I got up at the first buzz of the alarm this morning, rather than snoozing 4, or 5, or 6 times. You’ve done this for me more times than I can remember, and I’ve loved it, every single fucking time, but it’s never felt like a thing I could do for you. My body – men’s bodies – just aren’t made for this kind of sexy play. It feels different today. I can do this for you, and I know you’re going to love it, and I feel a new confidence in myself.
My body is sexy, not because of its youth, or its finely chiselled contours (because it has neither), but because I love you with it, with every inch of it, and you love it. That is the only acceptance I need. The same patriarchy that tells you that you’re not good enough also tells me that I can’t look at myself that way at all. Fuck. That. Shit.
I’m up early because I’m going to need an extra 10 minutes in the shower with a fresh razor blade. I don’t want to be rushing this morning. I get through the basics on autopilot, the same as every morning, but when I reach for the bottle of cheap conditioner you keep in the shower for this very purpose, I start to feel a tingle of excitement in my lower back. I step out of the direct flow and smooth a palmful of it down my right leg, from groin to ankle, and start long steady strokes of the razor, removing the the sparse hair – this isn’t the first time, but this time it’s a prerequisite for something rather … risky? Challenging? Sexy? I think all of these, and I’ve got a good nervousness about it.
I’m not going to rush, I’ve got time to enjoy this. It’s not the actual doing of it that’s the exciting bit, although it contributes. It’s the knowing how it’s going to feel in 2 or 3 hours, when I’m in a meeting, and feel my trousers sliding over my legs in a most stimulating and unusual way. It’s the transgressiveness of it. The idea of what I’m going to do today makes my cock throb in anticipation. It would be so fucking easy to take it in my hand, and give it a squeeze, and a rub and cum, but I so fucking want to save this.
I hear you stirring and going downstairs to put the kettle on, and I know I’ve got 10 or 15 minutes left in the bank. In our room, I grab your 50s style 6-strap suspender belt. I know it fits because I’ve already tried it on. I love the way it kind of holds me by the hips. It’s not the same as when you hold me while you’re fucking my slutty arse from behind, with your fingers digging in, but it’s just enough that when I’m aware of it, like when you’re caressing my hips before you fuck me, or afterwards when we’re panting and sweating and you’re resting your weight on my back. I’m right back in that moment.
I’m sorry, my love. I meant to say your slutty arse, at least for tonight. I want you to take me and use me and make me your slut. I want you to fuck me and hurt me, and I’m going to make sure you’re so fucking horny that you’re going to greet me at the front door with your cock on, you’re going to force me to my knees, and you’re going fuck my face until the tears are running. Then you’re going to make me up and use me until the eyeliner runs and you’re telling me how much you love your queer boy.
I pull my stockings out of the drawer. You haven’t seen these ones yet – they’re big fishnets with little diamanté crystals. They’re going to be no more obvious than any other stockings under my office trousers and socks, but it feels ‘wronger’ because they do rather scream SLUT. Would the consequences of me being caught like this be worse that plain, black ones? I doubt it, but that’s not the point.
I’ve got a reasonable collection of nice underwear – there’s the traditional men’s type (which are clearly useless for today) and there’s a growing collection of ‘manties’ or ‘mangerie’ as we jokingly refer to them, in pretty colours and lacy fabrics, but cut for the male genitalia. You know what? No. I need a pair of yours. Something that doesn’t quite fit right. Something that I’m going to be aware of all day. Something smooth and silky, that are going to visibly discolour as the pre-cum leaks from my cock.
I finish getting ready for work, and it’s all so normal on the outside. Shirt and tie, trousers, tweed jacket. I’m starting to understand the power of good lingerie. So normal and conservative appearing on the outside, so confident and sexy just underneath. My cock throbs again, and I know that damp patch on the front of my panties is going to be there all day. Your panties.
I come downstairs to grab my coffee and have 5 minutes small talk with you. It’s really, really fucking difficult. I’m so desperate to show you what I’ve done, but I know it’ll be better for waiting. I’m concerned that you’ll see my cock pulse, or you’ll feel it pressing against you when I kiss you goodbye, or I somehow give the game away before it’s time.
I get into the car and grab my phone. I pull my red sock down and my trouser leg up, and snap a photo as I’m getting into the car, revealing my fishnetted ankle.
I press send, start the car and drive off. At the office I park in a distant corner and take another photo, this time with my trousers open and slightly lowered to show off the stocking tops and the smear of pre-cum on the front of my panties. Your panties. There are 6 messages on my phone demanding that I phone in sick and get home to you right fucking now, and you’ll phone in too.
Ah, no, my love. That’s not how this works. You’ve never been good at delayed gratification unless I’ve forced you to be good at it. All those photos of you over the years with your stocking tops displayed in the office? Fingering yourself in the store room? Pinching your nipples in the car at lunchtime? I’ve just realised how that all works, and that I’m allowing myself to play that game too.
Today is going to be a long day for us both, my love.