fakeboy slut

Also I don’t think I’m ever getting top surgery cause I like my nipples played with way too much to chance losing any stim. Maybe one day I’ll feel confident enough to wear the sheer shirts I want to wear without getting top surgery? Unlikely but maybe in the right settings…hmm

All I want is for a woman to stare at my little titties through my sheer shirt and then pretend like she wasn’t. Want a woman to stare at my crotch and imagine riding my dick—or scissoring with me. Maybe she tries to focus on the more affirming fantasy but she wants my cunt so bad it always goes back to that.

Maybe one day we get together. Maybe she gets the courage to slip her fingers down my pants when we’re out somewhere semi-private. She’d slip them under my packer, ignoring that thing to get to what she really wants: my soft warm hole. Her just blatantly ignoring my dick—even my tdick—and feeling up inside of me. Her favorite place to be. Her finger-fucking me while we sit at the park or in the car, etc. Her watching my face go from embarrassed, to a little sad, to pleasured and lost in bliss. I’d turn my head toward her and beg her to touch my dick.

“You want me to tug your clit?”

Yeah, sure, whatever. It’s hot when she calls it that. But only when she does.

I hope she’d make me touch her first. I have to earn that kind of treatment. I have to worship her body. Then maybe she’ll “suck me off,” though for her, she likes licking my swollen clit and pushing her tongue through my folds. She always dips it into my pussy and sometimes I almost complain, but always it feels so good.

I want a woman who sees me as a woman, and it’s always a constant strain in our relationship. One that she always wins. I know who I am, but my voice doesn’t matter as much as her chance to fuck cute butch cunt. And it turns me on so much to know I’m letting her win. Not because I want to, but because I can’t fight it. Her claim over my body is so right and so complete. This pussy belongs to her. This dick belongs to her. My tits belong to her.

Rub my little clit, eat me out, finger my weeping hole, shove your cock into my pussy... do whatever it takes to make me feel the utter bliss of a female orgasm. How can I deny my true nature when I experience the ultimate womanly pleasure? How can I claim I don't like being a girl when I'm moaning and dripping so much? How can I ignore my cunt when all I can feel is her gripping and squeezing you in her ecstasy?

You struggle, but the knots are tight. Please, you start to say, but he holds up a hand. We’re going to play a game, he says. You’re going to be my good girl.

He produces a bag and lays out its contents on the bed beside you: a lacy pink dress, silk stockings, a pair of delicate heels, and a wig of long, blonde hair. Your heart pounds. You’re a man. You’ve fought so hard to be seen as one. This feels like a violation deeper than anything physical. Put these on, he instructs, untying one of your wrists. Or I’ll have to put them on for you.

Your survival instinct kicks in. With trembling hands, you do as he says. The dress is soft against your skin, the stockings sheer. The wig settles heavily on your cropped hair. He helps you with the heels, his hands firm on your ankles. When you stand, you feel ridiculous, exposed, your masculine frame draped in femininity.

Look at you, he murmurs, guiding you to a full-length mirror. So pretty. You stare at your reflection—a stranger in a pink dress. You tell yourself you’re just playing along, just surviving. But as he runs a hand over the lace on your hip, a traitorous shiver runs through you. You hate this. You should hate this. But a secret, shameful part of you is stirring, fascinated by the girl in the mirror, by his approving gaze. You bite your lip, refusing to acknowledge the heat blooming low in your belly.

His hands are on you then, one cupping your breast through the thin lace of the dress, his thumb rubbing over your nipple until it hardens. You flinch, trying to pull away, but he holds you firm against his body, your back to his chest as you both face the mirror. See how responsive you are, he whispers in your ear. Such a good girl for me.

His other hand slides up your thigh, pushing the skirt of the dress out of the way. You gasp when his fingers find your pussy, stroking over you through your underwear. You’re wet, embarrassingly so, and he lets out a low, pleased hum. You try to tell yourself it's just fear, just your body's stupid reaction, but the truth is his touch feels good. When he pulls your panties aside and slips a finger inside you, you can't help but press back against him, a soft moan escaping before you can bite it back.

That's it, he praises, his voice dripping with satisfaction. My good girl knows what she needs. You hate how those words make your stomach flutter, how they send another rush of heat between your legs. You close your eyes, but you can still see that pretty, feminine reflection in your mind, and you know you're getting more turned on by the second.

He turns you around to face the mirror again, his hands firm on your hips. You see the fear and shame in your own eyes, but also a dark, eager hunger you don't recognize. He pushes the lace panties aside completely, and you feel the blunt, thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You brace yourself, your knuckles white where they grip the dresser. He pushes in slowly, a deep, relentless stretch that steals your breath. You watch in the mirror as he fills you, your body yielding to him.

A broken sound tears from your throat—part protest, part pure, helpless want. He starts to move, setting a slow, deliberate pace that makes every nerve sing. You can see everything: the way the pink lace strains over your chest with each thrust, the way your mouth falls open, the flush spreading across your skin. You try to hold onto your anger, your identity, but it's useless. Your pussy clenches around him greedily, pulling him deeper with every withdrawal. He groans, his hands tightening on your hips, and picks up the pace. The sound of skin on skin, of his grunts and your whimpers, fills the room.