But I’m jealous. It’s crazy, I know, but true nonetheless. I’m jealous of all the open-mouthed cries and wide-spread thighs that have graced the inside of that car. I wanna feel the slip-slide of sweat-slicked leather beneath my ass and Sid’s fingers pumping into me; I want to fill all the air inside that car with the smell of my sex and the heat of my body and the breathy sounds of my moans.
So here I am, standing in our garage, waiting like a predator to pounce. They’re in the back lane, Sid and the Femme, so close I can feel their vibrations. The door begins to rise like a peep show window on my strappy heels, painted toes and thirty-four inches of smooth, tanned legs that disappear under my micro-mini. Sid revs the engine appreciatively, and the sound goes right to my pussy.
The car edges forward with a throaty purr, the tip of her hood coming to rest between my legs. Sid kills the engine and closes the garage door, and for a moment, there’s only silence. Then the passenger door opens and I saunter ’round, bending low so I can look inside. Sid has a hard time looking past my bikini top and the ample cleavage on display. I know my boi, and I know what she likes, and I know how to get what I want.
“Get in,” she says, voice rough with desire. I lower myself in and close the door.
“Get rid of the bikini top.” It lands on the floor, and heat flashes in her amber eyes.
“Show me,” she says—fuck she makes me wet—and I cup my breasts with my palms.
“Pinch them,” she says, and I tug at my nipples until they’re pebble hard and I’m squirming in my seat.
“You got anything on under that skirt?” I spread my legs open wide and Sid groans—she’s a sucker for a fresh Brazilian.
She leans over me, vintage leather creaking, the subtle musk of her cologne surrounding me a heartbeat before her tongue is in my mouth and her fingers penetrate my cunt.
We kiss, we combust, we go up in flames. I wind my arms around her neck, thread my fingers through her hair, stroke my tongue against hers. All the while she teases me, explores me, testing my wetness with her blunt fingertips, painting them along the length of my pussy.
“Wider,” she whispers against my lips, and I inch my ass toward her, one foot on the dashboard, as open as I can be. Three fingers replace two, then four replace three, and Sid fastens her mouth to my breast, licking and sucking the rigid peak until I’m just about ready to explode.
“So fucking wet…” She’s pumping me now, the wet sound of my pussy a shameless turn-on.
“I want you to fuck yourself on my fist,” Sid says, her tongue lapping up my mewing assent. She holds her hand still, leaving the rise and fall to me, letting me work my cunt down over her knuckles, stretching wide, so wide, until she slides inside. I can feel her hand, and it feels so good, balled into a fist deep inside me. Slowly, she moves, then faster and harder, until her forearm is pistoning into me.
“Now,” she says, against my lips, then her tongue fills my mouth once more. I moan, half lost, and slide my fingers to my clit, circling, then stroking in rhythm with her thrusts.
“That’s it, baby…” She tastes like salt; her sweat and mine. We’re panting instead of breathing, and my frenzied crescendo of “Yes baby, yes baby, oh, fuck, yes baby!” ends with a rush when my hips snap up and my cunt clenches around her fist and I come so hard my back arches off the seat of the ’vette like a bow.
In a minute or five, we untangle ourselves with as much grace as we can, given the confines of the Femme. She reeks like sex, and I know I’ve got a smug smile on my face, but I don’t bother to try and hide it.
“You pleased with yourself?”
“Mm-hmm.” I am. ’Cause Sid and the Femme? They’re mine.
I lead the way out of the garage and back to the house, making sure there’s plenty of sway for my boi’s hungry eyes to follow. Right about now, she’s got a hard-on the size of Texas, but luckily, there are still plenty of hours until dawn.
HOW HE LIKES IT
Xan West
I learned quickly that he likes it when I beg. During our first encounter in that bar bathroom, my leopard-eyed Sir showed me that. He doesn’t need me to be on my knees (though he does not object, particularly when I’m focused on taking his cock down my throat). It’s not about my shame, or my abject posturing. For him, it is about the frequent acknowledgment of both my desire and his control. He is particularly fond of the word please, and truth be told, I love hearing it escape my lips. Just saying it gets me wet. Me begging is not just how he likes it, it’s how I need it. I ache to bring my raw dripping need to him, offer it up to him, spill it into his lap.
That’s exactly where he wanted me that night: in his lap, aching with need. He wanted to watch me writhe with it, wanted to savor the sight of me begging. He wanted to hold me down and watch me have my desire held against me, until I was burning, sobbing with need. He wanted to grasp his control firmly, and decide whether he would let me get what I begged for. He had described it for me, in detail, watched my eyes widen at the thought of it, my breath quicken with the knowledge that he wanted to offer me to another, while he held me and felt me writhe.
I was his to offer, and glad of it: Glad to be valued so much that I was worth offering to others. Glad to be seen for who I was, my exhibitionistic desires celebrated; to have the opportunity to give myself to him exactly how he likes it.
Sir knew me from the start, knew things about me that I had not even fully seen. He was a mirror to my power and grace, showing me how beautiful I was in his eyes, how gorgeous my pain was, how delicious my tears, how much my desire moved him. That is the best a lover can offer, to really see us, and celebrate what they see. It is a rare and precious thing to be seen and valued for who we are. So often, I had been told I was too much, too loud, too smart for my own good; took up too much space, was too needy, too sexual. Sir had other things to say about my hunger, my desire, my size, my power. My reflection in his eyes told me I did not need to hide my need or my self; I could bring it all to him; I could not possibly be too much for him. It scared me every time, felt risky every time, and was exactly what I wanted.
I had not met Dexter before that night. Christian had told me about him, of course. The mentor who had taught my Sir everything he knew about leather; the first transman top he ever met. They had topped together; it was part of learning. But this was different. I was the first girl that my Sir was going to offer to Dexter after seven years of estrangement.
Dexter was on the staff of the kink conference in DC. We came out a day early because of this. We had a room in the conference hotel, and as I unpacked for us, Sir made final arrangements. I ate before he came, ordered the room service, set up the cigars on the balcony, and dressed to Sir’s specifications, my hands fumbling and nervous as I attached my garters, my eyes wide as I saw my reflection. I looked like an offering, my hair curling around my shoulders, my small tits raised and bursting out of the tiny shirt, boots drawing attention to the fishnet stockings, skirt short enough to just reveal the tops of the garters. I had been preparing for this all afternoon, luxuriating in a bath, rubbing lotion on my skin, trimming and primping and readying myself, down to the small plug I slid into my ass. By the time he arrived, I felt grounded in myself and who I was, and my body was preparing his welcome in anticipation.
He stalked in with quiet power, greeting Sir with warmth, taking his time to look me up and down. His eyes were feline too, and I could feel my back arch a bit under his gaze. I was ready for him that minute, ached to drop to my knees before him, could not take my eyes off of him. But first there was dinner, and my job to serve it, to allow these men to touch me as I served.