I huff.
“I’m not size-shaming you either. All I can picture, though, is your penis down there crying out, ‘Help me, help meeeee!’” he says in a tiny, squealing voice, before breaking out into another laugh. “This is totally my fault! I’m so sorry! I’ll pay you back,” he tells me, before he snorts.
He fuckingsnorts, and I realize right here and now that I can’t stay mad at him. He’s too cute to be mad at.
“How far up your bum are those undies riding right now?” he asks, wiping another tear from his eye.
“They’re pretty much brushing my tonsils,” I admit.
“I’ll bet,” he hums. “Oh my gosh, no idea how this happened. Like I said, I’ll pay you back. I’m bummed. They would look so hot on you too… if I weren’t totally worried they’re going to castrate you. Here, let me help you get these off. Maybe I can exchange them. You didn’t try to hulk out of those fishnets, did you?”
I shake my head. I only got as far as putting on the briefs and top—I guess it’s called a camisole. I was going to ask for help with the garter and the stockings once I realized I wouldn’t be able to bend without busting this thing open like a can of biscuits.
“Don’t pay me back,” I tell him. “I have a better idea. Can we see how they look onyou?”
He bites the inside of one of his pink cheeks.
“You don’t have to, if you really don’t like it,” I amend, “but I’m pretty certain youdolike it.”
He thinks on it for a few seconds and finally sighs. There’s some part of him that wants this more than anything, but he’s too held back by shame. Shame that I’d do anything to keep him from feeling. Shamehe has no right to feel, because he’s goddamn gorgeous—his perceived flaws and all.
He rags on his pudge all the time. I love that he doesn’t have washboard abs. He thinks he doesn’t look good in slimmer fit clothing, and I think he’s hiding away a treasure underneath his baggy sweats. He laments about the size of his buttconstantly. I fuckinglovethat ass. I love the way it feels in my hands when I palm his cheeks.
Like he can hear my inner monologue—or maybe the wailing from my strangled cock—his cheeks get ruddy again. He shoos me into the bathroom. “Alright, alright. I’ll do it. Call it payback for my flub-up, but I will try them on.”
I smirk. Got him. He’s always on about this ‘payback’ shit, and while I usually stop him, tonight I don’t have it in me. I’ve got a better idea, instead.
Chapter Twenty-Three
So, here’s the thing. I don’t think I trulyhatewearing lace and lingerie, I think I just hate how Kai made me feel while wearing it. I hated feeling that I was a mere dress-up doll for him. I hated feeling like just a sex toy.
Not to mention, I don’t feel like I look sexy in it. Kai can completely rock it. I think Evan could even rock it, if he wasn’t so uncomfortable being so squished into it. It’s supposed to be snug, yeah, but this was justwaytoo small.
I swear I double-checked my order too, so as not to run into this issue. Frickity chickadee, my mess-up probably did nothing for his internal battle that still wages in his mind all the time. Over the past week, I’ve seen him both make progress in accepting himself, and regress some as well.
That can be expected. This is a huge thing to come to grips with. I had a hard enough time when I came out in my youth. He’s well into his thirties, and feels like he’s just discovering himself for the first time.
His strength and perseverance amazes me every day, though.
That’s why I’m currently in here, trying to be strong for him, and putting on the outfit. I’ve never really felt comfortable in my body. ‘Comparison is the thief of joy’ they say, and I believe it to be true. Growing up, and even now, I always feel like I’m comparing myself to guys hotter than me.
I’m not nearly as muscular and honed as Evan or Kai. I’ve constantly battled a little pudge. Back in school, I was active enough to offset the effects of my sweet-tooth. I’m definitely not skinny enough to be a sexy twink, though I naturally have the mostly-hairless body thing down. I’m justblah…
While I’d love to have a wardrobe full of cute stuff, I feel the most comfortable in sweats and casual-wear that hides my body—not in lace and mesh, which shows off everything I’m most insecure about.
“Wow,” Evan gushes as soon as I step out in the outfit.
I instinctively try to hide behind my arms by hugging them around my body. He steps forward and peels my arms away. He bites his lip as his eyes take inventory of me.
I can’t help but worry.What’s he thinking?We just established he isn’t sexually interested in women, and here I am all feminized. The fragile fabric hugging—accentuating, even—my every curve, where I should have flat plains.
His rough hands fall to my hips, before they coast up my body to my ill-defined pecs. There, he squeezes them appreciatively, before letting his hands wander down my back—lightly skimming the fabric—until he gets to the generous globes of my butt.
Wouldn’t even call them glutes, since they’re roughly two percent muscle and ninety-eight percent pure, unfiltered ba-donka-donk.
“I love it,” Evan whispers, leaning in to nip little kisses down my neck, all while giving my behind a possessive squeeze. I swear, if he could, he’d always have his hands there.
Suddenly, he spins me so that we’re facing my full-length mirror, me directly in front of him. His hands wander around my hips again, until he’s holding me steady. He leans in, resting his chin on my bare shoulder, the bristles on his cheek rubbing against my bare one.
