one of the hottest things ever is when a girl talks about having big ol tiddies and she's like "ahaha i must get them from my mom lol" like oh?? 👀 your whole family has massive fucking milkers? 👀👀 how do you know this do you compare sizes 👀👀 do you brag about how big youre growing? do you rub them together sometimes
my mom and i went to the same surgeon to have our breast reductions (her brother also had one prior to coming out as trans and getting top surgery but he did not go to our surgeon)
All the avatar r34 stuff is little human man x navi giantess stuff and this is no shade to that, I just want to see little human woman x crazy six legged roided pandora creature
Wanna be a social justice bimbo, where I can fix everyone’s wrong political beliefs just by sucking their dicks (or tits or whatever) (everyone in this world is beautiful exactly in the way that I find attractive, just by happenstance). They either come (hehe) out the other end as antifa supersoldiers or if they resist, well I guess I’ll just have to tie them down and keep sucking that dick until they’re fixed!
I don’t masturbate much, but this guy I’m seeing does every day, usually more than once. He tells me it’s a cis guy thing, about how a hard-on is way harder to ignore than “just getting wet”, which—well, that’s not why. I’m the first trans man he’s slept with so I can understand why he might be wrong, but I’ve known enough truly perverted tboys to know it’s not an anatomical thing. I just don’t need it as much as he does.
Anyway—No Nut November rolls around, and while we’re not quite at the stage where I’d be able to control his orgasms when we’re 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 that’s just not what I want—I’m just making an observation, watching my cigarette smoke waft off into the night air—but when I turn to look at him, his pupils have swallowed his irises and he’s pitched toward me, eyes trained on my throat.
“What if we traded?” he rasps. I snort and pass him the cig. “I’m busier than you, boy. I don’t have time to sit around with my dick in my hand.”
He tries again. “I mean—if you, uh—if I told you when I wanted to get off. And I didn’t, but you did.”
That’s more interesting. I consider him lengthwise. “It’s like, three times a day, right? I have a job.”
He shakes his head. “Well, yeah, but—if we’re just talking about need? Once in the morning, maybe again to fall asleep. I think—I think you could do it.”
“Oh, I could,” I sigh. “And I won’t lie, I’m tempted. Would you show me?”
“What do you mean?”
I snag the cigarette back from him. “When you need it. Would you send me a picture of your cock?”
His throat works as he swallows. “Uh, I mean, yeah?”
I picture it for a moment. This boy, this young man I’m 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 him—lying 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 cunt—has a real ring to it.
He texts me for the first time on the second day of the month. I’d been tempted to ask if he already failed or forgot, less than a day in, but it’s so early in the morning he didn’t really make it 24 hours anyway. I’m actually not at all bothered by the idea of him spending that first day conflicted—pent up, but still too anxious to text me, to see if I was serious.
Hey
If you meant it, I’m stupid hard rn
I smile at my phone despite myself. If I meant it. He’ll learn I always do, soon enough.
I think you’re missing an important part of this deal I send back.
He doesn’t reply for a minute. I wonder if that’s the rub. He has nothing to be shy about, both because I’ve seen his dick and because it’s absolutely nothing to scoff at, but some people are real prudes about photographic evidence. Guys with porn-rotted brains like him see it as a real loss of power, for someone else to have them in the objectifying form of an image. I suddenly feel my clit, in the way that it politely makes itself known when something’s starting to get me hot under the collar. Right as I’m starting to debate getting off regardless of what my boy does, my phone buzzes.
Attachment: 1 image
Sure enough, it’s a picture of his cock. Hard and insistent, pitched against the jut of his hip and the soft curve of his belly. I make a note of his desk and overflowing closet in the background, of the blue jersey sheets he’s laying on. Seems he slept in the nude. God, what a boy.
This good enough?
I’d read it as cocky if I didn’t know better. In all of the nasty things he’s done to me, I’ve noticed the current running underneath—his desperate need for approval, the way his eyes go dark and glossy when I call him good.
More than. Did you wake up like this?
I push my sleep shorts down to my ankles and run my hand flat over my pubic mound, thumb catching on the insistent jut of my swollen clit between my lips. It doesn’t feel as good as it would if he was doing it. God, I don’t fucking like masturbating. That’s what he’s for.
Yeah
Had a dream about you
That gets my attention. What about me?
Your mouth. His response is immediate. For a second after I woke up I could have sworn you were blowing me
I lick my lips. Not this time, sweetheart I send, thinking that’s the end of it. I’ll get off faster with both hands, and I wasn’t kidding that I really do not jerk off. It’s with more than a little annoyed resignation that I start to stroke myself, settling into my mattress for what hopefully won’t be more than a cursory 15 minutes. My phone, irritatingly, vibrates after another few minutes. I pick it up.
Are you doing it?
I roll my eyes for an audience of zero, but figures that he’s still worried. His need for validation vastly supercedes the tops I normally deal with. It’s kind of sweet. Under other circumstances, he might be what you call a good communicator.
Of course I am, baby. I throw him the pet name as a bit of a bone. A deal’s a deal.
His response is immediate. Can I see?
I’m inclined to say no, but there’s a part of me that’s turned on by the fact it’ll only make his situation worse. I’ve never sent him a picture of my cunt that wasn’t answered with a shot of his hand, belly, or pillow smeared with his own cum. I open my camera, pitch the lens down to center my pussy, fingers tucked just underneath my clit, and send a picture off into our text chain.
I don’t look at my phone as it vibrates two, three, four times. I know it’s a textual record of his desperation—no doubt telling me how good I look, how badly he wants to touch—but I know I’ll want that to tip me over the edge, which seems to be coming pretty quickly after all.
I shut my eyes and imagine where he is now. Laying in bed still, probably. Completely naked in the still air of his small bedroom. Hands maybe splayed on his thighs, maybe playing with his nipples, breath coming quick and labored as he tries to think about anything but the throbbing need between his legs. Alternating between staring at the ceiling, checking his phone to see if I’ve replied, and squeezing his eyes closed against the all-encompassing arousal he’s grown accustomed to taking care of as soon as he feels it.
It’s fucking hot, and my hips pitch downward as I realize I’m close. I pick up my phone to see what he sent.
Fuck you look so fucking good
I can’t believe you’re getting off for me right now
My dick is fucking throbbing
God it kind of hurts
The last text is all I need to send me over, an orgasm swelling low and tight in my belly before cresting and spreading through my body. My hole clenches around nothing as I shake through it, biting back any noises that might wake up my roommates. Fuck, the idea of him in physical fucking pain because he can’t cum is so goddamn hot. It’s the first day we’re even doing this, and it hurts? He’ll never make it.
Settling, I stare at our text chain as a lazy warmth starts to suffuse my body. Huh. Maybe this morning orgasm stuff has some merit.
I finally decide to answer him.
Just came all over my fingers I send.
His bubble pops up and disappears a few times before a message loads. If I woke up this hard I’d normally cum twice he says. I scoff. No chance. Still hard?
His next message isn’t quite a picture of his dick, but it’s insanely erotic anyway: a thick, near puddle-sized smear of precum in the wiry hair of his belly. What do you think
It’s not a question. I type out a smiley face, decide it’s probably not enough of a conclusion for him, and add Have a good day.
He responds just as I’m pulling my shorts back up and swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
A new brother joins you at your church. He's young and sweet, with saintly patience and the face of an angel. He looks to you for guidance. Seeks you out when he's troubled or stuck on how best to do his job. Your assistance always makes him smile, but he only truly glows when you tell him what a good job he's doing.
When your touches start to linger, he almost seems thankful. A pat on the shoulder becomes a rub, or a squeeze, and you're sure you hear his breath hitch each time. A sinful hunger grows within you, and you test just how deep his need for your approval goes. Alone, when your congregants have all gone home, you find him knelt in prayer. You, too, kneel, but not in prayer.
With trembling hands, you reach for your new brother, pulling him against you. He fits so perfectly in your embrace, his shoulders tucked perfectly beneath your chin, his ass against your lap. That familiar hitch in his breath, sweeter than any holy song, makes you hold him that much tighter.
He doesn't resist as your hands roam his chest. Your lips graze his neck, and he angles his head to give you access to the skin that was so carefully guarded by his clerical collar. His breaths shudders as you cup him through his neat, pressed slacks, and his hips jerk forward ever so slightly.
You mumble softly against his skin, "Good boy."
Those words make him crumble. A pathetic whine, high pitched and needy, slips from his lips, and you're suddenly drunk with lust. Clothes are pried away and cast aside, and your teeth bear down on all the supple skin that your hands are not groping, that is not pressed to your body.
Sacramental oils, meant for giving blessings in your holy father's name, coat your cock and the tight passage between his cheeks. Fingers tease, and prod, and stretch until your brother is begging for you to take him, there at the feet of god, in that holy house.
"Good boy." You're lined up at his entrance.
"Good boy." And you're slowly pushing inside of him.
"Good boy." Again and again, while he crys out in ecstasy. While he praises you like God. While he begs for more.
Was working on a present for a friend today and just now as I’m finishing off this joint I was thinking about them and thinking ‘you know there is someone that I could totally get high and cuddle and maybe platonically make out with’
