A cis girl showing a fakegirl that all that voice training can be undone minutes
stroking his cock until his feminine whines and whimpers turned to deep masculine moans of pleasure and frustration.
Every new octave dropped sends a fresh wave of shame over him.
With each firm pump along his shaft, that high, practiced pitch fractures and cracks, splintering into lower, rougher sounds. His throat works, trying to swallow them back, to maintain the delicate illusion he’s so carefully constructed, but it’s useless.
His hands grip the sheets beneath him, knuckles white, as a particularly deep groan rips from his chest. It’s a sound he hasn’t made in years, activated by his manly desire to breed.
His hips buck, seeking more, demanding more, and with the movement comes another low, guttural sound.
She slips his cock into her wet pussy and lets out a moan of her own, but unlike him, her moan is delicate and undeniably feminine.
"Oops," she purrs, leaning down to whisper in his ear, her breath hot against his skin. "Did you lose your pretty little girl voice?"
He shakes his head, trying to clamp his lips shut, but the pleasure is too intense. His body is betraying him, each thrust of her hips coaxing out more of those deep, masculine sounds.
"Look at you," she says, her voice a mixture of amusement and arousal. "All that effort, all that practice... and all it takes is a little bit of pussy to bring out the real you. What a perv.”
A fresh wave of shame washes over him
"Maybe we should record this," she continues, her voice a low, conspiratorial hum. "A before and after. All those high, breathy moans, and now... this. So much more honest, don't you think?"
The idea sends a jolt of pure terror through him, a cold spike of fear that momentarily cuts through the haze of arousal. He wants to protest, to beg her not to, but the words catch in his throat, strangled by another deep, involuntary groan as she clenches around him, her inner walls milking him with practiced precision.
"You're so much more attractive this way," she whispers, her lips brushing against his ear. "Real. Not that fake little girl you pretend to be. Just a needy, desperate little boy, desperate to cum."
“I-ahh ‘m a girl” he whines out in a pathetic attempt to regain some control. The feminine lilt is forced, thin. He’s fighting a losing battle.
She laughs, a light, airy sound that contrasts sharply with the deep, primal noises he's making. "Are you? Then why does your cock feel so good in my pussy? Why are you leaking so much precum, hmm? Girls don't do that, do they?"
He whimpers, the sound a pathetic mix of high and low, a battleground of wills and wants. His hips buck again, a frantic, uncontrolled movement that betrays his desperate need for release.
"You wanna fuck a baby into me, huh? That's what these sounds are for," she says, her words a deliberate, cruel twist of the knife. "Is that what you want, pretty boy? To breed me? To fill me up until I'm dripping with your cum?"
The image floods his mind, He can see it, feel it, the thought of her, round and swollen with his child, a tangible proof of his masculinity. The thought alone is enough to push him closer to the edge, his cock throbbing, a desperate, pleading pulse against her walls.
"Answer me," she demands, her voice sharp, cutting through the fog of pleasure. "Tell me what you want."
He tries, he really does, but all that comes out is a choked sob, a broken, masculine sound that's all need and no words.
"Use your words, boy," she says, "Tell me what a pervy man like you wants."
"I... I..." he stammers, the words catching, his voice a low, rough gravel. "I want... I want to breed you."
The confession hangs in the air, a raw, vulnerable thing. It's out now, the truth laid bare. He's exposed, stripped of all pretense, all illusion. He's just a man, a desperate, horny man, wanting to claim her, to mark her as his.
"Good boy," she purrs, her tone softening, a hint of approval in her voice. "That wasn't so hard, was it? To admit what you really are?"
She starts to move again, a slow, deliberate rhythm that's designed to push him over the edge. "Then show me," she whispers, her lips trailing down his neck, her teeth grazing his skin. "Show me how a real man fucks. Show me how you're going to breed me."
The last thread of his control snaps. He rolls them over, a sudden, fluid movement that takes her by surprise. He's above her now, his hands pinning her wrists to the bed, his body a heavy, dominant weight on top of hers.
His thrusts are deep, hard, punishing, each one a declaration of his reclaimed masculinity. His moans are no longer sounds of shame, but of possession, of raw, unfiltered desire. He's no longer fighting the sounds, but embracing them.
Her moans are high and delicate, a perfect counterpoint to his deep, masculine sounds.
"Cum in me," she whines, her voice a breathy, needy plea. "Please, cum in me. Knock me up."
Her words are the final push, the permission he needs to let go. With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself deep inside her, a roar of pure, unadulterated pleasure tearing from his throat as he empties himself into her, his cum flooding her womb, a hot, possessive wave.
He collapses on top of her, his body spent, his breathing ragged.
“I can’t wait for you to be a daddy” she says.
He groans. The fake girl is gone, replaced by the real man, a man who has just claimed what is his.
"Such a good boy," she murmurs. "My good, strong man."
He shivers, a fresh wave of shame and satisfaction washing over him. He should feel mortified, disgusted with himself, but all he can feel is a profound sense of rightness, of coming home to himself. This is who he is. This is who he's always been.
"Are you going to keep being a good girl for me?" she asks, her voice a soft, teasing whisper in his ear. "Or are you going to be my man?"
He doesn't answer, not with words. He just shifts, settling more comfortably on top of her, a silent, possessive claim. For now, at least, the girl is gone.
