Sue Gives A Fuck Gives A Fucking

ue Gives A Fuck Gives A Fucking

I was dressed like an exaggerated Klaus Nomi in a giant triangle and a fishtail skirt when I saw him paused as close to the entrance as traffic would allow. He’d paid his entry but he hadn’t really entered. To be honest, he was in the way.

I didn’t smile at him. I was due on stage any moment and the fastening at the back of the triangle felt dangerously loose: I’d never performed here before and I’d be damned if I was gonna be smiling at boys when I should have been running my lines and making the fastening inevitably worse. Plus, was he even into triangles? It was too much to consider just then.

The thing was, though, I never smiled at boys. Why then, even in my nervous pre-show state, did I feel that I really ought to be smiling at this one?

I went on stage. My performance, to be quite honest with you, slayed. I lip-synced, I sung, and when I paused for an applause break I saw that he was standing three steps further into the room. He hadn’t bought himself a drink or taken off his bag, though, and this made me worried… What if I twirled off this triangle, the slinky dress hidden underneath falling gracefully to my thighs, only to find he wasn’t among the crowd? I honestly almost cut the set short.

But I didn’t. I am, inexplicable attractions aside, a professional. But I was absolutely not going to be chatting on stage with the host about what shows I’ve got coming up. As soon as the applause began I stepped off the stage and barged past audience members who were approaching me with warm congratulations, and made my way, not to him, but to the bar a meter away from him. I must have just looked very thirsty. Is that hot? I’m not sure. And I wasn’t sure what to do now that he was a meter away from me either. I honestly wanted to just cross that distance and tell him that we were together now, and everything was going to be ok because I loved him, and that he needed to get on his knees.

I offered him a drink. I cannot stress enough how unlike me this all was. I’m a delicate Edwardian flower who, until a year before this, had never enjoyed sex. I don’t buy drinks for boys. I sit at the bar crying because no one has bought one for me.

He accepted and asked for a lager in a northern English accent. It was a very straight voice. I asked him if this was his first time at a drag show and he said it was his second. He’d plucked up the courage once before to go to a gay bar in Glasgow and had the best night of his life. I didn’t pry.

Lol, of course I pried. I asked him what club it was and talked for way too long about the times I’d performed there before finally asking him what had made the night so special. He said it was the only time he’d shagged a drag queen and elaborated by saying it was the only time he’d met a drag queen.

There were things I needed to work out. Did he have a particular proclivity for drag queens or was that queen just way into men? Had circumstances forced him to repress his desire or was he just a curious straight boy treating a queer space as a zoo? What did he get up to with that drag queen and would that give me a sense of what he wanted to get up to in general and, more importantly, get up to with me? Did he want to get up to anything with me? Did he want to get up to anything with anyone? Had the triangle put him off? Why hadn’t he taken off his bag? It was so frustrating knowing that I would have to feign nonchalance and drink drinks and smoke cigarettes for as long as it took to find all of this out when really I just somehow knew exactly what he wanted and that, counter to everything I thought about myself, I wanted the same.

It turned out that he was a session musician who’d been brought over from Glasgow to play in a band for a couple of nights and he’d been to Pornceptual the night before too but hadn’t plucked up the courage to come in.

“Did the drag queen dom you?”

To be fair, I’d had a few wines… But not enough to force out such an intrusive question, if I hadn’t already had an overwhelmingly strong belief that the answer was yes, and that is what he wanted me to know. It was too dark to see whether he’d blushed.

“Yeah. Is that usual?”

Is it usual?! Is what usual? He was the sweetest thing I’d ever come across in my life. Was he asking me whether drag queens are doms? Or whether it was weird for him to want to be dom’d? Or whether it’s normal for strangers who meet in a club to have kinky sex? Assuming that he didn’t know which question he was asking I answered each in turn: drag queens are people so some of them are doms, he is a person so it’s not shocking he’s a sub, and in clubs like this one it’s all entirely normal.

Is there something inherently arousing about pedagogy? Not usually, I guess, or teachers would get into trouble much more often. Well regardless, seeing him look reassured by what I’d said, and knowing how much he’d have to learn gave me an instant semi erection. Then I leant in to kiss him I had to push my pelvis back to stop him feeling it too soon.

In hindsight I think there are three things about this encounter that made it unique. The first was that this was the best kiss I’d ever had. It still is.

My instinct to devour and the responsibility to be gentle created this exquisite tension that was only increased when, as our mouths opened together, he pulled his head back and held it there, our mouths open centimetres apart. I was shocked to find him taking control and grateful to him for making this experience so much more tender than I would have. I didn’t pull him towards me or press my hips into his. We pulled apart and I suggested we get another drink. Before this kiss, conversation had felt a bit duplicitous, a charade we both had to go through in order to do what we wanted to do. Now, sitting on stools by the bar, our conversation felt trusting, open and expectant. We’d let each other know we wanted the same thing, and that it was going to happen. It felt amazing.

At this point that he told me he was wearing a chastity cage. I’d never come across one before and I had to Google it as we talked to give myself an idea. Turns out it’s a cage that locks around your cock to stop you getting hard or playing with your dick. He’d put it on before he came out and left the key at home. He liked the way it made him feel like a naughty boy. Sometimes he put it on and then went to work. Knowing he couldn’t take it off until he got home would keep him turned on all day.

No one had ever seen him in it, and his excitement at that thought was clear. He wouldn’t be able to participate in sex in the way he usually did. He’d feel more at the mercy of the person he was with. It excited me too, mainly because it made it clear that he was going to let me do all the things I wanted to do with him.

The second thing that made this encounter unique was that he looked and sounded like every boy I went to school with. It wasn’t just a Northern English accent, it wasn’t even a Manchester accent, he was from Bolton, the exact town I grew up in. He would almost certainly have bullied me at school. Except, would any of the boys who’d actually bullied me be timidly entering a queer sex club and getting dom’d by drag queens? Yes, I thought, they probably are. The world really had changed that much. The boys who had bullied me were now bored with their girlfriends and their houses and their jobs and wanted something else. Identity politics had so shaken their dominance that when they looked for it they were likely to be timid and respectful. Sure enough, he told me he had a girlfriend. When I rough-fucked this boy I would be rough-fucking them all.

I could have shagged him in the club but I knew I didn’t want that. I had an idea of how this was going to go and I needed my props. I needed my mirror. We got on the U-Bahn and headed to mine, he nervously quiet and I nervously chattering. This was new for us both. A month ago I’d topped for the first time, two weeks ago I’d set up a sex worker profile, and a week ago I’d bought restraints to use on a client who’d never shown up. That was the entirety of my experience as a dom. Well I’d use the restraints tonight, and I’d expunge my anger towards that client as well as towards the boys from school.

At mine, I closed the front door behind us and then pushed him up against it. Using his own trick I leant in to kiss him and when he opened his mouth I drew back, making him wait. He looked beautiful and desperate and vulnerable and this time when I kissed him I pressed my hips against his to make sure that he felt my erection. I held his jaw and spat in his mouth before kissing him, my saliva lubricating his tongue as it slid in and out of my mouth. Then I stepped back and told him to undress.

As he pulled his t-shirt over his head I was faintly aware of one of my housemates snoring somewhere. Perhaps he heard it too because he stopped and looked at me as if to ask whether he should continue, suddenly conscious of the fact that he was undressing in a hallway. I nodded and he undid his belt. His body was perfect; strong broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist. I imagined him bearing a six pack a few years ago. Now he had a very slight belly. His skin was smooth and unblemished and his posture was open and strong, matching the open countenance on his face that looked eager and always ready to smile. He was a lad. He looked incredibly wholesome.

His shape was more rugby than football and when his trousers came down and he did an awkward two step to get them off his feet I saw the huge muscles in his thighs tense and release. I decided I’d remove his boxers myself. As I took hold of them I heard his breathing become slightly quicker and when I slid them down I saw the cage I’d entirely forgotten about. His dick and balls were squeezed into it but he assured me it wasn’t painful. It made him look kind of pathetic and the thought made my cock throb under my dress.

I took him up to room and asked if he’d like a drink to settle the nerves. He said yes so I told him to get on his knees and spat wine into his mouth. Then I took the restraints I’d been looking forward to using and tied his ankles to his wrists. One thing I’m discovering at the moment is that the thing that turns me on more than anything, is the sound of a man gagging on a dick. I once walked from work to a tutoring session with my headphones in listening to a Pornhub compilation of people gagging, as if it were music.

Straight boys gag the easiest and the best. His eyes started to water almost as soon as my cock was in his mouth. I loved pushing past his mouth and into his throat, knowing that he’d never experienced this before. I was never in that throat for more than a few seconds without him heaving and spluttering, with my dick coming out wet with his saliva. I had to slap him every time he gagged but he understood, and thanked me sweetly.

I knelt beside him and gently held his face, which was drenched in saliva and pre-cum that he couldn’t wipe off. I licked his ear and told him to moan. At first the intense awkwardness of moaning on command seemed to paralyze him but every time I slapped his wet face he grew louder. It was amazing to kneel beside this nice man who was moaning almost at shouting-volume and yet to whom I was doing nothing.

“Shut up, slut,” I whispered, and I kissed him before slowly pushing his head down to rest on the ground, his ass now lifted slightly in the air. I was possibly harder than I’ve ever been.

I didn’t want to open him up with my tongue, I kind of wanted it to hurt him, so I told him that I wasn’t going to be gentle. I put on a condom and, using a lot of lube, pushed slowly inside. The sound of his gasps almost made me cum and for a brief moment (that he was probably grateful for) I had to stop moving and focus on something else. That was his only moment of respite. As I fucked him deeper and deeper I decided to tell him, to stop moaning. To get fucked in complete silence. I don’t know why controlling the soundtrack was so important to me but I loved hearing the occasional involuntary sound slip out of his throat and immediately get stifled.

I untied him and moved him to the bed, putting him on his back, once again tying his hands to his wrists so that he was in a sort of constant happy baby pose. The door of my wardrobe has a mirror on it, so if you open it slightly you can see yourself from the bed. I decided to gape him, repeatedly entering him and pulling straight out, then pushing back in so his hole didn’t have time to adjust. I used two fingers to stretch him even wider while I fucked him. Then I angled the mirror towards the bed and stepped away, telling him to push out and look at what I’d done to him. He could see inside himself.

As I watched him staring at himself gaping in happy baby pose I thought ‘that’s about as humiliating as it gets really.’ Then I thought, ‘one day a nice young woman is going to introduce him to her mum.’

I guess that’s true of all the boys from school. Someone should really tell the parents.

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