I donât masturbate much, but this guy Iâm seeing does every day, usually more than once. He tells me itâs a cis guy thing, about how a hard-on is way harder to ignore than âjust getting wetâ, whichâwell, thatâs not why. Iâm the first trans man heâs slept with so I can understand why he might be wrong, but Iâve known enough truly perverted tboys to know itâs not an anatomical thing. I just donât need it as much as he does.
AnywayâNo Nut November rolls around, and while weâre not quite at the stage where Iâd be able to control his orgasms when weâre not together, I make a joke in passing that NNN for me would be having to masturbate every single day. That sense of frustration and obligation, of having to spend time I wanted to use differently doing something thatâs just not what I wantâIâm just making an observation, watching my cigarette smoke waft off into the night airâbut when I turn to look at him, his pupils have swallowed his irises and heâs pitched toward me, eyes trained on my throat.
âWhat if we traded?â he rasps. I snort and pass him the cig. âIâm busier than you, boy. I donât have time to sit around with my dick in my hand.â
He tries again. âI meanâif you, uhâif I told you when I wanted to get off. And I didnât, but you did.â
Thatâs more interesting. I consider him lengthwise. âItâs like, three times a day, right? I have a job.â
He shakes his head. âWell, yeah, butâif weâre just talking about need? Once in the morning, maybe again to fall asleep. I thinkâI think you could do it.â
âOh, I could,â I sigh. âAnd I wonât lie, Iâm tempted. Would you show me?â
I snag the cigarette back from him. âWhen you need it. Would you send me a picture of your cock?â
His throat works as he swallows. âUh, I mean, yeah?â
I picture it for a moment. This boy, this young man Iâm just starting to know, spending a month doing nothing with his boners but sending pictures of them to me. I normally would not at all appreciate being forced to cum on a daily basis, but the idea of himâlying back in the early morning, dick pink and weeping onto his stomach, hands twitching with the urge to touch while he imagines my fingers tucked inside my cuntâhas a real ring to it.
âAlright.â I shrug. âLetâs try it.â