by Zoe X Rider
Kind of I didn’t want to. I mean, it’s not like he’d leave. I’d go inside, he’d go inside, I’d go to my room and struggle out of these clothes, pull on some chill pants, scrub my face. He’d get out of his monkey suit. Maybe we’d be tired and go to bed. Maybe we’d stay up watching shitty horror movies on Netflix.
He smiled and looked away, out over the railing, his hands pushed in his pockets. “Well,” he said. “I should….” He gestured toward the street.
I dragged my lip under my teeth.
He said, “So….”
“So,” I said, smiling a little.
Hey, it was the goodnight moment. I deserved at least a peck on the cheek.
I thought he was going to chicken out, just squeeze my shoulder and say “I’ll call ya,” or give me a hug with a pat on my back, but he cupped the back of my neck, trapping my curly, itchy hair against my nape, and he leaned forward. And kissed me on the mouth.
A tingle spilled through my scalp.
This guy, kissing me on the mouth.
Kissing Charli on the mouth, and Charli smiled and kissed back, her fingernails poised against the front of his shirt, her weight leaned on her toes.
His hand moved to my jaw, cupping my face, and he kissed me again, like he meant it this time, soft and slow. It made my stomach flip, like when you crest a hill too fast in car, or shoot down the tracks in a roller coaster.
I clutched his shirt, expecting him to pull back, grinning bashfully, and say goodnight. Instead, there came the quick touch of his tongue, and another flip of my stomach.
Parting my lips, I pressed closer to him. The next brush of his tongue was against mine. A thrill shivered through the center of me.
Any moment, he was going to crack up laughing—or I was.
Except instead we were French kissing, his hand pressing the curve of my back, holding me against him. I pushed my arms over his shoulders, leaning on him, gripping my wrist behind his head, that stupid little purse clutched in the other hand.
His hip bumped me. I realized it was more than hip there and pressed closer.
His chin scraped mine, coarse against my Naired jaw.
The October air was cool, but his belly was warm and flat. I crushed myself against it and wondered if he could feel the unladylike bulge in my dress. It was trapped in the control top hose, pressed tight against me.
When we drew apart, he looked sheepish, wiping the corner of his mouth with two fingers.
I couldn’t tell if it was the kiss or the tightness of the bra that made it hard to catch my breath.
It was a date, I told myself. This was what you did on dates.
“So, would you like to come in?” I lifted my hand toward our door. I mean, he was coming in anyway. Why not go our separate ways after we crossed the threshold?
His eyebrows lifted. He looked toward the door. His hand was still at his mouth, his other hand back in his pocket.
“I don’t mean to be easy,” I said, “but dawn’s going to come, and I’m going to turn back into a pumpkin, so if you want your chance at it…it’s now or never.” I vibrated as I said it. I felt like I was standing a few feet away from myself, watching me say this. Watching the me that had shapely legs and bouncy hair and a clutch purse. My groin was awash in warmth. Like lying out in the sun, or sitting too long with the seat heaters turned on in my parents’ car.
I didn’t know what he was going to say. I knew if he declined, we’d laugh about it tomorrow. He’d ask me if I’d actually been serious, and I’d tell him he really missed out, even though I don’t know if I’m serious.
I think my nipples are hard under the silicone breast forms, which press me with each breath, damp with sweat.
I’d tell him I had to take care of my throbbing clit all by myself.
I’d tell him I used my finger, with its bright red fingernail, rubbing myself off until I came so hard I had to bite the pillow to keep from waking the neighbors. And he’d laugh.
I caught the front of his shirt, fingernails scratching fabric. I kissed him on the mouth, eyes closed, insteps aching to get out of these shoes, the rest of me aching to have his hands on me, sliding up my sides, down my flank, discovering my new body.
He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me against him. I explored his tongue with my own, discovering its texture, its taste. Drawing back an inch from his mouth, I said, “One, I had no idea you were such a good kisser. And two—” I nearly whispered this part, clutching his shirt in my fist. “—please come in.”
He nodded, just once, then kissed me, closed mouth, then breathed, “Okay.”
I fumbled through the little clutch for my keys. They nearly slipped through my fingers as I tried to get the right one pointed in the right direction. I aimed it at the keyhole while he held the storm door open.
A light touch traced the back of my arm. Sliding my eyes that way, I saw he was watching the path his finger was making, his eyes dark, unreadable in the dim porch light. The key scraped the lock, and I said, “Shit,” and tried again, finally fitting it in, finally getting it turned. Finally getting the door open. I went in first, Jeff following. I started to toss my keys and the clutch toward the table when he caught my waist. The keys hit the edge and clattered to the floor, and I turned with a clicking of heels.
He pulled me against him.
With his hand at my back, we kissed, him leaning against the kitchen door, denting the blinds on the window. Those blinds drew little lines of light across my arms, his hair, from the bare bulb outside the door. I pushed my fingers up the back of his head, leaning my body against his. He grasped me by the hips, holding me the way guys hold girls, his thumbs against my ribs, his fingers denting my bottom.
I pulled back, putting one red-lacquered fingernail against his lips. “Don’t get the wrong idea about what kind of girl I am.”
His palms were heat on my sides, burning through layers of silky cloth.
“What do you mean?”
“There are things I won’t do.”
“That’s fine. What do you want to do?” he asked.
I dragged my finger down his chin, his neck. I pressed it against his chest. “What do you want to do?”
“After that kiss, anything I get is icing on the cake.” He drew my hips toward his. I felt denim, a hard knee through the gossamer layer of hose on my own. His thigh slipped between mine, bunching my dress against his leg.
When we kissed again, I moved slowly against that thigh, holding onto his neck. Riding him, my hip nudging the hardness in his jeans. I didn’t know what we were going to do. I didn’t know what we could do. We were both guys. I mean, I knew what guys do together, but we were straight guys. Maybe dry humping was all that was in the cards.
He grabbed my ass and pulled me hard against him as he kissed me again.
Dry humping would be just fine.
“My bedroom’s down the hall,” I said against his mouth. He pushed my hair out of the way with his nose and kissed my neck.
“Okay,” he said, and his body was moving, turning me—lifting me off my feet, cradled in his arms. I clung to his neck, laughing. “Don’t you dare fucking drop me.”
He smiled. “I won’t.”
He had to turn to take me down the hallway, walking sideways. My knuckles bumped the wall. My shoulder eased the half-open door all the way open. The moonlight that spilled through my bedroom window gave him enough light to find the bed. He put a knee on it and lowered me onto it.
He kissed me like that, his arm still under my back. I tugged at his shirt, pulling him onto me. His weight settled on mine, our stomachs pressed together.
I scratched the back of his shirt with my fingernails as we kissed, pushed my fingers up into his hair. He broke away to tug at his tie, and since he was using his other hand to brace himself, I helped him undo it, laughing a breathy laugh at the feel of his hip on my leg.
With the tie undone, it just made sense to undo the top button on his shirt—otherwise he looked like a
nerd. And with the top button undone, the second was begging to be undone too. Then his mouth was on mine again, his tongue pushing in like it felt right at home there.
My bosom heaved between us. His finger teased the little sleeve of my dress off my shoulder, and he kissed me on my clavicle, his hair soft where it brushed my jaw. I turned my face toward my other shoulder, my other sleeve. His fingers curled in it, ready to take that one down too. My chest rose and fell faster. I was turned on—and panicked. What would happen when I was stripped down to flatness? When two translucent silicone blobs sat discarded on the floor? When I just looked like a guy with a dress rucked down to his waist?
His stubble prickled the hollow of my throat. As he opened his mouth, his warm lips, his wet tongue, they made the itch feel even better. I clung to his hip, bone hard, pushing a finger under his belt loop. I arched my neck so he could reach more of my throat, his mouth kissing and biting, his stubble digging hot prickles into it.
He pushed his hand underneath my back, his fingers tugging at my zipper. I levered my shoulders to curve up for him, giving him room to draw it down. Like he was opening me up. Then his other hand, still curled in the dress’s sleeve, drew it down the curve of my shoulder.
I felt weirdly sexy that way, the little sleeves pulled down my arms. The straps of the slip and bra still hugged my shoulders, but his fingers began to draw those off me as well.
His stomach lay against my crotch; when he breathed in, he pressed against me.
“Not the bra,” I whispered, curling my fingers around his.
“Why not?”
I lifted my elbow outward, the strap tugging at the side of my arm as I tried to ease it back up. He looked at my hand over his, then up to my eyes.
He smoothed my bangs to the side with the edge of his hand, saying, “Don’t worry about it. You’re fine.” He moved his fingers to my lips, my chin. “You’re more than fine, just the way you are.” Then he bent his head and kissed between my breasts, his chin nudging the bra. He brought his hand in, the touch of fingertips against skin, then the plastic clasp pressed against me. The bra loosened. He slipped one of the silicone pads out and dropped it on the bed, then the other, exposing my chest, sweat-slick from having the silicone against it all night. My chest was bare, framed by the dress and slip he’d pulled down. Softly he kissed my nipple, then the other, his hair tickling as he turned his face. He flattened his tongue and rubbed, then closed his teeth, catching me between them. My chest rose as I drew in a breath, as I pushed my shoulders against the bed, as I pushed my breast against his mouth. Without lifting his head, he eased the bra straps down my arms, until they caught up with the sleeves of the dress, and I was pulling my arms free of all of it.
I heard one of the breast pads drop to the floor. He kissed my nipple again, then shoved the other over the side too.
Using his hand to gather my flesh into a small breast, he sucked on my tit, just like I was a girl. And underneath all the fabric I was still wearing, I felt the same heat I imagined a girl would feel: soupy and melty and primitive.
When I looked down, I was undressed to the waist, and my chest was foreign. Not foreign the way it had been in the dress, all firm and pert, but it didn’t look like my chest. It shone smoothly in the moonlight. The absence of hair made it looked more rounded. My peaked nipples made it seem like I did have tiny breasts there, aching for his tongue, his lips, the scrape of his stubble as he turned his face to pay attention to the other breast. He rolled my nipple under his fingertips, making my hips stir. I watched the top of his head, the loose whorls in his hair, the ends of those curls soft and cool against my skin, like feathers. I pushed my fingers into them, scraping his scalp with my nails. I loved the fucking nails.
His shoulders were broad, lean, his fingers wide and flat. I watched them rise up my chest until I couldn’t see them anymore, lifting my chin, feeling them against my throat. My pulse beat under his fingertips.
He pushed himself down the bed, his chest dragging over groin, making all kinds of glitter and sparkles dance across the backs of my eyelids. The soft fabric of my slip and dress slid teasingly against the silky pantyhose. My body tensed; I remembered how ugly the hose were under the dress, with the dark control top and the seam running up the middle. His fingers eased under the folds of fabric. His fingertips caressed the stockings, his hand sliding down the outside of my thigh, clasping me lightly under my leg. His lips brushed over the thin, shimmery fabric.
He slipped his hands under the dress again. My stomach twitched under his knuckles as he curled his fingers into the waistband of the hose.
Digging the heels of my shoes into the bed, I lifted up, letting him expose me to the room’s air. As the pantyhose came down my thighs, I felt naked in a way I never had when a girl pulled my jeans off me.
When he got to my knees, I pushed the back of my head against the pillow and swallowed.
His fingers tugged at the delicate strap on one of my shoes. It loosened. He levered the shoe off my foot, freeing my cramped toes. I wiggled and stretched them while he unbuckled the other strap. The second shoe thumped to the floor. He caressed my ankles, slid his hands up my calves. Kissed me again through the sheer fabric before he slipped the hose the rest of the way off me.
I smoothed my skirt, making sure it still covered the important bits. The feel of the slip shifting lightly against the edge of my groin was like another sparkler going off in my head.
The bed creaked as he climbed back up it. He hung his head over my face, his eyes in shadows. I touched his cheek, then lifted my head and kissed him, sliding my hand down till I caught hold of his still-mostly-buttoned shirt, and I pulled the both of us back down, wanting his weight spread over my body again: hips, belly, chest, thighs, all touching.
As his tongue explored my mouth—slow and languid and careful—I wondered who was being weirder here: he was the one making out with a guy in a wig…but I was the one in a wig making out with a guy.
This was something I suspected neither of us was going to talk about again once the sun came up. Fuck it, though. We were here, and the moon was shining. It could keep a secret.
I tried to hold onto his shirt, but he dragged his body back down my front, his stomach rubbing over my groin. I arced my hips to press against him. My panties were moist. I ached for him.
He teased my skirt up my thighs with his thumbs. When he brushed his lips over the strained scarlet front of my panties, I melted inside. He pressed his tongue to the satin, flicking it like he was eating me out. My hips pushed up. My hand pushed down, inserting itself between his mouth and my panties.
Because I didn’t have a pussy in there.
“Let me see your dick,” I whispered, trying to cover for the fact that my voice was all male. “I don’t have one. I want to see what it looks like.”
“You don’t have one, huh?” he said.
“I just have a clit.” Then: “I’m kind of ashamed of it too.”
“What? Why?” His thumbs rubbed the silk of my panties.
“It’s bigger than other clits I’ve seen,” I said. “I get really embarrassed in the locker room. I change in the bathroom stall so the other girls don’t see. Let me see your dick.”
He pulled up on his knees, undoing his belt, the buckle jingling as he let it hang while he unfastened his trousers.
As he drew the zipper down, my gaze followed the whole way, then shot back up to watch what emerged. I’d never thought about his cock before, or anyone’s cock but my own. I’d pissed at the next urinal over from him, sure, but I don’t tend to play the how’s-it-compare-to-mine, just in case I wind up losing.
He drew it out for me, the moonlight illuminating its curves, leaving the rest in shadow.
“Can I touch it?”
“Sure.” He pointed it toward my stomach.
I brushed my hand across the head, so smooth, almost like silk. I took it between my fingers, rubbing my thumb against the underside. I pulled it downward so it would slide
against my panties. I flattened my hand across the top of it as it seesawed over my own excitement, its head bumping my abdomen. Cupping my fingers around its head, I let them experience the curve of it the next time it pushed forward.
My groin ached: the warm, gooey, good kind of ache.
He said, “Can I see your clit?”
I flicked my eyes up.
“I’ve always wanted a girl with a big clit. All the ones I’ve seen, they’re little nubs.” He held his thumb and finger up, nearly pinched together. “Sometimes you need a flashlight and a magnifying glass to even find them.”
“I have a mutant freak of a clit,” I said.
“I watch porn with big clits,” he said.
“Really?” This was me saying this now, not Charli-with-the-big-clit.
He laughed and said, “No. But I’d like to see your big clit anyway. I promise I won’t make fun of it.” He rubbed it through the panties, his hand so warm it was melting me.
He’d seen my chest. He’d seen my Adam’s Apple. He’d seen my thick wrists and large hands, one of which was wrapped around the head of his cock.
He nudged farther into my hand, and I nudged my hips into his.
“All right,” I said finally.
His cock drew out of my hand. He settled on the bed, between my legs, his fingers curling around the thin waistband, just as they’d done in the sleeves of my dress. My panties were soaked with my excitement. He brushed his lips over the damp spot, and his breath added heat to what already felt like it was about to combust.
Slowly he drew down the slip of satin, exposing first naked skin that used to be hidden behind pubic hair, then the side of my shaft. He stopped what he was doing to kiss it, lips to skin. I sighed and tilted my face upward, my fingers tenting against his forearms, like I was ready to push him away at any moment. I might have been. I wasn’t sure. The panties drew down a little more. His lips scorched my skin. His tongue found the rim just under my head, and my breath came out shaky. He tugged at the panties, and my cock started to straighten itself, hoisting like a mast. He kissed lower and lower, until he was at the base of my shaft, my panties gathered below it. Keeping his thumbs under the waistband, he spread his hands and reached around my thighs to pull the panties down my bottom. Tipping his head, he kissed my balls, then kept kissing: inner thigh, knee cap, shin, ankle, the bottom of my foot as he crouched on the floor at the end of the bed, the panties gone. I lay with just the dress and slip gathered around my waist, the moonlight falling across my thighs, my cock rising and falling with each breath I took. His hands were warm on my foot, clasping it, his forehead warm against the pads of my toes.
