Exchange

Long brown hair cascades down my shoulders, ending near the delicate lace of my red bralette. The cherry fabric is bright against the skin of my freshly shaved torso. My stomach is round and smooth but for the faded stripes of stretch marks. I’m big and heavy. My belly hangs over the band of my matching panties. Staring at myself in the mirror, I think—maybe for the first time ever—“Fuck, I’m hot.”

I close my eyes, run a hand down my chest, and snap a picture. This moment must be preserved.

Then comes the deconstruction. I remove my hair. A cheap wig bought off Amazon from a company whose name I can’t pronounce. The band leaves a crease in my bald head. I saddle the hair onto its blank, beige wig form. 

I worm my way out of my bralette. It rolls in on itself, becoming a thick chord of fabric. My meager hint of breasts don’t require much structural support. I watch the fat droop across my chest and wonder if there is any breast tissue in there. I use my biceps to smoosh them together. I smile at the modest cleavage. I’ve been on Estradiol for months and my nipples burn like hell. My right areola has stretched oblong while my left one has remained relatively unchanged. I feel half baked.

My panties slide down my hairless legs. Tree trunks stripped of bark. My cock is not an impressive thing when flaccid. I touch it. Exploratory and asexual. I wonder if I’m the type of girl who needs the “surgery.” I wonder if I’m the type of girl who needs anything at all. 

My hand pulls away - glistening despite my intentions. I reach back down. This time I imagine that I’m stroking my cunt. I want to rub my clit, to slide my fingers inside of me. 

“Fuck me like a woman.”

It’s a demand. It’s a yearning. It’s a wish. 

I’ve told my wife this before. We’re both confused as to what that would even look like. 

~~~

Today I wore my favorite dress to work. It’s simple and professional. A pretty maroon garment that hangs just below my knees. Short sleeves and a mock neck. I left the wig at home. I embrace life as a bald woman and leave the production of wigs for special occasions and bathroom photoshoots. Beneath the tights and undershirt is that familiar bra and panty set. I feel cute. 

My wife and I don’t talk much throughout the work day. So I am surprised to feel my phone buzz close to 4 p.m.

“BABE!” It reads in aggressive capital letters. “I’m so fucking horny!”

I immediately perk up. Truth be told, we're not an overly sexual household. Despite being together for nearly a decade, we’re still so timid with one another. A pair of chronic people pleasers, neither of us looks to push our own agendas. Both of us refuse to impose our desires on the other, never wanting our partner to perform when they would rather not. 

We naturally fall into these droughts. Unable to reach each other. Allergic to spontaneity. 

Until one day, out of the blue, the dam breaks. 

“Are you in the mood to mess around after work?” she follows up before I can react. 

“Of course,” I reply. 

The reality is that I stay ready like a pitcher in Triple A, never knowing when my call to the big leagues will come. 

She’s waiting for me in the bedroom when I get home. I march right in. No lollygagging. No greeting the cats. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she’s a vision in red lace. She fixes me with a devilish smile. Her big, brown eyes are full of hunger and mischief. 

I take a moment to absorb all of her. She’s small, but she’s clearly outgrown the silky one-piece she’s wearing. The lingerie clings tightly to her spilling cleavage. Her legs are still thick and powerful from a lifetime of gymnastics. Her hips are wide and curvy. I don’t know what part of her to touch first. 

I push back her purple bob as I take her cheeks in my hands and kiss her deeply. Our lips part. Tongues stumble over one another. I pull her close to my body. Her tits press against my torso. My hands roam down her sides and back to her ass. The quick crack of my hand leaves her cheek stinging. 

“Get back in the bed. All fours,” I command, my voice is quiet but firm. 

“Yes ma’am,” she giggles. 

She craves this. Needs it. To be told what to do. How to position herself. She hates thinking about her own pleasure. It’s my job to give her what she needs. I know my role. 

In a fluid motion, I take off my dress and toss it onto the floor. Wearing just a bra and tights, I feel very domme. I enjoy the sight of her on her hands and knees. Her eyes focused on the sage-colored bedspread, waiting for what comes next.

Another spank cuts through the anticipation. Color rises on her cheek. I gently rub the inflamed area before I grip her hard. My black nails sink into her soft flesh. 

My hand slides between her legs, exploring blindly until I reach the buttons that hold the lingerie together. With a small snap, the clasped fabric springs apart. Her pussy is warm against my fingers. Her normally unkempt bush has been manicured. A rush job for this occasion. Freshly pruned hairs prickle against my digits as I explore the length of her. Her lips are soft in my grasp. 

A finger dips between her folds and returns gloriously wet. A string of dew clings to me, anchoring me to her cunt, unwilling to let go. She shivers as I paint her clit with her nectar. 

“You must have been dying all day,” I purr in her ear. Her eyes close, savoring the maypole dance around her clit. 

“It’s been awful,” she stutters.

“Let’s fix that.”

My middle finger enters her, gliding through the familiar warmth and squeeze. My cock pulls tight in my underwear. My finger may as well be hardwired to my genitals the way the sensation plays on both simultaneously. 

I stroke her inside. The finger explores the space. Shallow then deep. A rigid dive followed by a curling return. My knuckle drags along the sensitive chord at her ceiling. She melts into my hand before my ring finger joins inside her.

There’s a quick inhale. Her entrance stretches to accommodate the new digit. I move slowly. Let her adjust. After a moment, her cunt takes them in whole. We sigh in unison. I reach around her leg so that I can rub her clit with my free hand. 

Her body is a cello and after many years of practice, I can play whole symphonies with her. My fingers glide across her G-spot like a bow. Artfully riding the strings until her thighs tremble. Rubbing her clit like the fret board, I elicit a hearty moan. 

She wants to come. I can feel it. In a well-honed motion, I grab the Hitachi wand by the bed and press it to her clit. The low setting is enough. It rumbles to life in my hand. Her walls close in around my fingers. I push deeper, throwing my shoulder behind it in a body-shaking thrust. We hardly use my penis during sex anymore, but when we do, she savors the feeling of being fucked. I bring that same force as I finger her.

Her moans grow more frequent. The notes get higher. Her body rocks and shakes until she collapses onto her forearms. 

I envy her. The penetration. The clit stimulation. The complete unraveling she experiences as she comes. 

She swats the wand away and falls to the mattress. I step back and admire my work. My finger tips have gone pruny. 

“Ohmygod,” she slurs into the pillow. 

But I’m restless. Jealous. Not quite done with her yet. I pull down my tights and kneel upon the bed. My panties exposed, I realize that we match. 

My “turn” is not always necessary. Reciprocation comes from her in stops and starts. She’s never quite sure what I need or want. So this time, I tell her. 

Pulling her back up to her knees, I say “I want you to touch me like I touched you.” 

Kneeling before each other, we kiss again. Giving her time to process what my request means to her. Her hand softly finds the front of my panties. I’m wet too. A dark spot claims the front of the fabric. Her lips slide down my neck. To my chest. 

Suddenly, she tears away the cup of my bralette, laying my breast bare. Her lips find my nipple and my head is flooded like never before. She holds tight to my back as she kisses, running her tongue around my areola. She takes it into her mouth. 

She’s playfully squeezed my boob before. A silly honk from time to time. But she’s never touched me like this. Never so reverently. 

The rest of the bra rolls down my stomach as she switches to the other breast. This one is more sensitive. I recline back into my heels. My straining cock head peeks above my waistband. Her hand finds my crotch. My thick shaft presses through the fabric into her palm. She strokes the length of me, her fingers dancing delicately on the underside of my head. The tension of the fabric is electric. Compact and confined.

My cock dribbles glistening fluid as she rubs me and sucks my nipple at the same time. I lie on my back and she follows me to the mattress. 

As much as I love my wife, she’s never quite known what to do with a penis in her hand. Always too tight, too rough. Racing toward my orgasm like it was a game to be won. Aggressive, vigorous strokes. Tonight though, she touches me like something delicate.

I whimper. Pleading for more. Any trace of the domme flooding from me. There’s a click and whir and the bulb of the wand is pressed to my cock head. Pulses rumble through my body. I gasp. She fixes me with a smirk that looks downright predatory. With slow, focused passes, she guides the vibrations along my cock. From my head, down the shaft, to gently kneading my balls. Then again and again. Her lips find my nipple once more and I am completely enraptured in a fresh sensation.

I’ve never been so at her mercy before. She seems to relish it. Slowly dragging the vibrator over the spaces that make me whine. Pressing firmly when my legs begin to shudder violently, shaking the bed. I grip tightly to her thigh as pressure rises inside of me. It’s agonizing. 

She commands me to come, but I can’t quite yet. There’s too much noise in my head. The hum of a pleasure I’ve never felt before. Our eyes lock and she beckons me again. Another flick of the switch and the vibrator whirs into a higher pitch. 

I am flung into an abyss. 

My head rolls back toward the edge of the bed. My hands scramble across the bedspread, grabbing wildly for purchase. A wet, guttural moan escapes my throat. My eyes close. In my own darkness I come harder than I have in years. 

I swat the vibrator away as I’m overwhelmed with sensation. Sweat chills in the breeze of the fan. I struggle to catch my breath. I don’t feel like the person that walked into this room an hour ago. 

I am changed.

WRITING PROMPT: Write about the sex that changed you. Who were you before? Who did you need to become? If you haven’t experienced sex that changed you, what would it be like? What kind of touch and love could leave you different?