Me and My Boi

by Sacchi Green

  I was somewhat relieved to note that while they were all pretty hot, none of them was especially my type. It would be easier to conceal my appreciation if I weren’t also suppressing an urge to drool.

  The maid of honor waved until she got someone’s attention, and this time the round of drinks was more to my taste. The server brought two huge pitchers of margaritas, and I poured some into a pre-salted glass. The music quieted, prompting hoots of appreciation from around the room. A few of those hoots came from our tables, and I wondered if there were any other closeted lesbians in our ranks.

  My amused smile froze on my face as the lights dimmed, the dancers filed toward the end of the stage, and a spotlight lit up a small space in the back. The woman who stepped out was exactly my type.

  My mouth went dry and my hand closed on the cold drink. I instinctively took a huge slug, wincing as the tequila burned down my throat, leaving me drier than ever and a little dizzy.

  The music started and she slunk onto the stage in a seductive dance, her hips twisting and swirling in lazy figure eights. My clit twinged and I shifted in my seat, wanting to whimper or moan. But that would have been a mistake, because except for the steady beat of the music, the room had fallen dead silent and all eyes were on her.

  Like an angel, she drifted across the stage, her eyes sweet and coy while her body screamed sex. Her curves were nothing but woman, but there was something about her that nonetheless whispered to me of something else. It was in the set of her jaw, maybe, or the secrets behind her eyes. In was in her short-trimmed, unvarnished nails and her closely shorn hair, not so unusual in a woman these days, but…together, those things all spoke to me.

  My free hand rested in my lap, my nails digging into my palm as I tried to keep my face relaxed and my gaze nonchalant. She started to peel away the layers of her costume, each one revealing tracts of creamy-smooth skin until—glory be!—she was completely bare but for a tiny thong, her body gyrating with the intensifying music. Men were on their feet near the front of the stage, bills waving in the air, and the lights came up as she stepped forward to accept their tribute. Other dancers filed onto the stage, already pared down to the panties and heels, and took up stations at the poles on either side of my dream boi’s center-stage act.

  That was when Tara pulled out the wad of ones and dumped them on the table. “I’ve got a prize for you guys! Everyone who puts a dollar in one of those strippers’ thongs gets her name in the hat! Go on! Do it!” She shoved the money toward the center of the table, and a few giggling women snatched up their bills and headed for the stage, their dollars waving in the air like banners.

  I felt rooted in place, but Tara hadn’t forgotten me, and she seemed determined to “help me out of my shell” as she’d put it earlier in the night. She pushed a small handful of ones into my hand and practically shoved me out of my chair. “Go!”

  I stumbled to my feet and headed to the center stage without a conscious decision to do so, my feet carrying me toward the goddess whose worshippers had begun to disperse. She saw me coming and her eyes sparkled as she dropped to her hands and knees and crawled toward the edge of the stage nearest me.

  “You’re not one of those chicks who comes here on a dare,” she said in a throaty murmur, eyes flicking to the hens and back to me.

  I folded one dollar and stuffed it in her mouth, leaning forward. “And I know what you are, too,” I ventured, my voice sounding bold and confident even as my thudding heart threatened to drown it out. She raised her eyebrows in challenge and I leaned toward her, our shoulders close enough to brush as I tucked the rest of the bills into the side of her thong. “You’re a naughty little boi all dressed up like a slut,” I whispered for her ears only.

  I heard her sharp intake of breath, and as I pulled back, her mouth fell slightly open and the dollar fluttered to the stage. “Yes, Ma’am,” she said. I reached to ruffle her hair, my mind’s eye seeing how the pixie-like lengths would look gelled into masculine spikes, and backed away. She waited there, kneeling with her eyes downcast, until I’d returned to the table.

  Tara was laughing and clapping as the rest of the hens and I returned to the roost. She’d been busy, and scraps of folded white paper littered the table. She scooped them up, mixed them, dumped them and plucked one from the top.

  “Megan, you win!” she exclaimed, and from her oversized purse she pulled an oversized rubber cock and handed it straight to me.

  Oh, for god’s sake!

  I glanced past her, back toward the stage, but my naughty little boi in girl’s panties was gone. It was probably for the best.

  I made a point of not being the first to beg off that night, but I wasn’t in the last half, either. I smiled and air-kissed and wished Tara well and promised to call a cab though I’d only had two drinks the entire evening. Outside at last, I took a deep breath of cool, bracing air, ignoring the scents of oil and dust, and tried to remember where I’d parked.

  I’d only just turned toward where I thought my car was when I saw a young man lounging against the wall in front of the strip club. His hair came to frosted spikes, he wore a black, studded collar around his neck, and though his figure was hidden beneath a bulky coat, I knew him immediately.

  It was the dancing girl. The bad boi who shook his glorious tits at a roomful of strangers at night. My wet dream on two long, long legs.

  I froze, startled, and she met my eyes and coyly dropped hers. Then she grinned, and I realized that I was still carrying a fake cock big enough to bludgeon someone with. “Aren’t you in enough trouble?” I asked archly, trying to sound stern even though I was sure I was blushing.

  “Sorry, Ma’am,” she said, immediately contrite. Her voice came from low in her throat, making her sound enough like a guy to pass if you didn’t know better. She took a step toward me, but stopped before she got anywhere near close enough to be threatening. “I was actually hoping to catch you. I—how did you know? No one ever knows.”

  I tipped one shoulder up in a half shrug. “Maybe you just don’t attract the right crowd here.” I wasn’t sure who moved, but the distance between us closed, and without her stripper heels, I was just a hint taller. I brushed my fingers across the tips of her spikes, and then reached down to grip her collar, giving her the gentlest shake. “A good momma always knows when there’s a naughty boi in the room. And you’ve been a very bad boi, haven’t you?”

  My pulse raced and my lungs constricted like there was a fist around my chest. I could practically feel my eyes dilate, wanting to soak her in, and my cunt…oh god, my cunt was wet.

  “Are you going to punish me, then…Momma?” Her almost-masculine tenor had become breathy. Thready. I imagined those adorable nipples pebbled and straining with desire for me. Not what I had expected from some lame hen night out, but well worth the ridiculous posturing.

  “Not here,” I said, “but if you really deserve a good spanking, then come with me. Momma will take good care of you.”

  I walked past her, head up and outwardly confident despite the nervous flutter in my stomach, cock clutched in my hand like it was something as innocent as a baguette. The tromp of boots fell in behind me, and I led her to my car. “I’m Megan, by the way, but you can keep calling me Momma. I like it.”

  “Yes, Momma,” she said. I unlocked the car and she slipped into the passenger seat like she belonged as I settled myself behind the wheel. “I’m Cam.” A boy’s name. It fit her…him.

  Neither of us spoke another word as I drove back to my comfortable little house in the suburbs, but my knuckles were white from my grip on the steering wheel, and Cam’s hands fluttered like lost birds until he folded them in his lap.

  I led him up the walkway to my front door the same way I’d walked him to my car, one step ahead and him following behind, just like a little boy who knew he was about to be punished. My panties were soaked through and we’d barely even touched, and his face was strained with what I could only hope was a similar level of desperate desire.


  I hung my coat on the peg by the front door and set my giant dildo on the hall table, reminding myself to come back and retrieve it before anyone could see. Then I folded my arms and turned to Cam, one eyebrow arched. “Well, well,” I said, surprising myself with how steady and strong I sounded, “Look what the cat dragged in. Come on, let me see what followed me home.”

  He obligingly shrugged off the heavy coat, and I saw the flash of uncertainty as he would have just let it drop and realized I’d expected no better. He caught it as it slithered down his arms and hung it beside mine, then stepped back, hands tucked in his back pockets, eyes downcast.

  Those beautiful tits filled out the graphic tee in a way the manufacturer had never intended, and his nipples stood straight out as I’d imagined. I wanted to taste their rosy peaks, but I kept a stern look on my face. All things in good time.

  Despite the loose jeans he wore, I could see the lump at his crotch, and I stepped forward and grabbed it unceremoniously. He groaned—a high, sweet sound that made my pussy clench.

  “What’s this?” I asked. But without waiting for an answer, I slid my hand into the front of his pants and pulled the sock from his panties, holding it up in front of him. One side of the sock was damp, and the intoxicating smell of a desperately hot pussy wafted from the fabric as I dangled it in front of his shocked eyes. “Packing?” I shook the sock, inhaling the heady scent as I did. “Who do you think you’re fooling, you bad boi?”

  “Sorry, Momma,” he whispered. His hands fluttered again as if he wanted to reach to take the sock away, and then he stilled them, clasping them at his waist like a schoolgirl.

  I brought the sock to my nose for one more deep breath before tossing it aside. “Maybe not yet,” I said, “but you will be. You’re a very naughty boy, you know.”

  I tugged the T-shirt up over his head and his beautiful, sweet breasts bounced free. It was more than I could resist, and I gave one perky nipple a savage pinch. He hissed. Whimpered. He was melting into my hands.

  “Take off those boots in my house, young man.”

  “Yes, Momma.” The boots fell away, and with a single tug I sent the baggy jeans down to his knees. He stepped out of them and stood before me, tits high and full, with only a pair of white bikini-style panties to hide the wet, drooling mouth of his cunt.

  “You like to dance for those men?” I asked him.

  He shuffled his feet. “Well, it’s easy money.”

  I pinched his ear, eliciting a yelp that was somewhere between pain, desire, and surprise, and dragged him through my living room to the small guest room/office. My computer hummed in quiet hibernation on my desk in the back corner. My sewing table was neatly organized beside it, and on the wall beside the door, the little twin bed I kept for my few overnight guests awaited us. Guests like my young nephew, whose special Pokémon sheets still lay hidden beneath the white coverlet. I had to suppress the urge to shiver in anticipation.

  “Easy money?” I demanded. “Teasing all those nice men? Lying to them? Making them think these tits”—I grabbed a handful of each, kneading them with rough desire as I pushed her back against the wall beside the bed—“make you a sweet little girl? Making them think that they’ve got a chance at this tight little cunt?” I smacked the cunt in question, eliciting another yelp, higher, louder. Oh, yes.

  “I have to pay for school!” he cried.

  I returned to his breasts, pinching his nipples hard. His head rocked back, spikes making little crunching sounds as he ground the gelled tips against my clean wall. I used my grip on the tender flesh to pull him forward, spin him around and press him against the wall, his breasts squishing flat beneath our combined pressure as I leaned into him.

  “And what sorts of grades do you get?”

  “Pretty good. Mostly As and Bs,” he gasped. His voice had lost all traces of masculine depth, and my sweet boi panted beneath my onslaught.

  “You put on a good show,” I said, sliding one hand down the back of his panties. The crotch was soaking wet against my hand, matching my own panties, and there was no resistance as I slid three fingers into his sopping folds and deep into his pussy. “You jiggle those gorgeous tits and smile that innocent smile and you have all those men fooled into seeing what they want to see,” I told him, “but I see you for what you are. You’re a naughty little boi in women’s underpants, and you need to be punished.”

  He was panting. His nails scraped against my wall as if desperate to hold on to something, and his pussy clenched hard around my fingers, over and over, rhythmic and desperate. I knew this boi. Could read his desires in the lines of his body and the tension thrumming through him, and I knew just what to do next. Without moving my fingers from his desperate cunt, I reached over with the other hand to grasp the coverlet. “It’s time for me to do what any good Momma would with a naughty boi like you, and send you to bed.” I flipped the coverlet away, revealing the little-boy sheets.

  Cam gasped. His pussy tightened so hard around me that I could almost feel my fingers creak, and a tremble started low in his body and moved over him in a wave that I could feel. Then his juices ran soaking over my hand, his pussy spasmed around my fingers and he dropped his head all the way back onto my shoulder as a keening wail of release ripped from his throat.

  As his trembling slowed, he dropped his head forward again, and I winced as I heard the clunk of his forehead against the wall. He panted as I withdrew my fingers and took a single step back, but he didn’t move for a long moment, hugging the wall, his body half-limp with the afterglow.

  Then he turned, eyes wide, and I idly licked his sweet cream from one finger. He was delicious, sweet and tangy, and I hummed in gentle pleasure.

  “I’ve never—no one has—how did you know?” he babbled.

  I reached out and slowly wiped his cream across his face, first the back of my hand, and then the front, one cheek, then the other. “I told you,” I said, “I see you.” Then I turned my back and hitched my shoulders. “Now be a good boi and help Momma with her dress.”

  His fingers shook as he fumbled the hook and eye open and lowered the zipper slowly down to the small of my back. I shrugged out of the dress and kicked out of my ballet flats, and then reached around, back still toward him, and unlatched my bra. I turned back as it fell away, letting him catch his first sight of my own breasts, smaller than his, but still round and soft. I stepped forward, into his personal space, as I started to hook my panties down.

  “I know you’re not all bad, my dear boi. So I won’t be so cruel as to send you to bed without your supper…this time.” I turned and rolled smoothly onto the bed, my hips just below the small stack of pillows, legs akimbo, my pink lace panties still hooked around one ankle. “Come and eat, sweetheart, Momma’s waiting.”

  With another groan and a whimper of desire, Cam launched himself at the bed, settling himself between my legs to feast at my pussy. He thrust his tongue deep inside my cunt as if he was desperate to lap up every drop, and I cried out at the pleasure and the shock of heat, plucking at my own nipples and caressing the sensitive, flushed skin of my breasts as he fed.

  His tongue teased through my slit a few more times, and then he passed with expert grace to my clit, baring the hard little bead with deft strokes of his tongue and licking and sucking it with urgent but careful attention. His fingers slid between my labia, plunging toward my core, and I cried out as the pleasure mounted, quickly bringing me toward my peak.

  I was within sight of nirvana when the little brat eased back, gentling his licks, slowing the stroking of his fingers, ignoring the desperate twitching of my hips. He petted his free hand up and down my thigh, quieting the pleasure—banking it. And then, with an expert touch, he brought me up again.

  My body, for those moments, was his to control, helpless beneath his lips and hands, a mere instrument for him to strum. And I realized with a shock of pleasure that as clearly as I saw him, he likewise saw into the true heart of my desires. Our merging was a beautiful, per
fect blend, and I could feel the harmony of it down to my buzzing, nearly orgasmic core.

  So I sat up enough to slap him upside the head, interrupting his careful rhythm for just a moment. “Eat your dinner and quit playing around, you naughty boi!” I cried breathlessly. And with a pleased groan that tingled all the way up to my jaw, he did.

  THE WAY

  Jove Belle

  It’s in your smile, the way your mouth curves up on one side in that cheeky, fuck yes way that makes me melt, and, once upon a time, made my friend warn me.

  “She’s trouble,” Avi said, but the words rolled off, gathering like a storm at my back.

  The first time I met you—fall of freshman year—you smiled oh so properly as you shook hands and worked the room. Then you turned to me and the pretense slipped away. All the politely manufactured polish dropped, replaced by the real you, the devilish spark that said Just wait until I get you alone. It was meant for me, but clearly visible to everyone in the room.

  “She’s a player.” Avi pulled my arm until I had no choice but to turn away. In theory, I agreed with him. You’d scanned every girl in the room when you arrived, weighing the pros and cons and cataloguing your conclusions, as if to sample all the options before settling down with the chosen entree of the night. Women were playthings, snacks to be tasted and enjoyed.

  But Avi’s warning didn’t last long. You didn’t let it, slipping easily through all his objections with a charming, roguish smile and a wink.

  “I’m Jen.” You said your name simply, without added fanfare or inflection, and without changing it for a more masculine alternative. Your whole name, I’ve since learned, Jenna Leone Rampart, could easily lend itself to a more gender-neutral alternative than the unmistakably feminine Jen. I asked you once why you didn’t go by Lee or possibly Ram. They seem better fits for the short, almost shaved hair and the button-down men’s dress shirts you prefer. You laughed and said, “That’s not who I am.” So comfortable then and now with who you are.