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Crossing the Line
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
CROSSING THE LINE
I remember the low brick wall in front of my mother's house, the
corner where it met the hedge, the scrubby tree that straggled up
against it. I was clambering around there one day when a family friend
happened along and commented on my hotpants.
"Shorts," I said tersely, with all the bravado my eight years could
muster.
"Hotpants," she declared to one of my sisters, who had happened along.
"Look, she's in _fashion_. She's _mod_!"
Their insistence was too much for me. I broke down in tears and
vanished into one of my secret haunts to lick my wounds. Crying like a
girl, because they would not accept that I was like a boy.
The paradox has stayed with me all my life, though the little girls
are gone, long gone.
* * *
Thinking back on those days, on the strange juxtaposition of
tree-climbing and paperdolls; of comfortable clothes and leg waxing;
of confidence and deference, I happened to ask how it had been for
him.
The answer took me by surprise. He said he had dressed up with his
brother and sister, and perhaps had put on dresses more than anything
else, and perhaps remembered sequined fabrics, and the sheerness of
stockings. He said he remembered dreaming of being a girl, and waking
from the dream to his maleness, and drenching the pillow with tears.
The conversation ended, and the day continued, filled with the things
that people do in ordinary days. The bruise-purple of the clouds
was replaced by the orange of sunset, and night came.
It was late by the time we got to bed. I stripped off my T-shirt and
switched on the nightlight, rolling to nestle in his arms. His bare
flesh was warm, the hardness of his chest reassuring. He stroked me,
and I stretched against his touch. His hand moved too quickly to my
groin and a rough finger slipped inside me, where it was still too
dry, and I could feel his erect penis press up against my thigh where
I lay against him.
A broad emptiness swelled up and I couldn't feel anything he was
doing. I felt disappointment reach in, and turned to him and said,
"Sometimes it feels as though if I lay on my back and stared at the
ceiling...", and stopped, ashamed.
"No," he said, "it's not like that." His hands once more on my back.
"Yes," I answered, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it. I'm sorry."
Contrite, I stroked his chest. His nipples were already hard, and as
my palms brushed against them he moaned slightly. I squeezed them
lightly, and he responded more strongly. I pushed against his shoulder
so that he lay on his back, and propped myself up so that I was
positioned slightly over him. I bent my head to his nipple. Just
breathed on it, alert for the slight gasp of anticipation. With my
fingers I traced circles around the pleading buttons, in and out,
almost touching but never quite getting there, stirring the hairs
around them so that he could feel the emptiness that clamoured more
and more to be filled.
He lay with his head thrown back, eyes closed, breathing heavily. I
watched him for a moment and returned to his chest, resolutely
refusing to touch the straining nipples, even though he tried to twist
towards my hands and mouth. My tongue lapped down his stomach to his
thighs. I pushed them apart roughly, and he did not resist. I stroked
and licked his thighs, and the naked skin around his balls. I could
feel the hair where it was starting to grow again, but it was soft,
not stubbly, and still very sparse. I explored the place between his
balls and his asshole with my tongue, and he murmured with pleasure
when my cheek brushed against his prick.
I played with him for a little while, surprised at his responsiveness.
Usually he was more stoic, and it was difficult to gauge what he was
feeling and what he wanted. This time he was like a flower splayed
open. Closed to the world; open to me.
And I? Something was happening which I hadn't anticipated. I had
labelled myself a hopeless dominant, because I never felt comfortable
in the position. Initiating sex, being an active participant, had
never been a problem. But taking charge entirely, so that he was mine
to bend to my will, had never quite fitted together. My response was
to play the scene as an actor plays a role, to become a brutal
dominatrix whose major recourse was pain. No manipulating him like a
musical instrument, no delicate probing of his needs, his weaknesses,
his desperations. I always wanted to hurt him, because I didn't know
what to do with power. I bit or lashed him, and drowned myself in
anger and bitterness when he failed to respond. Of late I had learned
to curb it, and be gentle with him, and we both got more from it - but
I had never felt I was really in tune with what was happening.
This was different. It seeped into me quickly and I grasped and held
it, and understood. I cupped his chin in my hand and turned his face to
mine, and bent to kiss him, forcing my tongue into his mouth. My
fingers tightened on his nipple and he groaned. My thigh ground down
against his prick. I held my face close to his and whispered, "I want
to fuck you, bitch."
He nodded, dumb. I could feel the heat in my cunt, and the hot smooth
wetness there. I kissed him again, running my hands over the body that
I owned. I felt it filling me up, splashing over to hold him captive.
I squeezed the flesh around his nipple and fashioned it into a breast,
and touched his soft girl's mouth and dipped my tongue into the hollow
of his throat.
I stared at him, waited for him to open his eyes, stared
expressionlessly into their blue-grey depths and saw uncertainty, even
fear, flicker on his face. I reached up towards his cheek with my hand
and watched him flinch, but only stroked his skin with my fingertips.
I pushed his head sideways suddenly and whispered in his ear, "I want
to fuck your cunt." He pressed his head back into the pillows and lay
helpless in my arms.
"Do you want me to fuck you, do you, do you?" I insisted.
"Please," he murmured, "please."
I made him open his legs and licked my finger and placed it on his
asshole. He wanted it badly, this man who avoided anal sex wherever
possible, who had to be persuaded to fuck my asshole with his finger
and disliked almost anything in his. The light touch of my finger on
his puckered skin made him jump. I could almost feel it trying to suck
me in. For a mad moment I thought I would get my whole hand in there,
force it right inside him and massage his prostate, make him take me
like a whore who had no choice.
But I held back. It was enough to have the power; I would not abuse
it. I reached over for the tube of lubricant beside the bed and
smeared some over my finger and his hole. My free hand crept up to his
nipple, and squeezed. I continued to tease his asshole until he was
begging, "Please, please, fuck me."
"Please what?"
"Please, Mistress."
I bit him hard over his hip, so that he cried out, and growled,
"Please what?"
"Please, Master."
"That's better," I assented with a slight smile, and slowly slid my
greased finger into his asshole. I knelt there and pumped my finger in
and out, watching the twitching and shivering of his hard frame. Mine.
Mine and mine alone. My girl. My baby.
I fucked him with my finger for a while, intermittently stopping to
fondle his balls and thighs. He was dangerously lost, ready to give
himself to anything I chose. "Can I hurt you?"
"Yes."
"Can I do anything I want?"
"Yes."
I pulled myself upward, and bit at his nipples until they were red and
swollen. Intermittently I smeared my fingers with spit and rubbed,
soothing, cooling. My hands moved repeatedly from nipples to groin,
along that sensitive passage just inside the hip bones. As though
accidentally, I brushed at his cock as I passed, feeling it jumping
against me, feeling its hardness desperate for my touch.
I spat on my palm and rubbed it softly over the head of his prick. His
fists clenched as he moaned with pleasure. I could see him hoping I
wouldn't rub too hard, but I did, and felt him tensing, gritting his
teeth as the sensation grew too intense. "See how your clit feels when
it's out of its hood," I teased. I pulled the foreskin over his head
and rubbed again. "Better?"
He did not seem able to reply. I resumed my rubbing of his
naked cockhead, squeezing his balls now gently, now hard, with my
other hand. I barely knew where he was. He was right there and yet far
away, moaning and panting the way I usually did, right on cue to every
touch I invented.
When it seemed to be almost too much, I removed my hand and licked the
tip of his penis, circling his urethra, pushing the tip of my tongue
into the first fraction of it. I wanted a catheter, something to push
inside him, to turn the little opening into a cunt. I pushed my finger
back into his asshole without warning. From his reaction, I could feel
he wanted it as much as I did. I caressed his engorged cockhead with
my tongue and then slowly took it in my mouth. I moved my head up and
down on his cock, pressing my finger into his rectum as deep as it
would go and pushing it down towards his prostate. He began to buck
against me, hips jerking up towards my mouth.
I encircled the base of his cock with my other hand and held my head
almost still, letting him fuck my mouth. He seemed reluctant, and I
understood. He wanted me to do it this time. Usually he wouldn't come
this way, but now he needed my rhythm, my friction, my permission. I
began to move my hand slowly up and down his shaft.
"Come for me, baby," I ordered him. "Come for me, little girl." He
jerked at the word. I concentrated on his cock, masturbating him with
my hand and licking rhythmically at his cockhead. I removed my finger
from his asshole and squeezed his ass, feeling the flesh give beneath
my hard fingertips. He seemed to hover in space, as the slight quiver
began at the base of his cock. I could almost sense the tightening in
his balls. If I stopped now... but no. I was his master and I would
give him the pleasure he craved. I tightened my hold on his prick and
pumped a little faster, and intensified my licking of his head.
He came like a woman, wild and lost, crying out and shattered. I held
him tight and let the come spatter over his chest, and when he was
empty I sucked gently at his nipple like a baby at its mother's
breast. Slowly I felt him subside, and slowly released my hold on his
cock. I took him in my arms and cradled him, gentling him down again.
Held him against my shoulder and kissed him softly, torn with the
wonder of it, the truth in it, the thing we had regained that we had
never known was lost.
* THE END *
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