“Can you…can you do stuff with the bag in place like that?”
“The doctor said yes, and that it’s better obviously with a clean bag, which mine is.” He glances down as if to check. “She also advised me to wear a kind of belt or wrap around it to keep it in place, but I haven’t even looked into buying one. I didn’t think this would be happening.”
“You and me both.”
Benji takes a step closer. There’s now less than a metre between us. “What do you…How do you like to be touched? And what should I say or not say? What words are good for you?”
For a second, I’m bowled over by the realisation that this is the first time someone has asked me this outright, whereas the handful of times I’ve had sex or intimacy since my transition, I’ve had to tell them my preferences, or worse, I’vehad a visceral reaction to hearing the wrong thing and intimacy has ended right then and there.
As I speak, I unbutton my jeans and push them down my legs. “I have a cock and I like to have it sucked. I have a pussy and an arsehole. You can call my pussy a pussy. I like that. I like boys that have pussies. But no other words.”
Benji dutifully holds my eye contact and nods, but when my jeans are finally kicked away, I watch him swallow and finally allow his gaze to wander.
“God, you’re hot,” he says in a raspy voice.
“Your turn,” I say and then add, “tell me what you like, what you don’t like.”
He brings his hands to the waistband of his joggers. “Like I said, it’s been a while since I’ve been with someone. But I like…talking. I like to know when something I do feels good, or when you like a certain part of my body.” He pulls his joggers down and kicks them away just like I did. “I like compliments, I guess.”
“A praise kink. You have a praise kink.” It’s confirmation, not a question.
“Yeah, I guess so.” He blushes which is more affirmative than his tone.
“I can work with that,” I say and pin my gaze to his groin. As if to acknowledge the eye contact, his dick twitches in his underwear.
“Fuck, I can’t believe this is happening,” he says in a rough whisper.
I don’t know what to say to that, and I can’t decipher if it’s too honest, too raw, too much for me when this is only going to be one night of fucking before we spend the rest of our lives ignoring each other in the cereal aisle in Tesco.
Lost for words, I step forward. “Can I touch you?”
He’s nodding before he’s speaking, his top lip betweenhis teeth and a slightly pained expression on his face. “Yes, fuck, yes, please.”
The knot of desire in my core tightens with his begging and pleading. God, this is better than I even imagined it all those years ago.
Because of course I imagined it. Of course I spent far too many nights learning the topography of my body and the chemistry of my desire as a teenager while thinking about Benji Smith. I told myself back then that he was a means to an end. A silly little fantasy. Something I would never share with the world.
The problem is, I don’t feel right saying he’s that now. I don’t know what he is now, but as he stands in front of me, his stomach and chest trembling with short, sharp breaths, and his blue eyes darkening as they watch one of my hands reach out for him, I know it’s more than what it used to be. He is more than what he used to be.
And so am I.
I grab his dick. Part of me wanted to go slow, to stroke and probe and tickle and tease, but when he’s so ready for me already, so big and hard, I just can’t resist. I squeeze the base of his long erection and watch the head swell through the white cotton of his tight boxers.
“Oh, God, Dion, I…” He doesn’t finish that sentence because I bring my other hand up and gently circle his head, my touch featherlight. I can’t stop the smile on my face that grows and grows just because I heard him say my name in such a way. “Fuck. Fuck.”
“You like to make noises don’t you?” I ask him in a deliberately deep voice.
“Yeah, well, no, I don’t really know I’m doing it,” he mumbles as I continue to squeeze and tease.
“Tell me.” I inch even closer so my breath warms hisneck as I continue to talk to him. “Do you make noises when you touch yourself? When you make yourself come? Do you swear and moan and groan?”
“Yeah,” he says on a shuddering breath as I start to move my hand up and down his length. “Sometimes, yeah.”
I hum my satisfaction at that and know now I want to make him a whimpering mess. I want him to make all the noise for me. And I know I’m going to have to remember every noise he makes, every sigh and hiss and grunt so I can replay it when I touch myself in the future, thinking about this peculiar night I shared with a boy I thought I hated but actually…
Actually, what?
I refuse to answer that question and instead close my eyes as Benji’s cheek comes to rest on the top of my head, nestled by my curls.
