A trans girl shows her friend a sex tape she made with her partner. Her friend tells her she looked lovely, but asks why her partner wasn’t touching her. Why weren’t they grabbing by her boobs or her ass? Why didn’t they kiss her like she kissed them? She says, with a sadness she tries to hide, that her partner doesn’t really do that, and that it’s ok, she’s fine.
Her friend gently takes her hand and tells her that if she ever wants to be touched like that, like she deserves to be, she’d be so happy to do it. That it can be their secret.
You are six episodes and twelve beers deep on the couch. Clumsy hands start to stay on her for extra moments. Across your skin an alcoholic warmth pulls back into your core.
A candle!
Cold wind and anxiety filters through you. But you're a good partner. You know what she likes.
Then maybe it can be your turn!
Every tonights dread lives fresh and old in your mind. She wants you. Maybe you haven't quite had her yet. But you know what a good partner does. You're a good partner.
You are!
So the night goes on. You watch the last episode. The show is over. You're upstairs. The lights go off. And then the work begins.
Shaking hands trace old patterns. It's not comfortable. But you're a good partner. Her noises warm you. You're doing so good!
You try to feel it through her. But nothing is right. Worms turn under your skin. Focus on something before it gets to you.
You're in the factory. Watching the complex machines weave together bedsheets. You're in a lab, researching how these polymer fabrics were discovered. You're painting drywall.
Muscles ache, sweat drips down your back. You're struggling. Somewhere, a candle is flickering. Thankfully, you're watching paint dry, then chip.
Shes writhing under you. Her sounds fill your ears. You hate that you're a chemist in a lab.
Even with the roaring buzz from the alcohol, you feel all of those worms turning in your flesh. Thankfully, the textile mill churns louder than your own thoughts.
Why aren't you there? A good partner would be there.
The workers you aren't flicker, then fade. You feel a shuddering...something. it's over. Finally. Your habits fire off and move spent muscles. Clean, water, clothes, blanket. Give her comfort.
Think about what she just went through.
You are settled. Holding her body. A candle falls somewhere in you. And your skin dances with flame. Your hands touch hers. Then guide them just bellow your ribs. You press her hands into your stomach. She is touching you!
Your fires surge. And for the first time, in the ink black, you hear your noises. Deep and gutteral. Coming from the same place in your chest where your hands hold hers. They are ugly. Nothing like hers.
You are sobbing
Her hands pull away, and she turns over. A plea slips from you, then apologies flow after. Your skin burns everywhere she isn't. She tells you she works tomorrow.
Your fires go out. And your noises quiet. It hurts. But you stopped blaming her a long time ago. You hold her untill she is asleep. Like a good partner.
I think the thing about comptop no one rlly acknowledges is it's not always about sex (And in my experience virtually never about sex) and is more of a proxy for the fact most people expect the top/dom to take the role of "Stoic and perpetually dominant person who never needs nor expects to be able to display any form of emotional vulnerability or require any form of comfort." (Beyond the bare minimum eg physical presence and repeating stock phrases, such as "It will be okay")
So in an unfortunately common scenario to convince someone to dom you is to basically convince someone to treat you as anything other than a person who Does The Sex to them.
Did I mention this was after a "oh no, there's only one bed" situation and all?
We've occasionally thrown glances at one another like "oh isn't our life so hard" passing by one another when we both have to look after our little disaster lesbians who've had a bit too much at a party. So I'd seen the look in her eyes that I recognised, sometimes she just looked a little tired of being the sensible dyke all time just BC we wear combat boots instead of 4 inch long skirts.
So one night after hangout turned disaster we sort everyone out and discover that "oh no! there's only one bed spare left, we'll just have to share".
*queue lesbian sheep moment for about 20 minutes of two humans completely normally sleeping stock still on their backs 3cm from each other not saying a word*
After we got started, she did pick me up and throw me about like a rag doll a little (BC I weigh about as much as a chihuahua) but the second I touched her she just melted and it was the hottest thing I'm the world.
Pin your local CompTop Butch's arms above her and suck her dick like your life depends on it. The moans and shudders will be worth it I promise you.
I think getting taken off guard and pushed and bullied into a submissive position and railed into the mattress until I pass out and then they wake me up with a nice dinner might fix me actually.
if you value tgirls with monster cans between their legs more highly than us #smallclitwarriors you’re a fucking coward and i want nothing to do with you
DOUBLY so if you’re only interested in us when we top
