Take Me There

by Tristan Taormino

  “I’m sorry,” the boy offers.

  “Sweet thing,” I say, “I really hope for your sake you’re not going to do anything you need to apologize for.”

  “I’ll be good,” ze promises.

  “I’m sure you will,” I say as the tip of the plug makes contact with hir asscheeks. “I just need to make some adjustments. Relax.”

  The boy follows orders and is not rigid as I slide the plug over so it is aligned with hir slick hole. Ze’s dripping so much from hir front hole that I probably didn’t need to use any lube on hir ass. The boy tightens up when I start to crank the plug up into hir but loosens hir muscles without being told. When the first ball has slid in, I play with hir nipples just a bit. Ze shivers and pushes down on the plug. I ease the second ball in. It’s just slightly larger than the first. The real jump is between this ball and the last. I grab a cock and a harness and strap it onto the boy while hir legs are still decently maneuverable. It’s a beautiful leather harness and it’s holding my favorite cock: a thick, ribbed one with a sharp curve and a bulbous head.

  I make sure to adjust all the harness buckles. Once the butt plug’s third ball is in the boy, ze’ll be locked to the table by hir ass. “You might want to take a deep breath,” I tell the boy. Ze gulps air. “Now let it out nice and slowly,” I tell hir while I turn the crank and push the last ball into hir ass. This one doesn’t go in as quickly as the other two. Ze takes another quick breath and by the time ze’s let that one out, hir ass has allowed the plug in. I run my finger around the ring of hir ass surrounding the plug’s neck. “Nice and tight,” I say and reach for hir nipples again. Now when ze flinches the plug tugs on hir ass, keeping hir securely in place.

  I climb on top of hir and squeeze hir cheeks together so that hir lips pout out. “If you can put that clever tongue to some good use,” I tell hir, “you can avoid my meanest ball gag.” Ze nods hir head and I put my pointer finger into hir mouth. It easily slides down so I add one then two more. “Rose has you suck her cock fairly often doesn’t she?” I ask. I feel hir lips tighten and know ze is nodding yes. “This feels nice,” I tell hir and when ze smiles I take advantage of the opening and pop in my pinky finger and thumb. I can stroke hir throat. Ze doesn’t choke. “Good job,” I whisper. “No ball gag for you, but let’s see how well you do with nipples.” Ze waits patiently as I unlace my corset, only flinching at the surprise of the material falling off of me and hitting hir stomach.

  The boy has a truly sweet mouth. I push my left nipple in and ze latches on like ze’s found mommy. Hir tongue pulls my nipple toward the back of hir throat while hir teeth are light against my areola. I moan a little and shove my breast over hir face till ze can’t breathe. Ze keeps working the nipple, not panicked, trusting that I’ll let hir come up for air again, and I do, eventually. I pull away and when ze gasps for air, I touch the nipple of my right breast against hir lips. Ze’s not interested in breathing anymore, just in swallowing my nipple. I put my palms over hir unbound chest and dig my nails in. Ze flinches as much as the butt plug will allow, but doesn’t lose focus on giving me pleasure. If ze were not blindfolded ze could see my look of building enjoyment.

  “Can you feel me dripping on you?” I ask.

  Ze nods hir head vigorously, shaking my breasts.

  “I want you to keep doing that while I fuck your cock,” I say.

  Ze nods again.

  “Oh,” I say, “and I want you to feel good down there too, so I’ll just get something from my bag.”

  My nipple pops from hir mouth with a wet sound as I dismount the boy. The nipple clamps are easy to find and I bring them back to the table. I loosen the harness buckles just enough to slip my hand in and attach one clip to each of hir labia.

  “Oh, fuck!” ze cries out.

  “I know it’s hard to take,” I whisper, “but I want it to be hard and I want you to take it.”

  “Okay,” ze whimpers. “Thank you.”

  The boy trembles as I climb onto the table and kneel above hir. I’m eager for this, but I tease myself slowly over the head of hir cock. The pressure is light enough that I’m sure ze can feel only the anticipation of the clamps pressing harder into hir tender bits. When my cunt is halfway over hir cock, ze whimpers in earnest.

  “Feel it, don’t you?” I ask.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” ze moans.

  “Do you like it?” I ask.

  “Yes,” ze says, “so much.”

  When I force my weight onto hir, ze screams out.

  “Still like it?” I ask, rocking my hips back and forth like I am riding out a slow canter.

  It’s harder for hir to speak but ze eventually murmurs, “Yes.”

  I take advantage of hir open mouth and slip one of my nipples in. Ze suckles with a singular intent, focusing hir body’s awareness to hir mouth and away from hir sore genitals. The strategy isn’t completely successful, which turns me on as I like the submissives I fuck to hurt, especially boys who beg for it by rocking their bodies up. If the butt plug weren’t holding the boy down, ze’d probably be lifting me into the air and damaging hir flesh with hir desperate pumping. I do enjoy taking care of boys; naughty girls too, though I have a habit of slicing off their pigtails.

  The boy circles my nipple with hir tongue and I lean my weight onto my right hand so I can reach for my clit with my left. I flick the tip of it, feeling the blood fill me and make me hard. I’m as hard as this boy’s dick straining up against the leather of the harness. I push a finger into myself feeling it slide along the cyber-skin veins of the boy’s cock. I pull out to rub my clit again. The boy is moaning and trembling but I’m focused on getting off. Ze comes and I clench my thighs together forcing my clit to stick out farther. I let my fingers make wider circles around my clit as my thighs tighten up. The boy sobs as I push myself down and come hard.

  “Oh, fuck,” ze says, releasing my nipple from hir mouth. “Oh, fuck.”

  Grinning, I quietly exhale. When I finish coming I reach under the harness and remove the nipple clamps from the boy’s labia. Ze yelps and almost clears the third ball of the butt plug.

  “Steady boy,” I tell hir as I lift myself off of hir cock. My wetness slides onto hir stomach and ze, realizing how equally turned on I’ve been, smiles from the corner of hir mouth.

  “Thank you,” ze says in a tone that makes it unclear what ze’s thanking me for.

  “Watch yourself,” I say, laughing. “You’re not too old to spank.” Before ze can smirk I finish the sentence, “With one of the spiked paddles I keep down here.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” ze says, shy again.

  I take the harness off of the boy and examine hir. Ze’s ejaculated all over hirself and hir labia show small purple bruises where the clamps were. I turn the table crank and the butt plug begins to emerge from hir ass. Ze moans. They always put up more of a fuss when it comes out then when it goes in, I remark to myself. When ze clears the final ball, hir ass winks shut. If I hadn’t been the one putting the plug in hir I never would have guessed ze’d been fucked there. Rose must stick her clit in hir ass as often as she sticks it in hir mouth. I’ll ask her about that later. Right now I have a boy to tend to. I undo the restraints.

  “When you think you can walk,” I tell hir, “I’ll lead you to the elevator. There’s only a cold water shower down here and you’ve been too good for that.” I lead the boy naked into the elevator. Ze leans against me, nuzzling hir shoulder into my neck as we make the ascent.

  When we step out of the elevator I can see it’s night. Rose has let herself in and is sitting on the love seat drinking a cup of tea.

  “I’m glad you ran late,” she says in her sultry voice.

  God that woman is sexy. How people mistook her for a man, I’ll never comprehend.

  “How was Mitchell?” Rose asks.

  “Ze’s having a bath, not a shower,” I reply, “if that gives you a clue.”

  “I’d hoped so,” Rose says smiling. “I actually took the liberty of drawing
hir one a few minutes ago. It should still be warm.”

  “I wonder where your boy gets hir cockiness from?” I tease. “Want to wash hir up yourself?” Rose nods.

  “Hey, baby,” she says, lifting up hir blindfold.

  “Hello,” the boy replies, looking like ze’s just been born.

  Rose takes Mitchell by the hand and leads hir to the bathroom. She’s familiar enough with my house to know where the soap and washrags are, so I settle into her seat. I sip from her cup and wait for them to return.

  FROM FUCKTOY TO FOOTSTOOL

  Zev

  You had me on my belly, knees bent, feet in the air, ankles trussed to my left wrist. This was uncommon—you know I hate being tied up.

  “You’re my good boy,” you said. “My favorite fucktoy,” you told me, as you reached for the rope. “And I’m taking your legs away tonight.”

  You draped the rough twine around my legs and pulled tight, making me wince from the burn. All the BDSM safety manuals say to use polyester rope, or well-seasoned hemp, but an idea had struck you as we were heading back to our hotel room after a long day of work—you reading from your book and teaching a workshop on how to talk about and around our bodies and genders, and me holding your Blackberry and name cards and trying to be useful. And now that you were finally done, you’d be darned if you needed anything more than what the big 7-Eleven around the corner could provide to unleash your evil twisted imagination upon my body.

  I looked up at you and, hungry for your touch, I squirmed and wrapped my still-free right arm around your comfortingly bigger-than-me frame, snuggling closer.

  “I love you, Daddy,” I said, softly.

  “Aw, shucks,” you said, just a trace of meanness on the edges of your rich, warm voice. You reached over for a pair of your old boxers from the laundry pile and held the waistband open.

  “Wriggle your head into these,” you ordered. “For once, I’m not interested in your mouth tonight.”

  I hoped you knew how grateful I felt that you were using your underwear for this purpose and not mine. When we are apart for long periods of time, you leave me a T-shirt soaked in your sweat, and your heady scent becomes my drug: poppers and Rescue Remedy all in one. Happily, I sniffed my way into the stripy cotton, using my free hand to settle the waistband neatly against my throat, making sure there were no wrinkles in the fabric resting against my face. You laughed at my fastidiousness.

  “My little faggot,” you said, fondly, walking around me, patting my flanks in that way you have, not quite a caress and not quite a blow, just hard enough to make me nervous.

  Now I couldn’t see what you were doing. Cocking my head like an attentive pup, I tried to listen for your movements, but you grabbed me by the throat and slipped something around my neck. I drew fast, deep breaths, and you jerked my head higher, forcing me to arch my back, tightening something sharp and clamplike onto my nipples, making me gasp even harder.

  “You won’t need your tits for this,” you said, and you did the same with the lower half of my body, telling me you were putting my hungry little boycock away, but not before giving it a couple of hard smacks, which made me whimper and squirm. Much as I mourn my lack of testicles and a bigger cock for you to torture, you seem to have no trouble inflicting pain on what I’ve got.

  My thoughts were interrupted, as something smooth slid against my only free limb. You cursed as you struggled to get the glove on my right hand.

  “Should have done this before the first knot was tied,” you mutter. “Oh, well. This is all you are tonight, boyo,” you said, smoothing the nitrile over my wrist. “Your hand and your devotion. That’s all you’ve got to make your Daddy feel good tonight.”

  I choked as you yanked me into place by the noose around my neck. As it tightened, I felt something cold and unyielding against my skin, probably a buckle. It must have been your belt wrapped tightly around my throat, cutting brutally into my flesh. Or maybe it was mine—you loved to subject me to that indignity. I’d have marks the next day, and I wondered what the BDSM safety manuals would say about that, too.

  “Get to work, good boy,” you said, and squeezed something cold into my right hand.

  Lubricant! For the last few years, I’d fantasized silently about playing a role in your orgasm. I knew I was pleasing to you, and not just because I’d gone back to school, gotten a real job and learned how to deal with my family of origin. You fucked me as often as you could, what with the miles separating us, but your body had long been kept away from me, you preferring to slam me up against a wall and explore my holes roughly with your hand. I couldn’t complain, of course, but I was hungry for your skin, a desire I kept firmly under wraps, except for occasionally asking you if we could please snuggle without any pesky clothes getting in the way of your warmth and your scent.

  In other circumstances, I would have gone “squee!,” bounced on the bed, and looked up at you with big puppy-dog eyes, saying, “Really, Daddy?”

  Perhaps this was why you’d placed me in such a state, helpless, tits and cock in pain. Perhaps it wasn’t your dreamy-eyed boy you wanted tonight. You wanted your fucktoy and his conveniently shaped hand, short fingers and wide palm.

  I couldn’t so much as inch myself closer, but you helped me with that, looping my leash against your wrist, forcefully bringing me closer. Using the reference point of my head against your thigh, my hand went to work.

  I couldn’t see your face, but you were kind enough to send certain signals my way, your groans coinciding with a tightening noose around my neck. I abandoned all thoughts of rubbing my fuzzy head all over your crotch, marking myself with your sweat and precome. The more difficult it became for me to breathe, the more frantically I sought your pleasure and not mine, hoping that your favor would grant me mercy.

  “That’s right, boy,” you growled. “Give up your air for me, make your Daddy feel good.”

  I angled upward, slamming into the space that engulfed me, and I kept going until panic set in. I flailed about, urgently needing to breathe, barely noticing the fresh wave of pain when my struggling dislodged the clamps from my tits. You just laughed at me and my attempts at protest confined to the movement of one hand, which you must have found pleasing because you let out a long, low note of satisfaction, and mercifully adjusted your grip on my leash, loosening the noose a bit.

  I redoubled my efforts, putting my heart into every stroke, living for those happy noises you were making up above me. My sore tits and tortured cock forgotten, I was my hand, all of my strength, spirit, love and devotion surrounded by your warmth and your scent, each spasm of yours, each clench a reminder that you were wrapped around me, protecting me even as I served you.

  “Ohhh, your Daddy’s going to come, boyo,” you said, and though I’d been silent to this point, muffled as I was by your underwear, I begged you to please come; please, Daddy; please, Sir; pleasepleaseplease, oh, please, Daddy, please. I was desperate for your pleasure, and you kindly obliged, unleashing a roar, seizing my wrist in your thick paw, first holding me still and then letting me out when you were done.

  I nuzzled my head against your thigh through your boxers, soaked from your sweat and mine. You laughed indulgently and dehooded me.

  I slumped against your leg, too fucked out to even hump you. My tits had come unclamped, but my cock was still imprisoned. I winced as I shifted my weight, but you just laughed merrily and ruffled my hair, reaching for your computer to check your email as you shifted me into place with your feet, resting your legs on my bound body as you turned me effortlessly from fucktoy to footstool.

  “My good boy,” you said, as you ran your toes through my hair.

  SELF-REFLECTION

  Tobi Hill-Meyer

  The resemblance is uncanny. At first I don’t notice anything because her short blonde hair standing in spikes is so different from my own dark curls working their way to my hips. Yet something about the way she holds herself draws me in. She clearly doesn’t mind standing out in the crow
d. She’s wearing baggy pants with a tight-fitting tank top and a leather jacket with the word DYKE embroidered on the back. In this moderately conservative town, her outfit clearly screams “Fuck you!” at the straight world. At the same time it enticingly coos “Fuck me!” to the queer world.

  I stop and can’t help but stare as everyone else walks by. As she gets closer, I begin to notice little things. Her face is fairly distinct from mine, but there are definite similarities. Then when I catch her eye she flashes a particular smile at me: a crooked half smile that I’ve never seen on anyone but me before.

  “That looks like my smile,” I say with a touch of amazement in my voice.

  “It is your smile,” she replies.

  I stare at her dumbfounded for a moment, not sure what she means by that. Then the other pieces begin to fall together: The same arc of her eyebrows. The same look she’s giving me right now. The same skin tone. The same double-Venus symbol tattoo just below the left side of her collarbone. The same smart-ass tone of voice she’s using with me. She is even wearing a handmade TRANS PRIDE button I designed.

  “You’re me,” I say, “Aren’t you?” She sits down on a bench next to me and takes her jacket off. I notice the embroidery again. It’s a technique I’ve been learning, but it’s far tighter and more orderly than my skill can produce. I look at her eyes and see small laugh lines beginning to develop. “…But older.”

  “You’re a smart study, I never doubted that,” she says, smiling.

  “Does that mean you’re from the future? How does that work? Can you tell me about what happens? Why are you here?”

  She laughs for a moment. It’s odd to hear my own laugh. It sounds different when it isn’t coming from my own head. “I’m not really supposed to tell you those kinds of things. I’m not really sure how it all works myself.” She leans over and in a hushed tone says, “But you might want to transfer your inheritance money out of the stock market before the end of 2007.”