This week’s tasks include making sure my mini sex kit is up to date for any and all fucking adventures that befall me in the next few weeks. I have successfully stocked up on lube, tissues and wipes, but still need to track down some nitrile gloves. But my mind wondered as I was adding this to my to do list, and arrived at the idea of a dominant enby forcing the queer cis guy at their mercy to fuck himself on their fingers.
Content note for degradation, possessiveness and anal sex.
Even though he can’t see them, he knows the sleeves of their black long-sleeved t-shirt will be pushed up and they’ll be smirking as they hold their finger still. He also knows that they’ll know that his cheeks are flushed scarlet with shame. He hates how exposed they can make him feel.
“Did I tell you to stop? Keep fucking yourself back on to my finger.”
Their command is underlined by a sharp smack to their left ass check from the hand that isn’t slowly working him open. Even with the nitrile glove, it stings.
“Bite me,” he snaps, then bites his lip. His dom won’t overlook that particular piece of defiance: he’d begged them not to, and to put him in his place when he’s a bratty little slut.
“Hmm, tempting. But I thought you wanted me to fuck you?”
They slowly pull their finger out of his ass, leaving him clenching and empty. They peel off the glove and stand, walking around him until they’re leaning against the table and looking down. He knows better than to move. As vulnerable as he feels on all fours, he has no doubt that they could come up with an even worse way to make him squirm if he hints that he’s not comfortable right now.
Not that they don’t know how uncomfortable it is right now. And the fact they’re getting off on his discomfort is incredibly hot.
“I think I like you better with a gag in your mouth.”
“Not your cock?”
“You tend to stop sucking my cock to do things like breathe and that gives you a chance to run your mouth. And as much as I like punishing you for being a brat, now and then I want to be able to use my fuck toy without him complaining.”
“One finger isn’t really using me,” he says.
“What’s that, slut?”
“I can take more for you. You can fuck me harder.” He’s not looking at them: their gaze can sometimes feel more penetrating than their dick.
“Let me be clear here,” they say, their boot suddenly under his chin, forcing him to look up. The green leather of their Docs is surprisingly soft. “I can fuck you with one finger if I want you. I can fuck you without touching you. I can fuck you with your dick in my ass. I can fuck you with nothing but words. Are you hard right now? Yes, you are, because I am fucking you.”
He shivers. This isn’t fair, the way they fuck him with their eyes. They twisted everything so it wasn’t just that they were in charge more, but they were forcing him to feel vulnerable. It shouldn’t be as hot as it was: his cock shouldn’t be achingly hard even as he blushed.
“Aww, is my little prince getting shy?”
He wants to shake his head, he wants to deny it, but he’s getting used to this game now. There’s something about being naked when they’re still dressed that really fucks with his head and makes him feel incredible exposed, especially when he insists on doing these scenes in the kitchen – or the living room, or the bathroom or their favourite gay bar, basically anywhere where he doesn’t expect them to fuck with him.
He’d asked for it, of course. Telling them that he wanted them to push his limits was simultaneously his worst and his best idea ever. He’d have been amazed at the skill with which they took to mind-fucking and messing with him – all the while staying within the boundaries they’d agreed on – if he wasn’t too busy being incredibly aroused and ashamed in turn. Not that his cock seemed to understand that the shame was different to the arousal…
They crouch down and cup his chin with their ungloved hand.
“I decide how much you take. I decide when you take it. I decide when you get fucked, and you do what you’re told, don’t you?”
He nods, and they grin.
“Next time I might not take my glove off when I stop to remind you who you belong to. Next time I might not care if I get lube or my come or anything else all over you. Thank me for being so kind.”
He hates the gloves. He hates how they feel inside him, and he hates how clinical and detached they feel when they fuck him wearing them – or rather he hates how hot he finds it.
“Thank you for being so kind.” He chokes the words out, and he’s rewarded with a light kiss on his forehead. The pride that rises in him feels like a warm glow only they can coax out of him.
“Do you want to come, slut?”
“Yes. Please, may I come?”
“You may, and I’ll even give you two fingers to fuck yourself on. I’m going to set a timer on my phone as well: if you come before it goes off, I won’t ruin your orgasm.”
He tries to force himself to relax as they get into position again, pulling on a clean glove and squeezing lube the two fingers they’re going to make him fuck himself on.
“And slut? One more noise out of you and I am going to go and get the gag.”
This year I’m joining in with January Jumpstart, which is run by the brilliant Violet Fawkes. Click on the badge to see how everyone else is starting their sex blogging this year.
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Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.