Come Sunday afternoon, I'm desperate.
Thirty-six hours ago we talked about a potential scene. Hemming and hawing over the words, as I always do, I stuttered as I tried to say just what I wanted. You listened eagerly, worked with me on the details, and by the end of the conversation neither of us could wait.
It's been thirty-six hours of teasing, and foreplay, and getting worked up with nothing on my clit, or in my cunt. The perfect foundation.
I'm sitting on the sofa reading, wrapped in a blanket, as you finish up some coursework. I can feel my clit, have been feeling it constantly for the past day, swollen and sensitive and gently pulsing on the edge of my awareness, reminding me of its presence. Wouldn't it feel so nice to reach down and just start stroking ...
"Hey," your stern voice cuts through my reverie, and I look over at you with a start, "hands where I can see them." With a grin I wiggle my fingers overtop of the blanket. I'm invested. I'm not going to spoil our fun.
"You can touch your nipples if you want," you offer, before turning back to the computer.
I sigh, but now that you mention it, why not? I open the bathrobe I've been wearing all day and slide my hands over my chest, tracing the lines of my top surgery scars and biting my lip. They're still so sensitive, years after they've fully healed. Lightly, with the tip of my right index finger, I stroke circles around my left nipple. The sensation immediately closes my eyes and pushes my head back til it's resting on the top of the couch cushions, like I've reverted to primordial goo. I'm full of pleasure, already open and relaxed, and just a few light touches are enough to set my whole self in motion. Within minutes I'm lost in it.,I pull my other hand out of my mouth, slick and read for my other nipple. My hands, crossed over my chest like someone gently laid to rest, pluck and stroke at my tender buds, adding more and more fuel to the fire steadily burning between my legs.
Time passes, I'm not sure how much. I open my eyes to see you closing the browser and rising from your chair. You walk the few steps to where I rest, chest bare, nipples hard. You reach down gently, grab my short hair in your right hand, and pull me up. Fuck. Your hand in my hair, fingers gently scratching my scalp under the short buzz on the sides and back of my head, always goes straight to my cunt.
"Come on" you say, and I practically skip after you to your bedroom.
We have a decent collection of femme clothing from our respective pasts. You went through your femme phase right after coming out, in the couple of years before you met a butch trans girl and realized that that was an option. You haven't worn a bra in years, and wear combat boots and beanies more days than not, but your old chunky heels and bodycon dresses are still in the back of the closet. As for me, college was my high femme chapter. The dregs of a makeup collection still clutter our bathroom counter, and more than a few pairs of lacey underwear are still part of my rotation, albeit on laundry days when all my boxer briefs are dirty.
When you lead me to the bedroom and pull back the comforter on the bed, it looks like you've gathered every piece of lace you can find in the house. I scan over the collection. It's arrayed like a doll's dress-up set, fresh out of the box, a line of lacey bras on the left, then panties, a bodysuit, everything in neat rows. You're almost never this organized.
You've moved behind me as I stand gaping at the aesthetic array. I come down to earth to the feel of your hands squeezing my chest. "Time to get my secret femme boytoy dressed up" you whisper. God. My cunt fucking melts.
Can I explain the complex sociopolitics of aesthetics, gender, and desire that make it super fucking hot that I, a lazy-masculine person, am about to be dressed up like a high femme at a sex party? No. Of course not. My brain cells are rapidly deserting their posts and all the higher order thoughts are being replaced by raw fucking need.
I whimper as you approach the bed and grab a tiny red thong. You hold it out to me, motion, and I grab it and slide it over my thighs. I'm positive there's a wet spot on it the moment it hits my cunt.
You let me choose from between three lacey bras; the red one wins. What can I say? I appreciate a good monochrome palette. You caress my nipples as you slide the lace over my flat chest, sending fresh jolts of energy across my body. You're just a few inches taller than me. Enough that if I'm wearing heels and you're not, I see the top of your head. I lean my head back against your neck, and you reward me by gripping my hair again, firm, and rolling my head around. I sigh as a fresh wave of heat hits me. This is exactly what I want.
A pair of black tights goes on next - I'm actually shocked that we still own tights - then a dark blue bodycon dress. With those on I look almost demure, reserved, more like Twiggy than a burlesque dancer. The tight fabric cradles my wide hips, draws attention to my pear-shaped figure in a way I don't usually go in for anymore. I'm aware of my own curves, of their beauty, for the first time in ages.
"One more thing," you say thoughtfully. You look engrossed in the scene, chewing your lip, musing over my getup like it's a painting you're creating on my body. You reach around the side of the bed, into a shadowed corner I hadn't noticed before, and pull out a pair of blood-red platform boots.
I can't explain why, but the boots make it real. As I slip them on and tie the laces I think one thought, loud and alone, "you're dressing me up. I'm dressing up for you. I'm femme again."
When I rise, you meet my eyes and twirl a finger. I spin in place, hands slightly away from my body, wrists cocked coquettishly, twirling my neck around fluidly as I finish the spin with a dancer's balance. You grin, and close the distance between us so fast I feel like I haven't stopped spinning. In a moment your hand is on my back, the other on the back of my neck pulling my mouth to yours. I eagerly open, savor the taste of your soft, full lips, sucking your tongue gently past my teeth. I'm excited, excited for your kiss, for the fuzzy feeling in my belly and thighs, for the angle of my ankles in the heeled boots, and most of all for the process of a story we wrote becoming real.
Without warning, you push me onto the bed. I land hard. Not painfully, but forcefully enough to focus my attention on where you stand, tall at the foot of the bed. You raise an eyebrow at me and I freeze. Something's changed in your gaze. Slowly, you peel the shirt off your chest, over the tiny breasts you grew when you were on E. Slowly, you pull off your joggers and briefs, and your semi-hard cock bounces into the freedom of the air. I stare at it, then up into your eyes. Then, slowly, I open my legs. It's a far more brazen motion than I ever plan to perform. I didn't think about doing it, and I can't believe I have, but there I am, tights-covered legs spread towards you, high heels resting on either edge of the mattress.
