Dirty Thoughts: A Great Pretence

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I feel like this piece does need explaining beforehand. Both men in this piece are trans men- one (the bottom) has had phalloplasty, and the top has not (his medical transition status, or indeed if he has or wants to medically transition, are deliberately left ambiguous)


Even with his wrists tied together, legs spread apart with a bar, and his arse in the air, he manages to look cocky. I know that I’m only here because he wants me to be, that he’s the one in control over this, not me. Sometimes it bothers me. But I like that he at least lets me pretend I’m the one in control, enjoys pretending alongside me.

In a way, it’s easier when we don’t pretend too hard. When we’re at least a little honest. When I’m not master or sir or daddy, but just my name. And there’s still some pretence, and still some games, but we’re at least partly admitting I’m here simply because he wants to be topped and I’m happy to be the one to top him. He’s stripped naked, wrists tied together in front of him, so he clasps his hands like in prayer. The rope is a dark blue, and up against the pale of his skin it looks even darker, four knots curving around his his forearms, just tight enough to leave indents in his skin. I ruffle his hair with one hand, twist my fingers in the soft curls of his hair, and grip the handle of the paddle harder with the other.

The first smack of the paddle is so light that it barely counts as a smack. It’s more like a gentle meeting of leather to skin, and I know that it’s going to make him squirm in frustration. I can’t see his face, but maybe he’s biting his lip, wanting to tell me to hit harder but not wanting to have to say it. His breathing is heavier now, and when I smack him the second, third, fourth time, his breathing falls into the rhythm of the paddle.

“Do you want the cane?” I murmur, and it’s more a musing that happens to be out loud than an actual question, but the way he responds- a sharp intake of breath- makes me decide to take the answer I’m given. I take few steps to the hooks on the back of the bedroom door, each step loud and sharp sounding, place the handle of the paddle over a hook, and slide the cane off the one beside it.

“How many times do you want the cane?”

“Twenty”, he says, and he sounds so smug and breathless. “I want you to use it on me twenty times.”

The cane is thin and harsh, and I don’t take much force behind it when I start using it, quickly tapping the backs of his thighs. He doesn’t cry out, but he hisses between clenched teeth, jerks forwards and pulls at his ropes, and I know without seeing his face that he’s wearing an adorable scowl that he doesn’t know is a scowl. The sound is loud and sharp, and he squirms up against each movement, and

“How many is that?”

“Seven.”

“Not too hard? Still wanna carry on.”

“No. Please go harder.”

The next blow is harder, and I know it must sting like hell. There’s no rhythm to the cane any more, no reason or pattern to get used to. And he’s tensing between movements, trying to figure out a meaning that isn’t there, and I love watching him like this, trying to find some power in a situation that just isn’t there. By the twentieth, he’s trembling, and I place the cane on the bed beside him, dig a hand into his hair, and pull his head back. He’s grinning, cheeks flushed and warm and red, and I slide my other hand under his face, hold his chin, and pull him in to kiss him.

“Your ass looks fantastic”, I say, and his breath is warm and loud up against my ear. “God I want to eat your ass so bad.”

“Please”, he half whispers and half moans, and he sounds so desperate that I can’t say no to him.

His ass is bright red, and I’ve got both hands on him, spreading him open and holding a latex sheet up between them. I fuck him slowly at first, tongue just flicking over the crack of his ass, slowly working my way to his hole. I’m all lips, teasing around his hole, pushing my tongue in just enough that I can feel he wants to thrust his hips back, that if he wasn’t tied down like this he’d fuck himself on my mouth.

He whines, and it’s irritating in just the way that I love. I chuckle as best I can with my face in his ass, shuffle my hands so my thumbs are just rubbing against his perineum, brushing his balls just enough that I know he can feel it, but too gently to be satisfying in any way, and far too softly for him to get hard. I keep teasing him like that for a while longer, savour the sounds he makes a little while longer, squeeze his ass just a little more. And then I dive in as far as I can, try to fuck him open with my tongue.

He gasps, pulling against the ropes and the bar to arch his back as best he can, and I can feel my cock twitch and my cunt drip in my boxers. Part of me wants to flip him over, straddle his shoulders and make him clean up the mess he’s responsible for, make his mouth do something more useful. But he’d like that- like the skin to skin contact, to get to see my cock and cunt, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Not yet.

I pull away, and he lets out a whimper of protest. He stops whimpering when he hears the snap of the latex gloves against my wrist.

It’s two fingers and then it’s three, and I’m curling them against his g-spot, pulling back and then thrusting forward again, fucking him with my fingers. I haven’t touched the pump in his balls yet, so he’s still soft, and I like looking at him like this more than I expected.

“Maybe I’ll keep you like this”, I murmur, and I’m almost actually thinking about it. I brush my thumb over his balls, tease the soft skin as I continue to curl my fingers in his ass. There’s a sound with each movement, wet lube against the latex of my gloves, and it’s loud and obnoxious and obscene. “All soft.”

“God, you’re a fucking asshole”, he spits out, and I know he doesn’t mean it, much as he wants to pretend to be full of indignant rage.

“Yep.” I say. “A massive asshole. A total bastard. Colour?”

“Green”, he says, and I pull back my fingers just enough to hear him whimper, and then thrust them back in hard. “So fucking green.”

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Please.”

“You’ve been so good”, I say, and it’s not true, but I’m enjoying this enough to pretend it is, and he’ll enjoy what I’m doing more if I pretend. “That I’ll let you pick which cock I fuck you with.”

He half gasps and half moans, throws his head back just a little, and I know his eyelashes are fluttering against his cheekbones. “The orange one”, he says. “Definitely the orange one.”

The orange dildo he’s talking about is short and fat, with a smooth curve and a faintly defined head. I stand to the side of the bed, make sure he can watch me when I undress, watch his tongue dart out to wet his lips as I take my boxers off, eyes flicking between my eyes and my cock, and then staring, mesmerised as I pull the harness over my hips, wiggle my cock into place. He looks even more mesmerised as I squirt lube onto my hand and work it onto my cock, soft strokes and then hard strokes, and I can’t feel it but looking at it, looking at him looking at me, it all makes my cunt drip.

I fuck him with one hand on his thigh, gripping just tight enough that he can’t move to fuck himself back against my cock, that he just has to take whatever I want to give him. I lean into him, driving it slightly downwards so that it pushes up against his g-spot, pushing harder and further in with each thrust, until he’s taken the whole of my cock down to the base. And then, acting on something almost instinctual, I pull out again, push my weight up on one knee, then push my cock back into him with one slow, smooth movement. And the guttural sound he makes, the way he pulls against the ankle restraints and the bar, the sheer joy of power I feel warming in my chest, they all just make me realise that I want to be able to see his face while I’m fucking him.

We move, and the spreader bar is gone now. He’s on his back, holding his legs so that his knees are almost above his head, and takes a sharp intake of breath as I slide my cock back into him. It takes a few thrusts to work my way back into a rhythm, the pressure pushing the back of the cock against my dick, rubbing and pushing against it enough that I think I could maybe come just from fucking him.

“Good boy”, I say, and it’s a taunt but it’s a loving one.

He slumps with each thrust slightly, pliable and soft, and I’m murmuring more encouragement as I keep fucking him, pace faster and faster, words falling from my lips between heavy breaths. He’s still soft- I haven’t touched the pump at all, and somehow that makes it better, filthier, more everything. His legs are shaking, and his eyes are unmoving, focused on my face as his eyes widen and his lip quivers. On the next thrust, he looks close to crying.

I pause for a second. “Colour.”

“Green.” He smiles when he says it, a big, wide, shameless smile, and even though his eyes still look dangerously wet around the corners, I believe him when he says it. My hand is back on his hip again, stroking gently where I gripped it hard before, and this time I let him push back against me, fuck himself on my cock. He moves one hand from his legs, curls it into the sheets, holding both legs up with the other hand, and he makes a breathy cry that’s so faint I can hardly hear him. But I can see him, soft skin on his inner thighs shaking and quivering, the faint trail of curly hair on his belly moving with every deep breath he takes, and I want nothing more than to make him feel good.

“Do you want me to-” I start, sliding a hand against his dick, one finger brushing against the pump in his balls, but he cuts me off. He comes, still soft and with nothing to spurt, mouth wide open like he wants to scream but can’t, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as his eyes roll back in his head.

“Fuck.” I say, because I can’t think of anything more to say. And he smiles, looks up at me, and curls his body around me, pulls me forward until my weight is on my hips, locks his ankles behind my back, and keeps fucking himself on my cock. He keeps curling around me, one hand on my hair, pushing the base of the cock against me just in the right place and with the right intensity. And he kisses me, a wet messy kiss, his tongue and lips against mine as he carries on until it’s almost too much, and then actually too much. “Oh fuck.”

I come too.


This piece of smut is pure fantasy, and any resemblance to real situations or people is unintentional and coincidental.

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