||[Jun. 3rd, 2010|11:33 pm]
It's the second night of the party, and I'm to be his boy, for real, in public, for the first time.
It's hard for me to overestimate how powerful this is for me, and how strange. I have been his little girl for so long, and there's something about that that anyone looking on can understand, and even find a little hot. I'm easily femme, and take to feminine clothing and makeup well. Even without the context of being with him, people know me, recognize me as who I am: the sexy, femmy, powerful woman they're used to seeing in corsets and latex or pretty lingerie, at ease in my high heels.
I'm not gender dysphoric, and I'm not trans, not even close. I don't want to be a man, or even identify as genderqueer. It's just that I have a thing for gay leathermen, and while my Daddy technically isn't one, in a lot of ways he is. Except for the part where he loves to fuck women.
The Leather Daddy and the Femme is by far the hottest book I've ever read, and it spoke to something I hadn't ever even been able to articulate: the fierce desire to be part of a sexual world inhabited by leathermen, and to be one of them while also being able to be female, and polymorphously perverse.
That weekend, I got to do it all: be his little girl, his lover, his boy...and his mistress. But that is a story for another time.
This is the story of how I became his boy.
First he stripped me. My body felt almost embarrassing in his naked femininity, my broad hips and butt, my breasts hanging out there. But he pushed me down on the bed and told me to lick my girlfriend, who was there, watching us prepare. I went down on her and he started to fuck me from behind, hard. He told me that I was not to come or even think about coming; I was there for both of their pleasure.
My transformation began here.
Being his little girl means I get to come whenever I want, whenever he wants. It means I get tied up and teased and squeezed and loved and I whimper and complain and pout and sometimes he's a little rough with me but then he kisses my tears and makes it all better.
Being his boy means I'm tough. It means I don't come unless he tells me to. It means I swallow his cock, whole, now, boy, and I don't open my mouth otherwise. It means I take what he gives me, until I can't take any more.
My lessons were only beginning.
He stood me up and had me put on my underwear. I didn't pack; there was no need, as his boy wouldn't be using his cock. In any case my cock was there, ethereal but erect, ready for use or ignoring as he saw fit.
He bound my breasts down, using Vetwrap, until my chest was as flat and tight as any boy's. In the end I had almost a little shirt, black, accented with red. My breathing was restricted, but I admired so how I looked. I put a slim Under Armour shirt over the top of it, long-sleeved, streamlined and sexy. And tactical pants he'd bought me, with padded knees. I pulled my hair back and watched how my walk changed.
I watched him change, too. Watched his eyes go hard, his sexuality go completely male, fierce and domineering. His voice dropped in pitch and affect and I found myself following a few steps behind him. I was meant to observe, to be seen and not heard, and to do whatever he told me. This was made clear without words.
Once I was boyed up, I discovered that I was no longer attracted to women. A girl who tends to follow him around like a puppy dog came bouncing up and flirted, and it was all I could do to not give her a look of disgust: a true gay boy, turned off by femininity and threatened by women encroaching on my Daddy's space. It hurt me, but I could barely even get excited by my girlfriend. But my Daddy explained to me that he is bi, and that as his boy, I was expected to follow him into any adventures he chose.
I felt eyes on me. I felt people look at me without recognition, and watch our interaction with a subtle kind of discomfort. Finally my Daddy threw me at another bi boy I knew, and he slammed me against the wall and kissed me like I was really a boy. He felt it; he understood, and responded accordingly. From that moment, I was completely in it.
He took me to a room with a suspension frame, and solicited the help of a rope top we trust. Together, they half-stripped and suspended me, face-down. I had been told I'd be hurt. I had no idea how much.
Daddy had something to teach me; I felt that in every moment of our interaction. He had something he wanted to show me, something he couldn't show me when I was his little girl. Something I needed to know if I was going to be his boy.
Our friend started to cane the fronts of my thighs. At first I cried out, losing for a moment the depth of voice, the masculinity I'd dropped into as easily as I dropped to my knees for him. I whimpered; my voice got high.
He told me: Fight.
I breathed. He hit me again, harder. I struggled. Daddy kept telling me to take it, that I had to take it and not give up. I grunted. I growled. I shouted, "Fuck you!" Tears pricked my eyes but I didn't let them fall.
Daddy put out his forearm for me to bite. He pushed it into my mouth, into my teeth, staring into my eyes with an intensity I'd never seen. Fight, he kept saying. I took the next blow, not flinching, but grunting my pain in one burst into the flesh of his arm. Good, he said, and I felt such a swell of pride that the next blow was less difficult than the last, and even though they got harder and harder and I could feel the bruises blooming under the strokes, I didn't cry, I didn't beg. I fought. I fought for my Daddy.
He looked into my eyes and fed me his arm, telling me, "This is what it means to be my boy. You have to be strong. You don't have to hold out forever, but you have to take it until you can't take any more. You have to fight until there's no fight left in you. You have to learn how to take this, for me." And as I watched, his own eyes filled and reddened, his voice cracked, and he let his own tears fall over a clenched jaw, never looking away, as I bit down on him.
And I swore in that moment I would not disappoint him. There was no way I would fail him. The blows fell, and his tears fell, and I took and took until the pain blinded me and I entered some other consciousness. Somewhere in there they stopped, and slowly took me down from my bonds.
I'm fairly sure he held me, then, while I drank water and came back to myself, slowly emerging from the haze of awe and pain and beauty I had endured, and feeling all the more how much I still had to do for him, to prove to him, to earn the tears he had already shed for me.
"His" means something so different when I'm his boy. And the way I long for it almost scares me, the longing for something forbidden and not quite real. But there is nothing more real than when I'm at his feet, worshipping his ever-increasing male beauty, searching only for ways to make him happy, to make him proud.