Want a woman to degrade me by calling me a lesbian in bed. Fuck me in the gayest of ways and make sure to talk about my “pussy” a lot.
“What a good little lesbian you are.”
“I know what you really are. I know what you want.”
“God what a wet pussy, fuck.”
Scissor me and hold my legs open. Grab the curve of my hip, my chest, my nipples.
“Your nipples are so sensitive. Do you need them sucked? Would it feel good for me to wrap my lips around your tits?”
I’m so ashamed and want to ask you to stop, but every time I work up the nerve, you say something that completely crushes my resolve.
I don’t want to answer. I’m a dude. I know that. I’m a dude who likes women and just so happens to have a cunt. I like rubbing my cunt against womens’ pussies—but it’s not gay when it’s me.
But you need an answer. You can’t get off without me admitting it to you. You won’t let yourself cum until I’m praising our sapphic fucking sex and telling you I want to be girlfriends.
“C’mon, tell me. What’s your sexuality?”
You push a finger into me. “Oh what wonderful straight sex we’re having.” You curl it inside of me, pushing, holding that spot until I’m squirming.
“Please what? Fingerfuck you? Scissor you harder? Or do you want me to eat out your cunt?”
All these terms, they all shouldn’t apply to me but they do. They’d all get me off. They’re the ways I can get off.
“I’m holding back. If you want me to really make you squirm—if you want to cum—tell me what kind of sex this is.”
“Hot sex,” I joke, but you just grab two handfuls of my small breasts, stare at them and say, “Yeah. Pretty damn hot.”
I’m so fucking wet. I murmur something but you say “huh? Say that again?”
“Can we change things up, I think I’m done with scissoring.” The word sends a rush of blood through me.
You move, but you don’t get off of me. No, you lower yourself down on your arms and knees until you’re at just the right angle. Your face comes close to my tits, your tongue darting out towards my nipples. They’re obviously hard, almost aching from how much I need you sucking on them.
But then you stop. You have an idea.
I’m intrigued by the idea of being on top—maybe getting some dignity back—and agree. I move on top of you, but immediately you just guide me up. Your hands hold me still with my boobs hanging down from my otherwise relatively solid build. I could never get those things to stop being so soft, even if they are small. But you don’t seem to give a fuck about the size.
You pull me down so I fall closer to you, catching myself on my arms. Then you take my tits in both of your hands and hold them still as you lean forward and start sucking them.
It’s an incredible sensation. You nibble, bite (both gentle and rough), lick, and suck. Nothing feels better than the sucking. I know a cis guy wouldn’t get this much pleasure from nipple play alone. And I know what makes my body different. I know what my body is ‘supposed’ to do. And so do you.
“Such pretty, sexy buds.” Your mouth makes a ‘pop’ sound as you pull away.
“It’s a shame there’s not a little more to your boobs. Wouldn’t that feel so good? Didn’t it feel good before, when you were openly gay? You let girls stare. You rubbed your breasts against another girl’s, I know it.”
You don’t even hesitate to call my old self gay, despite referring to me having sex with women. It probably never crossed your mind that me and gay could mean anything other than dyke. And of course, there it is. You calling me a girl.
Shit. I’m losing it. I’m losing myself.
“Yeah,” you encourage, and you run one hand down my torso, your touch light and teasing. I know you won’t continue unless I say more.
“I loved when our nipples brushed…so delicate,” I say, half-miserable but halfway there. “So intimate and soft…”
“Yes,” you continue to encourage me. Your hand’s on my clit now. I mean dick.
“Being a lesbian felt so good…fuck…”
“Yes!” You say happily, almost like you’re proud of me, and you cup my cunt firmly before licking your fingers and messing with my clit.
“Yes, sweetheart, and you miss that don’t you?”
“…A little,” I whisper, beyond turned on and getting close to that place we both desperately need.
“Well,” you say, and suddenly you’re sitting up. Your left hand tugs at my clit, your right sliding slowly in and out of me. Then faster. And faster still.
“You never changed. Do you see that yet? You may be a boy now but you’ll always be a woman. You can’t escape it. You can’t change it—you can only pretend. You’ll always know that deep down, you’re a woman—a lesbian, and you love it. You love having a cunt. You love making out with pussies. You love being a gay fucking dyke—and cumming on a mean dom’s fingers.”
Those words send me over the edge. As I’m cumming, you order me to say it. To tell you what I am.
“I’m a lesbian. God, I’m a fucking lesbian.” The rest I want to put out into the world gets smothered by moans.
You pull out of me and start scissoring yourself aggressively against my wet, pulsing pussy. The orgasm is nothing like you’ve had before—knowing you broke a “trans” girl back into herself. And yeah, you call it that. You put the emphasis on the F of ftm. You only ever called me a “trans girl,” which would have been funny if it was anyone but you. If it was out of ignorance and not intent. But you call me that cause that’s what I am to you—a girl first, and trans second. Whatever I dress up as is not as important to you as the fact that I have breasts, a pussy, a uterus, and all the rest. You know my body better than I do, it seems. And how can I ever argue with that—when nobody can make me cum like you do?
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