This is not what you’d call a traditional story with a beginning, middle, and end. It has none of those things. I guess it sits somewhere between pornographic fantasy and wishful thinking. It’s the tale of the person I wish I was, bonding with the person I wish I could be with. The characters are unorthodox and kinky, and yet in their own way rather conventional. The setting is nowhere, and it takes place probably never, because the world where such a relationship would be possible, for me (without the consequences I fear), may not exist. But who knows?
This Boy is Her Girl
by Allison K. Atwood
When we first got together, how we met… I’m not going to tell you any of that. That would remind me that things weren’t always this way, that there was a demarcation between the way things are now and the way they used to be. Let’s just assume this has no beginning and no end, and will always be eternal.
She was my dream come true. A woman who would tell me I was her girl, even though I was born a boy and still identified to the outside world as male.
She would drum the idea into my head that when I went to work at my day job as a male, I was really a girl trying to pass as a boy. “You keep pretending, sweetheart. Don’t let them know what you really are. Be careful you don’t start getting too swishy around the office. You’re not ready to let them see that side of you. Not yet…”
She would put me in long leg women’s panties made of lycra and microfiber that only superficially look like men’s boxer briefs but feel like heaven. Over time she started adding a “training thong” underneath those panties to remind me who and what I am. “I know that it’s risky, that you might get caught, that someone might notice. But I can’t have you going to work in those boring cotton boxers, forgetting how important it is for you to feel femme for me.
“And you know the feeling a thong gives you when the back pulls the fabric upwards and rubs right against that spot between your cheeks, just above the crack of your ass? Your tail point? You know how sensitive you are when I touch you back there? Like when you pick up a kitten by the back of its neck and it just goes limp and goes into what seems like a trance?” She’d reach into my pants to demonstrate. “I want you to know that feeling all… the… time…”
The goal was for me to get used to panties and thongs as my normal everyday underwear, moving on (with her encouragement) to even more girly undergarments. I’d never worn undershirts – even when I was only wearing boys’ underwear – but she took me down a path that started with women’s tank tops, then camisoles, and finally soft cup stretchy bras made of nylon and lycra. “It’s not that I don’t think anyone will notice, I just want you to get to the point where you don’t care if they do. I want the thought of ‘I am wearing a bra and panties’ to consume you all day.”
It did. All day, every day.
When I would come home she’d pounce on me, asking “How is my girl? How was her hard day at work pretending to be a boy?” Her hands would slip down the back of my pants, inside my panties, so she could take hold of my thong in “that spot,” knowing the effect it had on me.
She usually dressed pretty femme herself – when she went out but also around the house. This afforded us many opportunities to have “girl time” together. But one day a package arrived with some clothes she’d just bought – more women’s tank tops and boyfriend boyshort panties. I asked if they were for me and she exclaimed “Hell no, these are for me!” This was a big change – she was explicitly moving, at least some of the time, towards being more masculine. I liked it.
I realized how much I wanted her to be that way, I wanted to have a girl for a boyfriend, still femme but behaving like a guy towards me, without actually being a guy. When I said all this out loud, she pinned me to the railing of the staircase and stuck her tongue down my throat. She rolled my ass back and forth on the railing so that I would be reminded that I was wearing a thong underneath and was totally her girl now.
Lately she’s taken to wearing my old male underwear, which I’m naturally not allowed to wear. A “wife beater” and a pair of boxers are her new favorites. “It shouldn’t all go to waste, you know… someone,” she’d giggle, “has to wear the pants in this house.” Conversations like that would usually end with me lying on my stomach, face buried in the pillows, legs spread, waiting for her to have her way with me. It felt so natural. It WAS natural.
She jokes that we were becoming a gay male couple, that we’re a couple of “gayboys” living together, and she makes me look at male porn with her. “Admit it, you like that guy’s cock, don’t you?” She holds my head to force me to focus on a photo of an enormous dick, or of a guy fucking someone (girl, boy, trans, didn’t matter) from behind – the position she taught me to like.
That’s when she pulls out HER cock from inside her briefs, forces me to my knees, and makes me suck it. Once she’s satisfied that she’s made me fully open and receptive to her by making me fellate her, she throws me onto the bed face down, mounts me, and fucks me, saying “now you’re my girl, my little sissy girl.” She comments on how wearing thongs has constrained my boy parts and made them soft and small, the way she wants them to be, how I had achieved a kind of “cheek gap” that made my ass prettier and more inviting to her. I cry and she fucks me harder. I’ve come to understand that I’m supposed to cry during sex.
She says things to me, telling me to accept the fact that I want to get fucked – by her, by men, by whoever wants to put their dick (real or plastic) inside of me.
The next step, she says, will be for me to start going out in a short dress with a wig and makeup and heels and picking up guys. She’ll be there, watching, all butched out in her wife beater and jeans and sneakers, wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses, basically pimping me out. She said she would be so proud of me if she got to watch me doing that. Proud of me for blindly giving into things she wants that scare me. That just pushes me deeper into that state, like that kitten being picked up by the back of its neck, scared and helpless, but limp and compliant.
When the sex is over, she holds me and squeezes me tight. Pinning me down to fuck me transforms into embracing me gently to make me feel OK about what we’d just done. Bites become kisses, slaps become caresses. I am so hers.
She often talks about our wedding, what will happen the day we get married. She’ll wear an elegant burgundy tuxedo with a pink shirt and matching top hat fascinator. I’ll wear an ivory wedding dress that she picked out, much too short to the point that I’ll need to pull it down throughout the ceremony, even though she’ll discourage me from doing so. On our wedding night, she will tell me she wants to get me pregnant. That will just make me spread my legs wider and take her deeper.
-Allison K. Atwood is a writer and wonderful friend. She does everything with grace and beauty.
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