Two, Sir.” God damn it! She’d even thought of mentioning the paddle she’d bought a year ago and never properly broken in—dismissed it as topping from the bottom—and now she was grateful she hadn’t. Her—
“Three. Sir.” Her fucking brain was too fucking busy, and every time his hand landed, it jolted her back to here and her body, and for a moment she was annoyed with the whole thing—
“Four! Sir.” Fuck. “I’m better than this,” she snapped. Angry with herself maybe; angry at him, maybe, for breaking the rhythm when things were so good. Angry at the tears stinging her eyes.
“I know you are,” he said, his hand moving gently over her burning ass. “I figured you could do a dozen standing on your head.” It was a gentle observation, but it felt like an accusation.
“I lost my vibe,” she said grumpily.
“Should we stop?” he asked, real concern beginning to cloud his face, and she put her foot down. Mentally. Putting her foot down right now physically would not accomplish much.
“No!” She grinned back over her shoulder with wicked, artificial glee. “Spank me back into compliance, Sir.” In her head it was an overdone, porn-quality airhead voice, but God knew how it sounded through her poor testosterone-poisoned vocal cords. She felt something throb against her stomach, though, and that eased her self-consciousness.
“Compliant,” he mused. “What a good word.”
The fifth smack caught her on the exhale, so her voice choked a little on Five, but it didn’t hurt as much. Heat spread through her instead, trickling back up her spine and into her busy brain.
“What’s another good word?” he asked, as he slid the Hitachi between them and pressed it up into her core.
“Obedient,” she said with relish, and barely flinched. “Six, Sir.”
“Mm-hm?” he said, his hand hovering, waiting, and she picked up the game. Picked a really good word.
“Controlled. Seven, Sir.” And gasped as the wand switched on.
Eight was broken. Nine was dripping. Ten was needy. Eleven was slutty, which came out with a crack in it from her second orgasm. She spasmed and moaned into the bed, barely aware of her body, let alone its specifics. The orgasm felt like it came from outside, ripping through her like lightning.
Twelve was desperate, and by then she was. She was desperate to please him, to know his body like he’d learned hers, but she stayed bonelessly slumped over his lap and waited for direction, blissfully.
I’m under control, she thought with the kind of delightfully hazy thinking only available on a major endorphin rush. How good to let herself go, be totally out of control, and then be brought back under control by someone so kind and handsome and thoughtful. For once, she didn’t have to control herself, because this gentle stranger was doing it for her. She should thank him.
“Thank you, Sir,” she murmured into the sheets. If she ever made her bed, they’d be on top of the comforter, but she hadn’t made her bed in...years. Decades. “Centuries,” she said.
“Hm? Are you all right, doll? You seem a bit out of it.” He pulled her upright in his lap.
“I’m good, Sir,” she affirmed. “Green as hell.”
He kissed her nose, and she was so moved that she burst into tears.
“Okay, that’s sub drop,” he said pragmatically, and she shook her head vigorously, whipping both of them with her mane of hair.
“I’m just happy,” she said, and cuddled against him.
“Okay.” He smiled. “So it’s just subspace. C’mon, let’s tuck you in.”
“Ohh. Maybe.” Yeah, that checked out. Brain cloudy and feeling like it had had a hot bath. Body slightly sore, slightly buzzing, feeling strangely like it belonged to her and not some hulking ugly stranger. The pretty illusion that she was absolutely in love with this person whose name probably started with a D. “You’re good at this,” she muttered into her pillow.
“I’m really glad you think so,” he said sweetly. Fuck, he was sweet.
“Wait, I didn’t do—didn’t do anything for you,” she realized.
“I did notice that,” he said; his voice was amused, smugly superior in a way that would make her want to squirm if she wasn’t too tired to squirm. He drew the comforter up around her, murmuring sweet words, and she drifted into sleep still waiting for his next command.
Dennis
Dennis woke up to a mouth on his cock and for the first confused moments after waking he thought he was back in Seattle. Back in time. Sonia?
No. April. Austin. Right. Wow. Wow.
It was dark—not pitch black, not with windows facing the streetlights of the city, but certainly pre-dawn. For a while, he just let it happen, let her simply pump up and down his length and felt the pressure build. It was amazing, velvet and warm. Then he fisted his hand in that beautiful sandy cloud of hair and pulled her up.
She looked startled in the half-light, then grinned at him, mischief in her eyes again.
“I didn’t ask for this, doll.” His voice was rusty. He waited to see her reaction to the cues and was rewarded by a widening of her eyes and a softening in her expression.
“I took some initiative, Sir,” she admitted, clicking back into the role easily, sparking an answering smile from him.
“Carry on, then.”
She nuzzled down, played with him for a moment. “Do you want me to tell you how big and beautiful your dick is, Sir? Or how hard you made me come last night?” He knew all about that. There was a stain on the leg of his slacks and a taste in his mouth to remember by.
“I think—” A shudder as she nipped him. “I think I just want to use your mouth, doll.” She hummed her agr
eement and sank back down, and he leaned his head back to let it happen.
Sometimes he found it hard to take his pleasure. Well—there was certainly pleasure in dominance, in putting a pretty and willing woman through her paces like he had last night. But sometimes when he was being pleasured, or even when he was having sex and clearly in control, he found it difficult to hold on to the thread. He’d rather make his partner orgasm than have his own, sometimes. The problem was many submissives felt the same way.
Did she know? She seemed experienced, but did she know that what he’d done last night was as much for him as for her, even if his pants had never come off? “Good girl,” he moaned. “You’re such a good girl. You were fucking amazing last night.”
Not just in the scene, he thought. Just. Fucking amazing. Her ability to move fluidly between the roles of a new friend, even a guide to Frankie’s and this new city, and a submissive squirming for his commands. Her bravery and her beauty, her fragility and her trust. Her fucking mouth. Some women were uncertain with an uncircumcised cock, but she seemed to know exactly how to tease the sensitive glans without overwhelming him.
“I’m going to come,” he warned her, and then he did, with a stifled gasp and an all over clench of his body. He felt the explosion of pleasure rise from the tips of his toes and tear his mind apart.
He lay there and panted. He still felt half asleep and completely wrung out now. She looked up, after a while, and smiled at him with a dreamy look in her eyes. “I’m going to brush my teeth,” she whispered. He chuckled, because after all he still could taste her from last night, so who cared? But she was already moving, the bathroom door closing behind her and leaving a thin thread of light beneath it.
She was in there a while—he realized she’d never gotten to take her makeup off last night—and by the time the door reopened he’d shaken off his doze, found the lights and begun to dress. In the light he could see her apartment more clearly; a tidy little studio, with a kitchen partitioned by a long counter and lots of bookshelves and one very crammed closet. Big windows, and good light, now that the sun was beginning to climb. But small—the trade-off for living downtown, he supposed.
