Just a Friendly Drink
A Gay Erotic Short Story in “Millie’s Vast Expanse”
by Millie Dynamite
© Copyright 2016 - 2019 by Millie Dynamite
NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under the age of eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains deive scenes of a graphic sexual nature. By reading this eBook, you assert that you comply with your local or state laws. This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons whether living, deceased, actual events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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You just crossed over into Millie’s Vast Expanse — a land of seductions filled with tender, loving ecstasy or affairs entered into with reluctance and fear. An affair, begun in a hot, desperate, flash from veiled cravings. Where a man discovered he wasn’t the person he thought he was. Urges buried inside, denied, hidden from the world and himself.
Meet Brad, a twentyish college graduate working in the advertising field. He is a small man with small hands, small feet, short in stature and a timid soul. Blessed or cursed with a soft, elegant face more suited to a woman than a man. He has deep-seated fears; some he is aware of while others he does not even know exist – not yet, that is. Then there are the desires – he doesn’t know about those either or perhaps, more to the point, won’t own up to them. He just turned off from Normal Boulevard onto a winding avenue in the middle of the Expanse named Fate. Being lonely and thirsty he spied a bar and thought he would have a few beers and relax. Unfortunately, (or is it fortunately?), he has wondered into Millie’s Vast Expanse, and his world is about to expand from the finite to the infinite. Beware – sharks sometimes, swim near the shore.
Just a Friendly Drink
Mark: ...and then there was the time he walked up to this group of tourists and they were petrified because, A – they were obviously lost, and B – had probably never spoken to a drag queen before in their lives... and he... she just offered to escort them out of Alphabet City... and then she let them take a picture with her and then she said she’d help ‘em find the Circle Line… Rent (2005)
(special note to those not in the know the ‘he’ and the ‘she’ in the quote are the same person.)
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My name is Brad. I’m not a lady’s man, anything but, to be honest. I have dedicated my life to celibacy. Not by my choice you understand. I guess I need to explain myself.
I’m short – five feet four inches tall. I’m thin – I weigh less than 110 pounds. I’m cursed with a pretty face, at least, that is what the girls tell me, and even some guys say so. I take it as an insult because even though it is true, it is painful. You cannot imagine how disheartening it is to try and talk to a woman and have her rebuff you with, “Damn boy you look like a girl.” I have only had one lover in my life. She broke off our relationship; she enjoyed devastating me with insults about the size of my penis.
“It’s like a ten-year-old boy’s prick on a grown man,” she laughed as she added, “Well, not quite a grown man.” I couldn’t handle that insult. I will never make love to a woman again, I told myself. I will content myself with jerking off while looking at dirty pictures or videos. The most satisfying manner of masturbation, me jerking off watching videos of fully clothed, sweet looking women, just walking around or talking aimlessly on cams. You know ‘YouTube’ stuff about today’s outfit. Or the trusty photographs from my high school yearbooks — the pictures of the girls that I had longed to be with, way back then. Even so, I enjoy talking to women, until they get mean or they start talking about my looks.
In so many ways I’m more comfortable talking to women than most men. Men, big men, in particular, frighten me with their underlying aggression and anger in the way they speak to me. Often, they just act mad at me, and I don’t have any comprehension of why. One woman told me that men are mean to me because they feel their manhood is threatened. They are attracted to me, and that scares them. I have always thought that was just bull — they aren’t attracted to me. They can’t be attracted to me, I’m a man. Not a gay man. Just a man.
That day several months ago, I couldn’t get away from work fast enough. My boss, an angry man whose division recently slipped to the lowest rated in the company, blamed everyone but himself for our dismal performance. Taking great relish, he raked me over the coals. His tirade descended into insulting name calling as he shouted me down in front of a gathering of the entire staff.
Driving away from work, I did so as fast I could, and I drove around the city with no particular goal or destination in mind. I needed to calm down before I went home. I wanted to relax and contemplate my future in advertising. Perhaps this wasn’t for me.
I don’t know how long I drove around, but as the sun dipped near the horizon, that was when I saw this bar I had never noticed. I wasn’t even sure where I was. The parking lot was half full or half empty, depending on your personal preference. Parking, making my way inside, I sat at the bar, and pondered what I should order. I decided I should just drink beer. After all, it’s a man’s drink, and there were dozens of women in the bar. One wanted to look manly in front of all those beauties.
That night I drank my beer sitting at the bar watching those wonderful women. I tried to talk to them, but as usual, I struck out with each and every one. To be honest, I just wanted to talk to them, be around them and get fuel for jerking off later that night. I wasn’t alone. I spoke to a man at the bar having the same luck or indeed lack thereof, like me. We sat together at the bar, bitching about the women and their stuck-up attitude. All night the both of us tried and failed to dance with a beautiful girl. A few let us buy them drinks but flitted off as soon as they had their prize. I think we both felt like the ultimate losers at that point.
I felt comfortable with him right off the bat. He had a calm way about him, a deep voice that resonated with authority and confidence. I couldn’t believe we had the same outcome from our efforts. A large handsome man and these prima donnas laughed him off, same as me. He purchased a round, then another. I tried to buy one here or there, but he would wave it off, telling me to save my money. I don’t know how many drinks I had. I wasn’t drunk. I can hold my booze, but still, I’d had a lot of beer.
Let’s put our cards on the table here. I’m a small, geeky guy experienced in rejection by good-looking women since well before I was a man, or they were women. The girls made fun of me, beat me up and humiliated me from first grade. Now I’m twenty-seven and good-looking women, more often than not, appear offended by my existence. Several have told me if I am just honest and admit I’m gay they can be my friend, but they want nothing to do with me if I’m hiding in the closet, and that stings. The man I drank with looked to be my exact opposite, at least, one would assume. He was handsome, tall, well built; I mean … muscled up like a running back or quarterback. Why he struck out, I hadn’t a clue.
At first, I found a comfort in his failed attempts, you know – the fallen hero syndrome. Then I felt as sorry for him as I did myself. A kind of bond formed between us. We commiserated together over several more beers.
“Hey, why don’t we cut out and go to my place?” he asked me. I felt somewhat uneasy about that; I wasn’t even sure why. I turned him down, saying I had to get up early. It was a lie, and I wasn’t sure why I said it since the next day was Saturday. He put his big hand on my shoulder and squeezed it, a light, friendly squeeze.
“Just one then, come on man, no way we will get lucky tonight with these stuck up,” he paused a moment, “men haters. Look, Brad, it will be… just a friendly drink.”
Eventually, with some reluctance, I gave in to his wishes. He thumped me on the back in a jolly friendly manner.
“You won’t be sorry, brother,” he told me, then added, “you can leave your car here. I live right across the street.” When we walked out, I looked at the building and realized what building it was – the Anderson Arms Apartments.
“Holy shit,” I thought to myself, “he is a rich bastard.” The big high-rise apartment building was the most exclusive one in the city; his digs had to cost over a thousand dollars a month. As we approached the entry, a doorman yanked the door open.
“Good evening, Mr. Anderson,” he said, as we walked through the doorway. He nodded to the man, and we moved past him into the lobby. The room testified to how rich those that lived here were. Crystal chandeliers lit the room, expensive paintings adorned the walls, and the furniture was all antique. Money seemed to drip from the walls. A few people in the lobby rushed up and spoke to Mr. Anderson, slapped him on the back or asked him how things were going. He talked to them with dispassionate responses, he seemed to have less interest in them than they in him.
A woman stood behind a counter where rows of surveillance monitors lined the back wall showing the hallways of twenty-four of twenty-five floors. The only floor not covered with the cameras was the top floor – the penthouse. She wore a tight blue police-style uniform – SECURITY – emblazoned on her badge and patches. Her one of her well-rounded hips sported a gun in a holster.
“How about that game the other night, Mr. Anderson?” Her soft melodic voice sounded sexy as she spoke with a slow southern drawl. Her curvaceous body filled the uniform with an appealing, beauty of form and my mind ran wild with a vivid curiosity about how that hot body could function. She gave me a sideways glance and this odd smirk passed over her face and then vanished. Turning her head to me, one eyebrow arched as she gazed at me, an indescribable look passed over her face. The uniform gave her a militant look, and I felt she disapproved of me.
Blonde hair pulled into a tight bun added to her authoritarian appearance. A vision of her straddling some hapless intruder, him sprawled out on the floor, a nightstick in one of her hands while the other was balled into a fist ready to beat him silly flashed through my brain. She reminded me of the big blonde in the Police Academy movies. “Damn that bitch could dominate me anytime,” I thought to myself. I sickened for a moment, realizing she could control me physically.
“I lost a shit load on it,” he said, tossing her a small wad of bills. Snatching the bills out of the air, the woman bobbed her head, shoved the money into her uniform top, pushing it into her bra. She returned to her station paying no more attention to me. I did notice she gazed at Mr. Anderson, a look of adoration on her face.
He pushed a button at the center elevator, and the doors slid open. When we entered, he pulled out a card and shoved it in a reader. The word PENTHOUSE lit up on the console as the doors banged as they shut.
“What … you rich or something?” I asked him.
“Yeah, I am,” he shot me a soft smile as the elevator jarred us as we moved. The rapid rise made my stomach lurch, and I reached out to the wall to steady myself. I felt his big powerful hand on my shoulder steady me. It was odd to me that his hand felt good touching me, but it reassured me.
“Guess I had more than I thought,” I answered, feeling queasy, my stomach jumping inside me as my head spun. The ride seemed to last only a few seconds before the doors slid open. The view of the vast, opulent room, complete with a fireplace in the center of the expansive chamber, astonished me. Flames leaped from the logs in the round fireplace providing the only light in the room. Statues stood around the room, paintings hung on the walls, an antique Victrola here, the massive head of moose hung on one wall, a wolf’s head and deer antlers on another wall and a jumping mountain lion who seemed to leap from the fire.
A heady scent of orange filled my nostrils as I moved into the room on rather shaky feet. As I stepped in an awkward lurch toward the fireplace, I heard the elevator doors clank shut. Shaking off the uneasy feeling, I took a few awkward steps, stumbled on something on the floor and felt his hands grab onto my arms steadying me as his mighty hands covered my biceps.
Holding me there, I supposed to give a minute to gain my senses, his hand clutched me, the big powerful fingers digging into my biceps, pressing deep in the soft flesh of my arms. Closing my eyes, I willed my stomach to calm down and my head to stop spinning. He pulled me back into him, that was when I realized just how much larger than me he was. I felt odd and didn’t know why then his action of pulling back to him felt so strange, uncomfortable, and yet, secure. His massive body covered mine as he clutched me to him. I could feel his hard body, the taut and rippled muscles pressed into my body. The warmth of him warmed my back.
“Just take a second, Brad,” he said, his deep voice assured me everything was fine. It dawned on me he was twice my size. “You look a little weak or something right now. Are you getting ill?” His hand rubbed my arms. With a light but firm touch, he massaged my biceps. His powerful fingers dug into my small muscles then moved to my neck, and yet it felt … incredible. I wanted to be angry and offended, but I couldn’t will up any rage.
“Yeah, Brad, you’re drunk – eight beers will do that to you,” he said. “You know you’re … quite attractive.” One of his hands moved to my face as he stroked my cheek. His callused hand touched my face so tender and soft. “You know it too, don’t you? Such a lovely face.”
Oh shit, this can’t be happening – why did guys or girls always bring up my face? Where he touched me this strange flash of heat moved over my cheeks. I found it odd that bumps formed on my face. My cock throbbed as it grew hard. Shit, what is with that? My small pecker rode up on the zipper of my pants, the brass scratching the tender flesh. I knew I had to put up resistance.
“Look, man I’m not gay, bi, or any of that shit,” I said, as this thing moved beyond my ability to understand. It happened so fast my mind couldn’t keep up with events. His hands squeezed even harder, and slight pain shot through my shoulder. Oh God, my heart wouldn’t stop pounding as a tear ran from my eye. This couldn’t be happening. Why did he touch me … like this? I felt weak in my knees, and while my stomach no longer felt upset, still my head spun.
“Me either,” he said, clenching one hand down hard where my neck met my shoulder, holding me in place, while the other hand moved, descending from my face to my chest. His lips were next to my ear, kissing it, his tongue darting out tasting the crevices as he whispered, his wet lips touching hot on my ear. The experience frightened me, excited me and gave me the most bizarre, conflicting sensations simultaneously.
“I really like you, Brad. You’re so soft, small and feminine. Your face is so beautiful – those bitches were jealous of you. That’s why women treat you so bad – they are envious of your beauty,” he said, his words spoken directly into my ear. The hot breath moved over my ear sending chills down my spine. I felt I should repel his advance, break away and run away from him. But I didn’t as this odd pride welled in me. I believed him – for the first time in my life I felt the way I was attractive was a good thing.
“For the great ones eat up the little ones,” he said, clutching me hard for a moment, “I got you drunk, just enough, to make my meal easier to catch,” he said, then added more. “You will feel every delicious moment. You know you want this more than me. And so you know, I’m not a fag either, I just like fucking cute things, and for a man that sees himself as loser geek boy, you’re a beautiful creature.” His hands roamed my body, and as he kissed my neck, shivers moved through me. I tried to struggle, and I wanted him to stop him. At least, I told myself I wanted to stop him, but with no effort he controlled me.
“I’m going to call you Brandy from now on,” He pushed me to my right and toward a big sofa or something like a sofa. As we walked, the hand on my chest tore at my shirt, the buttons fell off, tinkling as they hit the floor. I don’t know when he let loose of my neck, but that hand tore the shirt from my body as his other hand, the one at my chest, pinched my nipples and squeezed my pecs. The gooseflesh rose on my chest from his touch, his rough, dominating touch. I couldn’t understand how my body was on fire, and yet all those tiny bumps covered my skin. I felt my heart beating in my neck, my ears, even my temples pounded as the blood gushed through my veins.
Taking my long, shaggy hair in his hand, he pulled my face toward him. His thin lips met my fuller, firm ones and we kissed. I tried to pull away, but he held my hair tight. His tongue darted out, parting my lips, testing my mouth. Our tongues intertwined and my body went limp, my body sagged, but he held me to him. When we broke our kiss, I tried to protest.
“I … this is …” words wouldn’t form. I couldn’t say what I wanted to say.
“You want to leave?” he asked. I nodded, and he let me go, stepping away. “Leave,” he said, pointing at the elevator. I took a step and hesitated, turned back to look at him and he grabbed my arm, yanking me back to him. “You don’t want to leave. You just want to play hard to get,” he said, the pulled me to him again and our lips locked together. His hands roamed over my body, and I responded to his powerful touch.
“Such a lovely little chest, like a tomboy I used to ass fuck so she could play like my boyfriend.” He treated my body like a woman’s body. Squeezing my chest, my butt, and rubbing my neck. My rock-hard cock stood straight out when his hand moved over it. It tented up in my jeans, and he smiled at me. I felt so ashamed at how small it was. He touched it – he knew. “Tiny, baby prick, like some girl’s fucking clit,” he told me, demeaning me. I felt disgraced, ashamed of the size of my cock, humiliated by him treating me like a girl and totally devastated as my cock spit out thick streams of juice, it darkened my jeans, spreading out over them more with each spurt.
I felt my pants fall to the floor. “Commando. I like that, Brandy,” he told me. I regretted not wearing underwear at that point. He rubbed his hand over prick and balls, getting the cum all gathered up, smothering it in his palm. He lifted his cum covered hand to my face.
“Clean it up, Brandy — you fucking beautiful bitch,” his deep voice purred in my ear. His other hand left my chest and seized my hair, and he twisted a handful. “Get that fucking tongue out and clean it up — bitch!” he cooed in my ear, something in his words, his ominous and threatening tone sent a shiver down my spine. I complied, eating my disgusting issue. It was a nasty, salty, taste. I hated it and wanted to stop but he was too strong, or I was too weak – or maybe I wanted to eat it. I wasn’t sure what the truth was.
Once I had his hand clean, he started to unbutton his shirt. He held me by my hair, pulled me to him so tight I could feel his free hand as he worked the buttons. He worked his muscled arm out of the sleeve, that hand took the others place on my head. Again, he tore at my hair, controlling me, twisting my head as he clasped my hair. I could taste my fear, my lust; they mingled with my semen, nauseating me. My heart beat so hard, and so fast it hurt. My ears pounded, I swear I could feel the blood rushing through every vein in my body.
I wanted to run, to break free of him and run. Two things stopped me though. First, there was the fear that welled up inside me and froze my feet to the floor. But second, the lust, the fucking lust welled in me. It was like a drug, doping me up to where I was unable to make myself have the will to do a damn thing. My head was only as tall as his big broad chest. I also knew he outweighed me by one-hundred-twenty pounds or more. Tears streamed down my face. My heart raced, pounding in my chest so hard I could hear the bass drum throbbing, beating its hard tempo my ears. My flesh tingled as the gooseflesh rose over my entire body, not utterly an unpleasant feeling – yet the dread of my situation raced in my mind. Letting go of me he backed away, giving me my freedom.
“You want to leave? Do you Brandy? Do you want to get out of here?” He stood behind me unmoving.
“Yes,” I said.
“Go,” he said, “pick up your clothes and get the fuck out of here.” I stood there transfixed, my feet were still frozen to the floor. I couldn’t work up the will to leave and then, oh God, I wanted him to want me, to use me. Grabbing me again he whispered in my ear, “Knew you didn’t want to leave, sweetie. You need to grow your hair longer, baby doll. I like long hair on my little girls,” he told me while he worked his left arm from the shirt.
He pushed my face down on the big wide sofa that looked like a bed with curled wood as a head and footboard, the ornate arms were a dark wood with rough notches and stains covering them. I noticed the mattress had circular, discolored stains. It took me a second to recognize them as semen stains. At one end of the day sleeper lay a large fluffy pillow which I barely had time to notice before he buried my face in its perfumed softness. That fragrance of citrus filled my nostrils again. He pressed his muscled body into mine, I felt him unbuckle his belt and work it out of the loops. Putting the leather around my neck, he positioned the belt with great care, placing the tip through the buckle dragging the leather past the holes, drawing it tight around my neck, a choke collar to control me.
“Such a cute body, thin waist, lovely little tits, and that little round ass, mmm,” he said. He tugged the leather snug but not too tight. He ran his tongue up spine and shivers ran from where his wet tongue met my flesh.
“You’re going to love what I do to you, Brandy,” he whispered in my ear. I had tried several times to protest, but the words wouldn’t come forth. Then in a rushed flow, I begged him while bawling. A deep giggle came from him, his amusement at my circumstance degrading me even more.
“Your tears are so lovely. If there were makeup mingled with them you would be even more gorgeous,” he said. Running his tongue over my face, he traced a tear from my check to the corner of my eye. “You have to stop asking me to stop if you aren’t going to leave when I give you the opportunity,” he said, his tone again ominous.
“Please, stop. I’m not like this. I beg of you, don’t hurt me, don’t do this,” he stood up and walked away from me pushing the call button on the elevator. The doors slid open, and I just lay there. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I didn’t leave, as a matter of truth, I didn’t wish to leave.
He returned as the doors clanged shut, laying on top of me again. I heard the zipper and felt him struggle as he worked to free his prick from inside his pants. I realized why it had been difficult when he laid the anaconda on my ass. It was enormous and so rigid.
“No, please,” I begged, pleaded and cried as he adjusted himself on top of me. The big globular head lay against my asshole, feeling like a mammoth plum pressing against the opening. I felt the bulbous helmet rubbing me, my ass tensed up as I clenched my cheeks tight.
“Stop teasing, no more bullshit,” he said before he flexed then pushed inside me. Pain slashed in my anus as the angry snake tore into me as he stabbed through the threshold. Agony blasted through me, I thought he had ripped apart – I feared my guts would shred. He pushed again, and the pain went deeper inside me as the pain lessened at the opening, his shaft seeming smaller behind the massive head. He thrust forward, and the gigantic head tore in further – driving in deeper again. The opening again felt a ripping as his shaft fattened up again. Each thrust the prick head went deeper and a hard throbbing seared inside me. One-half-an-inch at a time he thrust in – slow deliberate – hard – he pressed that massive pecker into me. It hurt so badly, yet there was an undeniable pleasure as my cock swelled.
Pulling back, he stopped just short of removing the rod from my ass. He pushed in again, pushing his weight down on me to force his cock. It was so large, and my hole was so small. As he pushed harder, he banged an inch deeper each time. Every inch that went in was fatter than the inch that preceded it. Ten thrusts, ten fucking inches and still there was more.
“That’s it, bitch, work that ass. Fuck me back, whore,” he grunted.
I thrashed about under him, desperate to get away. Mistaking my efforts to be free, he thought I enjoyed his rough fucking. Still, there was a pleasure. It hurt – yes, it hurt, but it was such a good pain. I wanted this so much now, there was no way out for me.
He berated me with demeaning insults about me being a dirty little whore, or a randy, raunchy bitch and other such comments. He held me in such a tight grasp I thought my hair would rip from my head. He pulled back, way back, not quite out of me out, the fat head just inside me. He just sat there adjusting his body over me, the big helmet inside rectum moved around, hurting me. Yanking on the belt, he jerked my head back. I panicked and writhed about under him, he pounded into deep forcing it all inside me in one brutal shove.
“I knew you would love it – Brandy,” he hissed in my ear.
“I hate it,” I said.
“Lying cunt,” he said, banging me harder and deeper. I couldn’t help but wonder how he knew I lied.
“Tell me to fuck you hard and fast, Brandy,” he said, his enthusiastic laughter filled my ears.
“No,” I answered. He yanked the belt so tight I could barely breathe. “Fuck me hard and fast,” I said, and dear God, I meant what I said. He bucked into me driving in deeper with each lunge. Pounding me into that day sleeper, he let go of the belt and reached underneath me, with a rough, coarse grip he yanked twice on my cock. It twitched and spilled cum on the bed and up my belly again. The shame filled me. And yet, I enjoyed it, wanted it. Wanted him.
Shoving his monster cock into my guts I worried he might be ripping me apart, I could feel the muscles yielding as he beat my shit deeper inside of me with each punishing lunge. For a brief moment, I thought of trying to escape, fearing the emotions that boiled in me. In a lust induced haze, I looked around the room. It was a distorted view; my mind whirled, adjusting to this reality. I saw the expensive furniture, fixtures, paintings, and statues, but nothing I could use as a weapon. I turned my head to the side and saw the elevator. From the sofa, I could see those sliding doors, but they were miles away.
I won’t be able to get to the door, call the elevator and escape before he beats the hell out of me, I thought. And what was my option, anyway? To run naked, in a groggy haze through the halls of his building begging for help? It’s remarkable how fear can make you realize you have to, absolutely have to please your captor. The truth was simple. I wanted to please him, and I wanted his cock. I stopped looking for a means of escape. I stopped my bitching and begging and instead, moaned like a bitch getting it just the way she likes it. In the end, it was just what I wanted, what I needed. He wasn’t raping me — he gave me every opportunity to leave.
At first, I felt like he stole something from me. My self-respect and my manhood, but then as he controlled me — used me — I realized he gave me something. Something other than his monster prick, a part of me that hid in the shadows was revealed. Something I had always denied couldn’t be denied any longer. I wanted this — I wanted him and began to enjoy myself. I let go of the fear and embraced the situation, pushing back to meet each plunge. I felt his body tense up, he quickened his pace as his hand grabbed my throbbing prick again.
“I want us to cum together,” he said as he stroked me. I felt it when he let loose with big thick globs coating my insides at the same time, I dumped my own load. One thick stream after another spilled inside me before he collapsed on top of me, touching me and fondling my body for some time. His cock laid between my legs all sticky, slick with the mixture that covered it. As we lay there entwined on that antique day sleeper, he whispered in my ear — sweet nothings about me being his girl. No longer did the words hurt, offend, or frighten me.
We rose from the sofa and showered, clutching each other’s bodies as we cleaned ourselves. He bent down to me, his lips hovered on mine, barely touching as the water streamed over faces, running into our open mouths. He whispered, his lips brushing mine, “Such, a beautiful girl, all mine.” His tongue snaked out of his mouth and wound into mine. Our lips pressed tighter, and we kissed, his powerful arms pulled me tightly to him. I could feel the strength in his muscles, bundles of coiled wires that couldn’t be as hard as his body.
When we broke apart, I couldn’t help but want more. I clutched him, but he spun me around my back to his front. I thought he would enter me again, but instead, he soaped up my body. His hands roamed over my body, lathering my back. When he got to my pecker, he took his time. Working up the lather, he stroked me. A slow, gentle, up and down he would squeeze my balls in light grasp. I lasted for several minutes before I spurted against the shower wall. The thick white stream was washed away by the water as soon it splattered on the decorative tile.
After the shower, we dried each other. I sat on his lap, and he kissed my neck as we snuggled on the bathroom floor. His monster cock twitched from time to time, and I knew soon he would want more. I could hardly wait. He carried me to the bedroom and laid me on the bed. Opening a drawer, he took out small teddy and laid it over me.
“Yeah, you’ll look good in that,” he said, his deep voice soft and low. “Get dressed and come out to me at the fireplace.” His big cock showed signs of life as moved around, bobbing and twitching as it swung between his legs. He moved to the door stopped and turned back to me.
“Come out and let’s see how long we can fuck this time,” there was a wicked grin on his face. I had never dressed like a girl before, but when I looked upon myself in the mirror, I saw me as he did. Oh, shit I looked good. I felt more confident than ever before in my lie. I didn’t want this to end.
When I walked out, he was near the fireplace, seated on a small love seat. He patted the cushion next to him, and I went and sat there. He put his arm around me, and I laid my head against his big pecs. My small hands roamed over his hard body as we sat together. I was free to be me with him; I had never known who I was until that night.
The rest of that weekend passed in a whirlwind. We would be talking, and something would set it off, and we’d be at it again, fucking like bunnies. He would dump a load in my ass, climb off me, grab my head and guide me to suck him hard again. We would bang on the couch, the floor over the fireplace with flames licking near my face. I lost count of how many times he fucked my ass. That first night, it was more than six times, I know that. I hurt. Yet hurt is incorrect. I ached so deeply; a gut-wrenching agony filled my every fiber, and still, it was delightful. I leaked cum from my ass while this deep, enjoyable, throbbing pain shot through me in waves. When he wanted to rest, we would sleep with our bodies tangled together.
He was violent, rough, and cruel, and yet loving and kind at the same time. Through it all, he praised my figure, my form, and feminine face. As he fucked me, I needed his praise, desired it and when I received it — God, I can’t believe my feelings of being wanted so much. It overwhelmed me. I could smell and taste both his sweat and cum, and oddly it excited me.
The weekend passed with him fucking the shit out me, gorging that fat prick down my throat while telling me how cute I was. He must have violated my ass twenty-five times, my throat at least as many. I think the best thing of all — his constant comments about me being feminine, sexy, and beautiful. There was no need to doubt it, for I had no manhood, nothing about me was masculine. I belonged to him. I was his sissy slut.
After that weekend we agreed not to see each other for two months. I would allow my hair to grow out and learn how to apply makeup. He gave me twenty-five-hundred-dollars to purchase clothing. The weeks crawled by on dreadful, slow day after another. I put in my time at work, and I could tell they were looking at me, at my walk and the way I wore my hair. I began to dress differently. Not girly, not yet, but in unisex clothing, giving me an androgynous look. I started wearing lipstick and eyeliner and shadow.
The boss thought I’d gone emo. He called me into his office and asked if this change was in support of the clothing line we now represented. After all, it was my account, and I wore their label, so I said, “Yes.” He was pleased; I could feel him undressing me with his eyes. In fact, all the men in the office were looking at me, lusting after me. I could sense it. My clients liked the change also. But I wasn’t doing it for them. It was all for Mr. Anderson.
I was dying to see him again, we texted each other every day. I sent him pictures of how I looked, and he sent me back compliments. As the day of our reunion drew near my anticipation grew boundless. That night I picked out a black mini skirt, a white silk blouse, matching black bra (with just a small amount of padding) and thong, fishnet stockings and some lovely high heels.
The cab pulled up in front of the building, I got out, leaned down into the passenger window handing the man a $20.00 bill.
“Thank you miss, oh hombre qué puta caliente ojala pudiera tornillo,” he said, I didn’t understand what he said, but I think it was a compliment. Adjusting his cock in front of me he said, “Tan largo,” waving at me as he drove away into the night. Turning to the building, I walked up to the door. The doorman opened it and smiled at me.
“You look good tonight, Miss …,” he paused then continued, “Brandy, that’s right, isn’t it?” I nodded, then walked into the elegant lobby.
The security guard looked at me and wagged her finger for me to come to her. She handed me a key card. “You’re looking good — bitch. He’s waiting for you and such in a good mood. I bet he makes you howl tonight,” she told me.
The doors closed and elevator jumped up, a big knot formed in my stomach. In less than thirty seconds the car stopped. The doors slid open. I hesitated a moment and stepped out into the room.
“Fuck, I hope he likes the way I look.”
****
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