Categories: queer, gay male, outdoor, dominance/submission
Possible triggers: belting, name-removal
This scene involves a trans man getting dominated by his cis manfriend. Don’t like it? I don’t give a rat’s ass, so go away.
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“What’s your name?” Deep, eyes low with threat.
“David Motherfucking Jones,” I defy, dancing on toes to keep his thrusting hand from choking me.
The hand relents, I sag, the hand slaps me across the face, one-two. “What’s your fucking name,” he hisses but I just glare mulishly. Index fingers hook between my ear and jaw, dig in. “I said. What’s. Your. Goddamn. Name.” His face is up in mine, he spits on me between words.”
I’m growling now, with pain and frustrated insubordination, “David Motherfucking J-”
but he doesn’t let me finish. Chokes with one hand, pinches my nipples with the other, slaps my chest, stomach, sides of my ass, crotch. I see him pontificating furiously, but a train is roaring past 75 feet behind my head and I can’t quite make it out. He keeps it up until the sound has died off, spins me around, pins one wrist high up my back. “What’s your name, faggot?” The other arm circles my torso, hand reaching down to gently stroke my cock.
My brain is melting into the Wenatchee River and the Ponderosa pines, lost somewhere between the salmon run, his fingers on me, his teeth in the base of my neck. “Ahhh…fuck…wh-whatever you want, sir.” What kink-on-the-road lacks in frequency, it accounts for with flawless scenery.
“That’s better, slut.” He lets go of me all at once, and I collapse in a heap at his feet. “Get up!” I start to stand. “No, faggot, hands and fucking knees. I need to get at that ass!” I bend my elbows, face in the lush orchard grass, open my thighs hungrily.
I hear a belt whispering through denim. It cracks once behind me, and a shiver runs down my spine. And then it’s raining on my ass, scorching my skin and setting me screaming. I bury my face in my hands, arch my back, exposing as much of my beatable butt and legs as I can. Some of the strokes land full against my junk, and I can hear how wet I am. Part of my brain is flying, meticulously observing the black and white bird eating crumbs in front of our tent, part of my brain is moaning, “Please!” between gravelly screams and twisting my hips at him like a cat in heat.
He draws my pleads out, won’t even respond for long minutes; when he does, he makes sure I will not be able to. Dropping the belt, he caresses me all over, gentle with flat palms, widened fingers. He starts at the ankles—by the time he reaches my knees I’m coming, shuddering helplessly under his touch, jerking my weight from knee to knee. My voice is one shapeless, unending vowel, I can barely he hear him when he asks, “You want something, faggot?”
I do. I do. I can barely think, can seldom bring myself to ask for such things at any time, but manage to get it together enough to expectorate, “Just pick a hole and fuck it!” His fingers dig in for a moment, warningly, and I meekly add, “…sir,” before dissolving back into him, his nails and hands and thighs brushing mine.
He doesn’t answer the whole long way up my sides, doesn’t speak until he’s thoroughly massaged my battered ass with large circular movements. “’Just pick a hole and fuck it,’ huh? You really are a slut. You love it when I beat you like this.” I whimper helplessly. “And I’m just gonna have to keep fucking belting you… until you finally learn to stop being such a slutty little faggot. But I think there’s been enough of that today…” One finger slips slickly into me, two more shluk in after it as he continues, “…I think I’m gonna have to fuck the faggot outta you today.”
The fingers crook, and I explode. I’m so wet, it’s like my junk is trying to swallow his arm. He removes his hand—which doesn’t halt my orgasm at all—and I can feel the gush spilling warmly down my thighs, as if I were a sealed bottle that’d been uncorked. One finger nudges at my ass, eases in. I begin a litany of babbling curses, and he works the other two in. When he eventually removes them, I gasp in disappointment, then fall silent (except for the occasional mewl of impatience). My eyes are screwed shut with need, my face buried in the dirt and my arms. The sharp smell of alcohol invades my nostrils, followed by the slightly-more-pleasant odor of latex. I hate it when science makes sex smell bad.
But I pretty much forget I even have a nose when his lubed cock slides against my hole, fucks between my thighs and between my cheeks until I am entirely messy, then begins to slide into my ass. I have my usual reaction, which is to holler, “Fuck fucking motherfucking fuckity fuck shit!” at the top of my lungs as the inside of my skull explodes in white sparks.
I lose track of things for a little while, but when I come to, his cock is still working unbelievable sexytime magic inside me. I manage to gasp, “When you… come will… you… in my… mouth… please?” but I don’t hear the response, if there is one. He folds over me, enclosing me in the cage of his freckled, apple-picking arms. He gives me a reacharound and I howl my orgasm into his arm, bicep fat between my teeth. At last I release him, and he pulls out, fist clenching the latex at the base. I rise woozily to my knees, watch with rising hunger as he peels the condom off inside out, ties it, tosses it on the ash pile. His dick is red and purple and delicious-looking and I can see it throb and oh my god
when he finally—finally—walks back over to me, I cannot get it down my throat fast enough. The lingering taste of latex wears off quickly as I bob up and down, circumnavigating with my tongue each time. His fingers tighten in my hair, push my nose into his abdomen, but when I feel the cum start to move up his cock, I pull back far enough for the head to rest on my tongue instead of in my throat. I swallow with each spurt, continue working him with my lips and my tongue until he forcibly removes me, yanking me by the hair, forcing me to stand.
He kisses me. For a long and lovely time.
I’m grinning when we part mouths. “I don’t think it worked,” I murmur. “I don’t feel like any less of a faggot… or a slut. In fact, I think… I think I’m more in love with your cock than ever before.”
He smirks, tugs my hand and we go snuggle in the tent, useless-tool style.