by Alison Tyler
I put my hand over his to still his movement.
“Yes?” I ask. I want this, but I want to make sure he does too.
He nods, his eyes wide, a tiny smile at one side of his mouth.
“Good,” I say. “Kneel on the bed.”
“Yes,” he says. He doesn’t call me anything when we’re fucking. Not Ma’am or Mistress or any other pet name. And when we’re not fucking, I’m just Sarah. I’m the girl he loves, the girl he can bitch for not taking out the trash, the girl he holds when real life gets to be too much and I can’t take it anymore. But here, in moments like this, he’s all mine. And he’ll do anything I say.
This is one of the parts I like best, the part where I really get to take over. I lean forward and stroke him. One hand on his cock, the other on one of his asscheeks. He moans, delightfully, little spots of color appearing across both of his other cheeks. I lick my lips, wetting them, and I can almost see his mind working. A kiss? A blow job? The not knowing makes him harder, his cock nudging against my palm, and that makes me wetter, the insides of me starting to turn warm and liquid.
His perfect ass doesn’t get any more beautiful than when he’s like this, and I run my palms over his muscles. A soft finger between his cheeks makes him groan softly and hang his head. I lube my fingers and the length of my cock, doing it loudly so he can hear the sounds of the lube over skin and silicone.
I give the lube a second to warm up and then I circle his asshole with my fingers, a gentle caress that sends shudders all the way up his body. His breath blows out through his teeth. At the sound of his exhale, I slide one finger into him. The way he opens and closes around me, the pucker and relax, is so beautiful it almost makes me come. I keep my focus, barely, arching my finger to fit the curve of him, finger-fucking him so slowly it’s torture to keep the pace. He groans with every push, moving back into me harder each time, letting me know he’s ready for more. I enter him with two fingers and then with three. He starts rocking against my fingers, pushing back hard and moaning my name.
At that, I slide my fingers from him. A soft cry of despair comes from him, and I have to smile a little. I love seeing him like this, full of need. Or more accurately, full of a need that I know I can fulfill.
“Oh my love,” I say to him. “I’m going to fuck you so well you’ll beg me for it again and again.”
His only response is a broken groan. I rub the glistening head of the toy against his puckered hole. He whimpers a little and pushes back against the head. I enter him, just the very tip, watching him breathe, watching his body tighten and then loosen as he begins to let go. Then I stand still, letting him set the pace, watching his beautiful ass as it slides down over my cock. I’m so wet I’m afraid the dildo will fall out of the harness, but it stays secure, tight against my body.
“Ah fuck, Sarah, ah fuck,” Joseph groans as he settles his ass fully over my cock.
“Yes,” I say. “Fuck is just what I intend to do.”
I put one hand on the curve of his ass and the other on his cock. He’s gone a little soft, all of his body’s attention concentrating on his ass, but I can tell my touch feels good because he shudders softly. Stroking his cock in a slow movement, I match that movement with my body, beginning an equally slow pump of my hips. He’s so very fuckable like this, so very takeable, that I have to remind myself: slow, slow, slow.
But it’s not long before he’s speeding up the pace, grunting with each backward shove. I match his movements, jolts of pleasure riding up through me each time the cock’s base pressures against my clit.
“More?” I ask.
“More,” he says. “Oh god, yes, moremoremore.” It’s nonsense, the things coming from his mouth, but I know exactly how he feels. I don’t have words and I don’t have noises. I just have this pitch of pleasure, this vowelled breath that means something beyond language.
His cock is hardening again in my hand, a heavy pulsing beautiful thing that I can’t let go of, even as I’m fucking him, watching myself enter and leave him, watching his muscles tighten and release with every moan of pleasure.
“Oh fuckfuckfuck,” he saying, his teeth gritting so hard the words come out mashed and ground into nothings.
My orgasm is flitting around my clit, zapping little warnings of pleasure at me, and I try to hold it off, to keep focused on Joseph long enough for him to come. He’s so close. His cock is pumping into my fist. His whole body is pushing back with each stroke, riding me as hard and deep as he can.
When he comes, it’s with a shuddered cry of my name, his orgasm forcing his back into a tight arch, shoving so hard against my clit I see splinters of light. I come right after him, an orgasm brought on by the vision of watching myself fucking him until he comes, as much as by my own body’s pleasure. It’s light-headed heat and the scent of our mingled sex and a pleasure that seems to slip directly from him into me. That moment when there are no words. Breath and fuck and my heart a hundred times too fast.
After a moment, I slide from him slowly and drop on the bed next to him. Joseph gives a shy laugh of pleasure and rolls on his side to face me. We’re both breathing hard, wearing huge grins. I love this feeling, as giddy as he is, both of our cocks glistening and spent.
“Good?” I ask. There’s a lot more I want to say, but I haven’t caught my breath yet, and all I really want to do is lie here next to him, feeling his heart beat under my palm.
“Mmm…god, so good.” He touches me face, draws his fingers along my jaw. “You?”
I nod, grinning even harder.
“What?” he asks.
My face won’t stop grinning stupidly, even when I try to pull my lips into something serious. “Your ass…” I say it kind of like it’s a question.
“What about it?” he says.
“It’s mine,” I say.
“Yes it is,” he says.
I lean in and kiss him, stupid happy, still all headrushy, my clit still banging out its pleasure song beneath the leather harness. I may not keep falling in love with Joseph because of his ass, but it certainly doesn’t hurt.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CROSSING YOUR T’S —
CROSS-DRESSING
Through tattered clothes small vices do appear. Robes and furred gowns hide all.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
I’ll admit that my first taste of the sexiness of a man in lingerie was Tim Curry in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Those mascara-drenched eyes still strike a tuning fork inside of me. I’ve played with cross-dressing in several of my books (in Tiffany Twisted, the hero spends nearly the entire book trapped in a woman’s body, experiencing all the pleasures of being female for the first time). I’ve also plunged my boys into panties in a whole array of short stories, and I’ve returned the favor for my girls.
Cross-dressing can be as simple as wearing an article of clothing that is alien to you. For a man? A pair of the silkiest panties. Marco—my character in “Whose Panties?”—luxuriates in the way it feels to try on something that doesn’t generally suit him:
I watched as he ran his fingertips along one of the stockings. His legs looked good, sexy. His body was very pale against the black silk. I took a step toward him, thinking that I wanted to take the place of his hands; I wanted to run my fingertips along his legs.
“There’s something erotic…” he started to say, looking at his reflection in the mirrored panels around my fireplace, “something so sexy about lingerie.”
I got up my nerve to walk all the way to his side, and once there I settled myself next to him on the couch. His cock was positively protruding against the silk panties, and I could see the full outline of it pressing to be free. I reached out and stroked him lightly through the silky material, and he leaned back against the couch and sighed.
I’ve flipped the switch and dressed my girls as males, as well, like in “Sailor Boy”:
I had purchased a vintage sailor suit at a secondhand store. It was white with a black anchor on the sleeve and a musk
y, male smell to the fabric, even though I’d had it dry-cleaned. I hung the outfit on the back of the door while I attached the molded cock-shaped dildo to the harness, then slid the straps on and buckled the leather belt around my waist. The cock was as true-to-life as they come, as close to my actual skin color as possible, and ribbed with realistic veins. In length and girth it matched Alex’s almost exactly, which was what I’d wanted. My desire was for him to experience what I get to feel every night.
But cross-dressing can also be a way to slide into a role. Not only to slip into someone else’s knickers, but to be someone else. In my short story “Like a Girl,” Ivy attempts to really be a boy for her lover:
“You’re going to come for me, boy?” Logan murmured, crooning to me, but teasing somehow. Taunting me for dressing like this in the first place. He’d told me to buy an outfit for Cal. He hadn’t told me to dress up myself.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then come.”
My knees would have buckled if Logan hadn’t used one hand to pin my shoulder against the wall, holding me in place easily as the shudders worked through me. The orgasm was almost frighteningly intense. Embarrassingly so, as I was being watched fiercely by the two men in my life. And then it was over, and Logan let me go, and I hiked up my jeans and sank down to the floor, letting the wall support me now.
“You even come like a girl,” Logan said, as he poured himself a fresh drink.
In K. Lynn’s “Undercover,” the pleasure of panties is fully discovered:
“I’ve been waiting all day to do this,” David said, looking at his boyfriend laid out on the bed. Keith was still fully clothed, waiting for David to undress him. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you wearing them.”
“Yeah?” Keith asked, his voice low and smooth. “Did it make you hard?”
“Couldn’t you tell?” David asked, crawling up the mattress until he was poised over Keith’s thighs. He straddled them, then sat up so that his hands could be free to work. “Every time you passed by me at the office, I was imagining what was underneath. Let’s see if I guessed the color right.”
David unbuttoned Keith’s pants, taking care as he unzipped them to reveal the silky pink material beneath. Keith’s dick was hard in the panties he wore, bulging out against the material as if he was going to break free any moment. David couldn’t suppress the hot want that ran through him at the sight.
“So fucking beautiful like this,” he said, leaning down to place a kiss against Keith’s silk-covered dick. Keith rose up the contact, letting out a shuddering breath. “Love it, love you.”
“They’ve been driving me crazy all day, too,” Keith said, grunting as David mouthed his erection through the panties. “Rubbing against me, cradling me. Thought I was going to come in my pants like some teenager.”
“But you didn’t,” David said. “And now I get to see you fall apart under me. Best present ever.”
Kat Watson writes in her story “Deborah”:
I’d done as instructed—I was waxed completely bare, my legs and underarms were shaved.
Once I’d powdered the latex, I slipped the short dress over my head and prayed. To whom, I wasn’t sure; I just needed someone to get me through this. Someone to help me find my strength to finally go through with what I’d fantasized about for years. Decades.
The snapping sound of the rubber contrasted with the smooth feel of it against my skin, and I sighed with mounting pleasure. The way it felt, the way it smelled, everything about it sang to me. The same way he sang to me.
When I was certain I’d tucked enough and at just the right angle, nothing tentatively falling out of the snug rubber briefs I had on, I put on the heels, grateful he’d chosen a modest height. I was unfamiliar with walking in them, and pushing six-foot-three anyway. No way he’d want me to tower over him.
“Are you ready to be shown off, Deborah?”
Hearing my name—my for-the-night name—from him sent tingles up my spine and made my dick snap further to attention.
“Yes, Sir.”
Giselle Renarde understands how sexy cross-dressing can be, even solo, as she shows in this story called “Max Alone in See-Through Panties”:
Not all Max’s panties were pink, but most were. Various shades—hot pink, baby pink, some rosy, almost red. These ones were blush, like wine. They were mesh, a fine almost glossy fabric, and sheer enough that if you caught them at the right angle you could see straight through.
Max didn’t always spend this much time staring in the mirror. He wore women’s panties every day now. His little treat. He deserved to feel good, so why not? It was rare that he used the urinal at work—he’d never been a fan. He preferred to pee in private.
Besides, he didn’t need everyone getting in his business. Secrets were secret for a reason. It’s not that he felt ashamed. Well, okay, maybe he felt a little ashamed, but not as much as he used to. Panties were part of life now. Sure they were his favorite part of any outfit, but they were still just clothing. It’s not like they were sex.
Which is not to say that panties didn’t make him think about sex. Every time he slipped into a fresh pair and felt that sheer lightweight fabric against the sensitive flesh of his balls, a hot shudder ran through him. When he pulled on a pair of panties and the elastic material snapped against his dick, it always hardened just a bit. And sometimes more than a bit.
And sometimes a lot more.
“Packing Heat,” by K. Lynn, shows that it doesn’t take much effort to make a change that will transform your sex life:
After five years together, Sandy didn’t think there was anything her girlfriend could do that would surprise her, but she should learn to stop making assumptions.
“Having fun?” Rebecca asked as she walked up. She didn’t try to change her voice, or appear to be trying to pass completely. Here she stood in a white men’s dress shirt and black pants, her short hair slicked back like one of those 1930s movie gangsters they were so fond of watching.
“What’s all this?”
“Costume party, right? Figured I’d try out the other side for a night.”
“As long as you’re not trying it out with anyone but me,” Sandy said, closing the distance between them. She ran her hands along her girlfriend’s chest, feeling the binding underneath the shirt. “Damn, how much wrapping did you have to do to get those things to stay down?”
“Lots. Can’t hardly breathe,” Rebecca said, placing her hands on each side of Sandy’s cheeks and diving in for a kiss. “But you look nice in your fairy costume.”
“Grant you a wish?”
“Actually, I was thinking I might provide that,” Rebecca said, pushing her crotch against Sandy’s.
When she did, Sandy felt a bulge that definitely did not belong. Her eyes widened at the contact, her body pressing against the hardness. “You’re packing?”
“Figured we might have a little fun later,” Rebecca said, kissing her girlfriend again.
“Or now,” Sandy said, arching up into her. “I vote now.”
I vote now, too. Because whether you’re a boy dressing as a girl, a girl as a boy—or something in between—playing with a brand-new-to-you wardrobe can be an enlightening, exotic experience.
TANTALIZING TIPS
•Haunt thrift stores for starters. A complete transformation doesn’t have to empty your wallet. Plus, you might get ideas from perusing racks of vintage clothing.
•Plan an evening in which you and your partner dress head-to-toe as the opposite sex. No peeking until the big reveal. See where this saucy scenario leads.
•Venture out in public while dressed in drag. Halloween is often a safe way to try this for the first time. But you don’t have to save the fun for once a year. Host a costume party if you don’t want to take the show on the road.
FICTION: CROSS-DRESSING
TANGLED UP IN BLUE
SOPHIA VALENTI
When I found the panties, I’ll admit that I immediately thought the worst. I ha
d been putting away the laundry when I noticed the neatly folded satin nestled between Chad’s no-nonsense cotton briefs. I knew right away they weren’t mine; blue was never my color.
My heart fell as I picked up the panties, already trying to imagine the woman to whom they belonged. But I was also confused. Chad and I worked from home and were practically inseparable. Never mind motive or desire—when could he possibly find the time to cheat?
I held the lace-trimmed garment by the waistband, with a million thoughts running through my mind. One of which was: That’s why he always insists on putting away his own clothes! I wondered what other drawers he had in his drawer.
My dismay was just about to take a sharp turn toward anger, when Chad interrupted my reverie. “They’re mine,” he said, his voice quavering.
“What do you mean?” I spun around to face him, not knowing what the hell he was talking about. He was looking sheepish, and he was blushing to the roots of his dark blond hair.
“The panties. They’re mine,” he stammered. “I-I like to wear them sometimes.”
The embarrassment on his face was undeniable, and I knew right away that he was telling me the truth. At first I was so relieved he wasn’t sleeping with another woman that the full effect of his words didn’t register. But a heartbeat later, when the silence between us seemed charged with increasing tension, I realized he needed a response from me other than a wide-eyed stare.
“You like to wear panties.” I repeated the words, buying myself a little more time. But as I spoke, I could already picture him in my head: tall and muscular, satin and lace—an intriguing combination. And the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to see him draped in that beautiful blue satin.
Chad nodded, his tongue darting out to lick his lips nervously. I could see the worry clouding his blue-green eyes—eyes that nearly matched his knickers. I knew that sharing this secret was huge. It was bigger than us moving in together, and even bigger than getting married. It was easy for him to say he loved me. It was far more difficult to admit that he loved panties.