Naoto takes his arm from her waist and gently slaps the back of her head.
“You’re just going to let this go,” he says. She doesn’t move. She just breathes.
He blows his sigh on her nose. “Okay, hon,” he says. “If you’re going to be self-indulgent, I’m going to be too. I’d hate, more than anything, to have someone come in here, tie me up and do whatever they’re going to do to you in front of me. Not that it wouldn’t be horrific and unforgivable to you, and that that bastard wouldn’t deserve anything that came to him. But this is me I’m talking about now. And what this would mean about me. I would rather be there on the bed, getting beaten or raped beside you. I could take that. We’d get through it. But I couldn’t take being treated like some guy like my uncle, who needs to be tied up and have his girlfriend abused in front of him to make a point. I don’t want to be put in that position. I don’t think I could take it. I don’t know if I could come back to you after that. That’s not me. I’m fucking queer. I couldn’t take being made a guy like that, you know?”
If the lights were on, he would see her staring at the pillow under her face, not at him. This life would be very empty without him. But she’s been there before and she’ll be there again someday. It isn’t as if they stare at her any less when she’s in his company. She stays quiet longer than she should.
He drapes his arm over her. “Come here,” he says. She nestles into his chest and holds him close. She never had the chance to be a little girl. It’s nice sometimes. But not right now.
“Fuck him,” she says.
“What?”
“Fuck Derrick. Come on.”
She steps over him out of the bed and takes his wet sloppy hands in hers. “Stand up,” she says.
The bed is very comfortable and the dark floor is dangerous to sensitive feet. But he drags himself up anyway. “Okay,” he says.
A few misplaced steps and a near fall on the glove, and Amanda has brought him to the window. She presses her back against his naked body and kisses his hand. She reaches for the shade and tugs it quick. It rolls up, flopping on its spindle.
The streetlight in front of her house burned out a while ago. The houses across the street have some lights on but none in the front. The night wind has carried most of the clouds away. The stars twinkle through the atmosphere.
“He has someone watching me out there,” she says. “Get me off, please?”
Naoto kisses her ear. “Sure.”
He smiles and reaches around her. One hand takes her breasts and the other takes her cock. She is pretty excited already. It isn’t long before she shudders, face out to the neighborhood. It doesn’t matter that her room is as dark as the street outside.
Derrick sees all.
PUNCHING BAG
Rachel Kramer Bussel
Kyle still wasn’t sure, two years in, if he liked punching or being punched better, in or out of the ring. All he knew was that boxing made him feel alive, lit up, excited, manly…and had even when he was a woman. He’d started lurking around the gym when he’d been Kim, binding his breasts, mostly using the inert punching bags. He was afraid of hitting another woman, but he wouldn’t be afraid of hitting the block of muscle in a man’s chest. He didn’t even need anyone else, at first, to get that special high, one he’d never gotten from running or swimming or tennis.
There’s an energy to a boxing ring that he had never experienced in any other sport, not even wrestling. This was pure, raw aggression, tempered only by the rules of the game and sometimes not even that. It made grown men and women drop all pretense and simply get down to the business at hand, and he liked the way it sliced away every false veneer society put on his shoulders until it was just his mind and his fists, working in concert.
Transitioning from female to male had made the process mostly easier, though he’d had to switch gyms. With his red hair, freckles and still a bit of a baby face, no matter how flat and firm his chest, how bulked up his shoulders, he couldn’t risk someone saying something and outing him before he was ready. He knew that if he’d been born a guy, he’d have gotten picked on, no question. He was only five feet six: decent for a woman but short, scrawny even, for a guy.
So he switched to an all-male gym, where the level of aggression, testosterone and drive suited him perfectly. For the past year or so, ever since his surgery, he’d been trying to figure out so much about himself that dating had fallen by the wayside. People were easier when consumed on his computer screen, in flirtatious notes or all-out dirty chat sessions, where he could say things like, “Punch me. Pummel me. Use me,” and go there, completely, in his head. He’d never wanted to get punched like that before—not for real.
He’d assumed that since he’d been mostly a dyke as a woman, going more for the athletic types than the overly made-up ones, that he’d continue to want those kind of women, but something had changed somewhere along the way. He’d always assumed that he wanted to be the tough, brawny, roaring hulk he’d watched countless times in the ring and fought against once or twice. That was the kind of fantasy that, at twenty-eight, he knew was never going to quite come true; there wasn’t a surgery he could endure to make himself taller, to make himself a completely different person. All he could do was make himself into the strongest, healthiest person he could be. Thankfully, he had savings he’d grown with some good investments in school, ones that had supported him ever since. He was finally ready to look for a job in computer science but hadn’t wanted to go through a public transition on the job, with all the explaining. He was too private for that. For the moment, he could take his time looking for work, as he worked on himself. He got top surgery and he was taking T, and while he felt different, he was still sorting out exactly what that meant, and what that made him.
His heart, though, if it belonged anywhere, was in the gym. The energy there rippled in waves, flowing through him like a computer’s motherboard. His first waking thought was no longer about his unruly body or his first cup of coffee, but for his gloves, the new black and red ones he’d had custom made. When he put them on, he felt invincible.
He woke up and stood staring at himself in the mirror, indulging a few minutes’ vanity before showering, closing his eyes and smiling at the muscles that seemed to have sprouted all over. They seemed to be telling him, on a daily basis, “You made the right choice. Here is your reward.”
He didn’t let himself admit, except in rare moments, how much he did miss the little intimacies he’d forgone in the last year, the kisses on the back of his neck, the spooning with his usually taller girlfriends, the flirtatious banter of a first date, the holding hands, the making a girl come with his hands. That, he thought as the hot spray blasted his face, was second to the sublime thrill of cutting the perfect right hook. And then he felt it, what would’ve been an extreme hard-on in what he was sure, if he’d been born with the right parts, would have been at least a nine-inch cock. He stepped back and let the luxurious spray blast his flat chest, now sprinkled with hair and bursting with muscles. He reached down and touched himself, shocked at how close he was to orgasm. When he came, he didn’t think about getting his ass or what had been his pussy pounded. He thought about someone pounding his chest, slapping his face, using him as a personal punching bag. Kyle had to force himself to turn off the shower, step out clutching the sink, then drop, dripping wet, onto the toilet seat, lest he collapse with the sheer joy that image had brought him.
He went back to bed for a few minutes, lying damp and naked between the smooth sheets, mentally reviewing the guys he knew at the gym, considering which ones might be worth pursuing to live out this fantasy—because this wasn’t the kind of fantasy he was willing to wait for. His mind flitted from one to another until he finally roused himself again. Maybe this wasn’t his decision to make.
He went to the gym after everyone else’s workday had ended, lurking, observing, but sticking to himself. There was still a sense that he didn’t quite belong, not because of gender, but personalit
y. Maybe he needed to be gruff and demanding, but that wasn’t really Kyle’s style. Hanging around proved useful, because eventually there were only four guys left. He’d seen the owner give James, a huge, hot, hulking white guy with a buzz cut, stubble and a killer body, the keys. “Wanna spar?” James had asked. Kyle looked around and realized he was talking to him.
“Sure,” he said, shrugging casually, like it was no big deal. And, in a way, it wasn’t. He took a few minutes in the locker room to suit up and put on his gloves and mouth guard and psych himself up. He didn’t have time to think too much about the man who was almost twice his size, or he might chicken out.
Kyle was totally into the match when he first sparred off against James. His new gray tank top clung to his muscular body, loose red shorts hung to his knees. He was fired up, ready to dart and strike, to unleash not fury but energy and passion. When the first blow landed against his chest, he liked it a little too much, liked it in ways that weren’t fit for a boxing ring, that had no way of translating into the ancient sport they were engaging in.
No, the way he liked it was all about another ancient sport, that of men sparring with men…in the bedroom or in his dreams. Only they were in public, and for perhaps the first time ever, Kyle was glad he didn’t have a dick, because if he did, there’d be no way he could’ve hidden his erection. There was barely a way to hide the sensations now as his two urges battled, one to win, and one to chance another beautiful blow. Boxing was an eat-or-be-eaten world, and suddenly Kyle wanted to be beaten, slapped, choked. The sensation almost overtook him, but he hopped back, shook his head, tried to get a glimpse of James’s eyes to see if he was the only one feeling this way. He hoped not.
They went on for a few minutes, but Kyle realized he’d have to throw the match if they were ever going to move on to the real thing, the best part. He didn’t think, just then, about the fact that this was his true test of manhood: to be able to give up the mantle of macho, to abandon being in charge, to revel in the thrill he’d never dare try as a girl of going over the edge, giving himself to someone. He’d spent so long building himself up, pumping iron, pumping hormones, priming himself to be someone mighty and powerful, that he’d never let himself truly savor the possibilities.
He poised his body to take a blow, then fell, using the few acting classes he’d taken in school to make it look as realistic as possible. There were only two friends of James’s watching, ones who were all too happy to call it for their pal. James leaned over him and tapped his face, sending another jolt through Kyle. “Hey man, you okay?” Kyle looked up into James’s pale, piercing blue eyes, hoping what he saw looking back was a reflection of his own desire. He wasn’t sure, but he nodded and stood. After James got pounds from his friends, the two men went into the locker room, where James quickly pressed Kyle up against the lockers.
“What the hell was that?” he asked. His voice wasn’t angry so much as serious, wanting a real answer. Kyle wanted to ask, “What?” but didn’t.
“I don’t know. I mean, I do; I just don’t know if I should tell you.” James didn’t answer, just stood hovering over Kyle, like he had all day to wait, but his eyes were patient, not menacing. Kyle flushed, looking down momentarily before looking back up into James’s gaze. “I liked it, okay? There was a moment right after you slammed me in the chest that I liked it, the whole thing, the pain, the rush of the blow, the power behind it, the way it almost knocked me down. I liked the sensation and I wanted more. I want more. Now. From you.”
The smile slowly crept across James’s face, tilting first the corners of his lips, then moving up his cheeks to those mesmerizing eyes. “You mean you’re a masochist, is that what you’re saying?” Their gloves were off, but Kyle suddenly longed for something to shield his face with. He was new to actually engaging in BDSM; new, even, to truly fantasizing about it in such a deep way, so he didn’t yet know that wishing for it to end while secretly wanting to prolong it was one of the best parts of being a bottom.
“Yes,” he said, as his voice trembled. “I think so, anyway. This is new to me.” He paused, not sure whether to keep going and reveal the even-bigger secret.
James stepped closer until one sweaty body was pressed against the other. “I know,” was all he said, so much meaning imbued in five little letters. And with that, Kyle sank back against the lockers, yielding his body, his mind, all the ways he held himself together, to James.
“Get in the shower,” James said, then turned his back on Kyle. Here? Now? he thought, but he knew this was his first test. He never showered at the gym, but no one else was around; James had a key to lock up and his friends had gone off to some bar, so they were completely alone. Kyle had absolute freedom, at least, in this way; freedom from discovery and prying eyes. Some men might have been afraid to do their first scene with no one around at all to hear if something went awry, but not Kyle. The fact that they had the gym to themselves was a luxury he couldn’t take for granted.
Still, he moved into the deepest recesses of the locker room and took off first his sweaty tank, then the shorts, then the briefs. He felt it again, that phantom hard-on, only not so phantom this time. He was excited, aroused, and it was centered between his legs, the area he didn’t know what to call, the area he’d tried to ignore for as long as possible but no longer could. He looked up and saw James and his eyes immediately went to James’s cock, one so big it almost made Kyle swoon. He hadn’t known he was a size queen, but he couldn’t deny that the mighty weapon made him long to get on his knees.
“Get going, boy,” James said. “Boy.” He’d learned it in one context in school, a negative, racist word full of hatred, but now, Kyle heard it differently, maybe because he’d never been one. He’d rushed to become a man and now had a few moments to regress, to be a boy full of the wonder of hormones, of sheer exploration, of going with his instincts. James seemed to be able to read him like a book because he slammed Kyle up against the tiles of the musty shower stall and grabbed him by the throat. “Your safeword is girl,” he said, the irony nowhere in his gruff command.
The tears that sprang to Kyle’s eyes came unbidden, and he didn’t bother blinking them away. James raised a knee between Kyle’s legs and he didn’t protest. “Okay, boy?” the man asked, that word again making him shudder, and he suddenly didn’t care what James’s knee found there. James managed to keep his hold on Kyle while turning on the shower spray, blasting them both with water hotter than Kyle usually used. He liked it, or maybe he didn’t, but he wanted it, because James wanted it. This was his chance to prove himself, as a boy, a man, a sub—as himself.
James’s hand stroked Kyle’s cheek once, sweetly, softly, before he raised it and slapped him hard, the wet handprint lost to the next one that followed. Kyle didn’t try to stop the tears, couldn’t have, releasing all the emotions he’d thought he’d been getting out in the ring. James was mostly silent, save for a few grunts, the sound of the spray loud in their ears as he pummeled Kyle with his bare hands, slapping his cheeks and nipples, punching him hard in the chest, then turning him around to thrash at his back. Kyle trembled, the pain secondary to the tenderness he could feel coming through with each slap. James knew what he was doing, Kyle could tell, and finally he had to do something he could never have predicted: without asking, Kyle reached down between his legs and touched himself. In many ways, what he felt was the same as it had been, but he knew he was different. He knew this wasn’t his pussy, but something else.
James gave his back a few more hard, wet slaps, then let his fingers join Kyle’s, making him turn around and stare right at him as his fingers invaded. James could’ve gone for his ass, Kyle thought, but he didn’t, he went there, and when Kyle came, the climax roared through his body, making him dig his nails into the grooves between the tiles for purchase. He’d been so focused on the pleasure of giving in, going over, he’d almost forgotten about James’s cock, and when he looked down, he saw it standing straight up, as if to say, “Yes, this is for you.”
Kyle shut his eyes and reached for James’s hand to remove it. He was done, at least, with that, but not with James. With the water still pounding them, he got on his knees, putting his hands behind his back. It was the ultimate submissive, servile posture, yet it made Kyle feel, like almost nothing else had, like a man. Not the kind of man he saw on TV or was ever taught about in school or even saw in the muscle-baring ads plastered around the gym, but the kind of man he was, the kind of man he wanted to be, one who could claim every inch of his manhood by owning himself. He knew the moment his mouth met James’s cock, one so big he had to stretch his lips and even then could barely get it inside. James helped, grabbing him by the neck and pressing himself slowly into the recesses of Kyle’s throat, and this time he made noise.
Kyle found he couldn’t look up and see James’s face, but he could picture it as he sucked, as his aching body screamed not with pain, but belonging. He knew they couldn’t stay there all night, but they didn’t need to. Kyle had found everything he’d come to the ring to find. He swallowed what James’s cock gifted him, taking pride not only in being the bigger man’s personal punching bag, but in knowing he was now, finally, his own man, the kind he was meant to be, one with a solid chest, a pounding heart and a smile on his face.
YOU DON’T KNOW JACK
Michael Hernandez
Jack was trying oh so hard not to tap his fingers on the counter. “Good,” by Supreme Beings of Leisure, was blasting from the speakers. He’d been waiting quite a while for the overpriced shot of vodka that the barkeep was utterly bound to screw up. He’d quickly discovered that unless the place had an Eastern European clientele, inevitably, the vodka would be chilled on the fly. As a result, it would reach room temperature far too soon and the unpleasant “gasoline fume” experience would occur. Why didn’t bartenders understand that for a shot of vodka to be enjoyed at its perfection it should be so cold as to be viscous? Nonetheless, Jack had hope against hope that since this establishment proffered a house-blend raspberry-infused vodka sold by the six-ounce carafe, there was a slight chance that it would in fact be properly served.
Take Me There Page 16
