Apr 12
I want these
seen from South Africa
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I want these
Text me if you wanna be my sissy bitch
The Sprinter: Part IX
She comes home and she's quiet. The quiet of a woman standing at the end of a long hallway looking at a door she hasn't opened yet.
"Part two," she says. Sits on the sofa. Picks up her phone.
Ting. Five seconds. The chime is no longer a pulse — it's a tremor, a vibration, a continuous tone that your body absorbs the way skin absorbs heat. You don't hear it start anymore. It's just there. The way she's just there.
"Knees, sweetie."
You kneel. Pants down. She leans forward. Places her two fingers on the underside of your cock — index and middle, the pads resting on the soft skin. The position. The circles begin.
Round and round. You are still. Her fingers gentle. The rhythm she installed last time already living in your body like a second heartbeat.
"Close your eyes."
You close your eyes.
Ting.
"I told you about the panties. The circles. The button. But I didn't tell you about the rest. What happened over the next three months. What Cherri became."
Cherri. Not Cherry. You hear the softening in the name. The i at the end like a ribbon tied on something that used to be hard.
After the button — after that first night with my finger just barely inside and Cherri cumming harder than he ever had — the rest happened fast. Not because I pushed. Because the door was open and Cherri walked through it on his own. All I had to do was leave it ajar.
The camisole came next. A Saturday morning. I handed it to him after his shower — soft, white, spaghetti straps. "For sleeping," I said. "The cotton is better for your skin than those old t-shirts." He put it on. Looked down at himself. The straps thin on his shoulders. His chest visible through the fabric.
"Cute," I said.
She lifts her fingers from your cock.
The circles stop. Your cock hangs in the air — hard, leaking, the underside still warm from her touch. The chime pulses. Her voice continues. Your cock twitches at the sound of her voice alone.
She watches the twitch. Notes it.
Ting.
The bralette came a month later. Not a bra — a bralette. The distinction matters, baby. A bra has structure. A bralette is just fabric — soft, stretchy, the kind of thing a girl wears when she wants support without construction. "Your chest gets cold," I said. "This will help." He put it on under the camisole. The thin band across his chest. The slight compression.
He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and I stood behind him and I could see something in his face that wasn't there before — not confusion anymore. Something past confusion. The beginning of recognition. Like a man looking at a painting and slowly realizing the painting is a mirror.
But the image in mirror wasn't finished yet.
She puts her fingers back. The circles resume. Round and round. You shudder at the return of contact — your cock surging, pulsing, almost cumming from the first touch after the gap.
"Not yet, sweetie. Hold on."
The circles slow. She brings you back from the edge. Holds you there.
Ting.
By month nine Cherri wore panties every day. The cherry print. Camisole to sleep. Bralette under the camisole. And one evening I brought home a bag — not matte black this time, not a cage — a pink bag from a store that smells like vanilla and sells things with underwires.
"I got you something, Cherri."
A bra. Structured. White. Lace trim. A proper bra with cups and hooks and the architecture of a garment designed for a body he didn't have.
He looked at it. I could see the last flicker of the reflex — the I can't, I'm not, this isn't me — and I said nothing. I didn't persuade. I didn't explain. I just held it out the way I hold out the ring. The way I hold out everything. The open door. The barely anything.
He put it on. I fastened the hooks. And the cups sat on his chest — empty, white, lace — and he looked down at himself and then up at me and his cock was hard in his cherry panties.
"Good girl," I said. "My Cherri."
She lifts her fingers again. The circles stop. Your cock in the air. The chime pulsing. Her voice.
Your cock twitches. Hard. Without her touching it. Just the voice and the chime and the word girl and your cock twitches in the empty air.
She watches. Doesn't touch you. Lets the twitch happen. Lets the silence after the twitch happen.
Ting.
"Interesting," she says. Softly. Not to you. To herself. To whatever she's tracking behind her eyes.
The pegging started the way everything started — small. After the first finger another. And one night, with Cherri on his back in his cherry panties and his bra with the empty cups and my two fingers inside him pressing his button and my other hand making circles on the underside of his cock, I said, "I want to try something bigger, Cherri. Something that reaches your button better than my fingers."
I showed him. A strap-on. Not large — small, slender, the kind designed for the anatomy I was accessing. He looked at it. He looked at me. And I said the only thing I needed to say.
"It's just a toy, baby. Girls use toys."
Round and round. Her fingers are back on your cock. The circles resume. But lighter now. Barely pressure. The ghost of the ghost.
Ting.
He lay on his back. Cherry panties pulled to the side — not off, never off. I entered him slowly. The toy finding the angle, finding his button, finding the place that my fingers had mapped over weeks of pressing and circling.
And I began to move. Slow. Rhythmic. The same rhythm as the circles — round and round translated into in and out, the female pattern applied to a new axis. And my hands were — free. Not on his cock. Not circling. Not touching him at all. My hands on his hips. The toy inside him. His cock untouched in his cherry panties, straining against the fabric, leaking through the cherries.
"I'm going to try something," I said. "I'm not going to touch your little guy. I just want to see if your button is enough. If the toy is enough. Can you stay still for me, Cherri?"
He nodded. His cock twitching in the panties. Untouched. The toy moving inside him. His button being pressed from a new angle, with a new depth.
She lifts her fingers. The circles stop.
Your cock in the air. The chime. Her voice. The story of a man being penetrated while his cock goes untouched. Your cock twitching at each detail. Twitching without being touched. The chime pulsing into the twitches. The voice pulsing into the twitches. Your cock trying to cum from the air and the sound and the image of Cherri with a toy inside him and his cock seeping through cherry fabric—
Ting.
"He came, baby. Without my hands. Without anyone touching his cock. The toy inside him pressing his button and his cock just — went. The cum seeping through the cherry panties in a long, slow, continuous pour. Not a spurt. A pour. His whole body shuddering — not his hips, not his cock, everything — and his mouth open and the sound coming out of him wasn't the catch. It was something else. Something lower. Something I'd never heard from any of them."
She pauses. Her mouth near your ear.
"The sound a woman makes."
Your cock surges. In the air. Untouched. The chime and her voice and the word woman and your cock jumps — hard, pulsing, the cum rising—
She touches you. One finger. The pad of her index finger pressed to the underside of your cock for one second — one circle, one round — and that's all it takes.
You cum. From one touch after an eternity of nothing. Your cock erupting from the single circle, your cum spilling down your shaft onto her finger, onto the floor. The orgasm that was already there — built by voice and chime and the image of a man cumming untouched — released by the lightest pressure she has ever applied.
One finger. One circle. One second.
You shudder. Slow. Still.
Ting.
"Open your eyes, sweetie."
You open them. She's looking at you. One finger wet with your cum. The other nine untouched.
"One touch, baby. That's all you needed. One circle and you were done."
She cleans her finger. The ritual. Reduced to a single tissue.
"The next morning I woke up and Cherri was in the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror. Cherry panties. Bra. Camisole. And he was — looking at himself. Not the way a man looks at himself. Not checking. Not assessing. Seeing. For the first time."
Ting.
"And I stood in the doorway and I looked at what I'd built. My technique. My rhythm. My underwear. My language. My round and round. He was me, baby. A mirror I'd made out of a man who used to laugh at the word sissy. Who used to thrust and pin and do work. Who used to think his cock was a tool. And now he was standing in a bathroom in a bra and panties rubbing himself in small circles the way I taught him, looking at a reflection I'd constructed."
She pauses. A long pause.
"And I left. That morning. While Cherri was still in the bathroom looking at the mirror. I packed a bag and I walked out and I never went back. Because the project was done. The mirror was finished. And a finished mirror is a closed circuit and I don't—"
"You don't close circuits," you say. From your knees. Eyes open. Looking up at her.
She looks at you. Surprised. Not that you said it — that you understand it. That you've been listening across nine stories and nine sessions and nine orgasms and you see the pattern the way she sees the pattern.
"No," she says. Softly. "I don't."
Ting.
She cups your softening cock. Warm.
"But Dr. Franklin says—" She stops. Starts again. "Dr. Franklin says the reason I keep leaving is because I've never found someone who could hold the whole thing. All the stories. All the boys. All the circuits. She says I leave because I'm afraid that if I stay, the mirror will reflect me instead of them. And I'll have to see what I am."
She's quiet. The chime pulses.
"She says you can hold it. She says the way you respond — the circles, the stillness, the chime — she says that's not coding. She says that's compatibility. She says you're not a project."
She looks at you. And her eyes are — you've never seen this. Not the storing. Not the knowing. Not the smile that files things away. Something unguarded. Something that looks like it might be the thing she left Ryan for not being.
"She says I should stay."
Ting.
"Did you feel that tonight, baby? When I lifted my fingers and your little guy was just — there? In the air? With nothing but my voice and the chime?"
You felt it.
"He almost came. Without me touching him. Just from the sound and the story. Did you feel that?"
You felt it. Your cock felt it. The edge was right there — in the gap, in the nothing, in the space between her fingers leaving and not coming back — and your cock was reaching for an orgasm that didn't require touch.
"Dr. Franklin says that's the deepest form of intimacy there is. When your little guy responds to my voice the way it used to respond to my hand." She pauses. "She says we're almost there."
She taps the phone. The chime stops.
The room is quiet. You're on your knees. One finger's worth of cum on the floor. The chime silent. And somewhere in the space between where her fingers lifted and where your orgasm arrived, something is forming. A bridge. A gap that's almost closed. An orgasm that's almost — almost — learned to arrive without touch.
Almost.
"Sweetie?"
"Yeah?"
"Tomorrow night. I want to try something. No fingers at all. Just my voice. Just the chime. Just us."
She says it the way she says everything now. Simply. With a warmth that might be love or might be the most complete manipulation she's ever built. The warmth of a woman who has spent her entire life learning how to make men cum with less and less and is about to find out if she can do it with nothing at all.
"Dr. Franklin says we're ready."
You nod. Because Dr. Franklin says. Because she says. Because your cock says. Because every circuit she's ever built has been open and maybe — maybe — this one could be different.
You don't know.
She's trying to find out.
This is the ninth in a series about a woman, her therapist, and the memories that are changing everything. Each post, she shares. Each post, he listens. Each post, he finishes a little faster than the time before.
Previous: The Sprinter #01 — The Barbecue | The Sprinter #02 — The TA | The Sprinter #03 — The Boyfriend | The Sprinter #04 — The Panties | The Sprinter #05 — The Professor | The Sprinter #06 — The Therapist | The Sprinter #07 — The Cage | The Sprinter #08 — The Project: I
Next: The Sprinter #10: The chime. The voice. Nothing else. The end.
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Ok so I got a new set of panties that are made out of this new fabric I’ve never worn before but it’s sooo soft, and for some reason when they rub up against other fabrics it just glides over super easily with no friction but they’re really thin so I can still feel it…
So anyways I humped my cuddle pillow for about an hour last night wish you were there :3
Truth (TG Caption) 1/5
A Man who is fed up with his house mate's decides to pull a little trick and change their Truths...
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