Good Girl

“I should put you in a pair of panties, you little sissy faggot.” I hate the F-slur, but he insists on using it. Calling me names gets him hot. I’m indifferent. Honestly, I largely ignore him. Let him babble and grunt while I pleasure his dick with my mouth.

“Would you like that?” He asks as my lips meet his base. “If I turn you into a little sissy slut?” 

This man knows nothing about me. Twenty minutes ago, he was just a thumbnail on the Grindr home screen. He sees what’s plain before him: a tall, balding bear with a big beard and even bigger belly. He knows nothing about my six year journey with gender. Nothing about the failed coming outs. The Estrogen. That half my wardrobe is made of dresses that make me look like a kindergarten librarian. He doesn’t know that his threat isn’t mere fetish to me. 

“Okay,” I say as if that answers his question.

“Really?” Surprise enters his performative, gruff tone. “I have some you can put on.” 

I’m just as surprised. When he messaged me “Are you hungry for some daddy dick,” I had no idea that this might be in the cards. It’s easy to sniff out the chasers on the app. They readily advertise that they are looking for sissies, CDs, and trans ONLY. I never bother with their ilk. 

I’ve found that I’m too manly for the chasers. Too femme for the masc hunters. An imposter to other trans people. Too fat for the jocks. Too old for the daddies. Too hairy for the twinks. Too wrong for too many people’s tastes. So when someone approaches me, asking for my services, I don’t ask too many questions.

I met up with this man after he told me that he was “dominant and verbal” and staying at a hotel around the corner. I work near an airport and have developed a niche for the traveling business man. I don’t think much of it when he says, “I’m straight—but I love getting sucked by a good hungry faggot.” 

He has a tidy suite at the Hampton Inn. He answers the door in black shorts and a t-shirt. He’s a little shorter than I am. He’s bald and broad with a thin, brown goatee that doesn’t look good on anyone. Small talk is especially small as he disrobes and reclines back in bed. He’s not here for conversation, but that doesn’t mean he’s done talking.

I’ve never been a “humiliate me” kind of sub. That doesn’t stop him from trying. The name calling starts the moment his cock enters my mouth. 

“Feel it grow in your mouth, pussy,” he grunts.

He asks if I like that word. Pussy. I nod along because the word itself is glorious, not because I feel anything when he calls me that. He doesn’t ask if I like the F-slur. Soon, he fixates on a new word, Sissy. 

“Transgender” and “sissy” are not synonymous, but I perk up nonetheless. Part of me is excited to show off a bit of the real me. He talks about dressing me up and I want to show him the pictures in my phone. The ones with the wigs, the dresses, the makeup. There’s a stunning selfie set in gorgeous red lingerie. But I doubt he’ll see this as the celebration it feels to me. This is a power play for him. 

When I agree to put on the panties, he bounds out of bed. I can’t help but laugh to myself. This big, tough daddy man is suddenly so excited to play dress up with me. He says he hasn’t met many people that take him up on it. 

There’s a little black bag nestled amid his luggage. He unzips it and a blonde wig spills out. He has two pairs of heels, one black, the other bubble gum pink. With a handful of lace, he sizes me up.

Obediently, I step out of my jeans and boxer briefs. I’m granted a large purple pair. It’s silky soft with a lace waistband. Without hesitation, I slide them up along the stone pillars of my legs. The fabric rustles against my hair. It hugs tight to the compact bubble of my ass. They cinch with a snap at the waist. I want to ask where he bought them. To check their size. I’ve never worn a pair that fit so well. 

He calls me a slut and I like that word. A swift smack on the ass sends a pleasant shiver through me. I feel like I’m waking up. Torn from the humdrum mundanity of a boring app hookup. 

“Take off your socks,” he commands. “Lay back on the bed.” 

I do as I’m told. He takes my left ankle and rests my foot on his chest. With both hands, he opens a stocking and slides it down my leg in one easy motion. It stops mid-thigh with another flourish of lace. He slides another on my right leg. 

“Look at you, you girl,” he rumbles. “You fucking sissy girl.”

I shouldn’t be flattered. I think in his perfect scenario I would have been shameful and pliable. But strangers never call me a girl. My family doesn’t nor do most of my friends. I like the way it feels on me. Like I’ve been gifted a crown. I feel powerful. 

He runs his hand along the silk pressed tightly to my crotch. I squirm at the pressure against my cock and balls.

“You like it when I touch your pussy?” Now that’s how you use that word. Silently, I beckon him to say more, to touch me more. “That’s some good pussy.” Yes, damnit, that is some good pussy. 

He buries his face in me. His nose and mouth rub against my crotch. My eyes ease closed as I let him explore me like a truffle pig. A dark spot of pre-cum blooms on the bright, purple fabric, and this excites him. 

“Oh you’re wet. You like it when I play with your clitty.” He gives my cock a little tug. “That’s not a dick anymore. That’s a clit.” And I believe him. Oh god, I want it to be so.

He returns to his spot on the bed. He urges me to suck him again. I crawl back to his lap like a trained mutt. Something has shifted in me. I’m ravenous. His cock is full and glistening as I take him back into my mouth. I rise to my knees, angling my ass to the ceiling like a diligent pornstar. He grabs my head and forces me deeper onto his cock. 

“That’s a good girl,” he moans as I take it without struggle. 

“Good girl” makes my brain melt. I want to hear it again. I dive deep, faster and faster. My mouth fills with saliva. My hand massages his balls. I slurp and swallow, breathing heavy through my nose. I let him fuck my mouth as he pleases. 

Then he says it again. “Good girl.”

I don’t overthink it. I don’t bother to wonder if these are just words or if, in this moment, he truly sees me as the woman I am. I just know that since he started calling me “girl,” he’s stopped insulting me. Unless that is the insult. But how can it ever be? 

“Sit back on your knees,” he instructs. “I want to watch you play with your clit.”

Leaning back, I present myself to him. The panties are damper than before. I watch him stroke his cock as I touch myself. My fingertips glide along the smooth fabric. Little circles around the head. I whimper. His eyes flare.

He calls me back to his dick. He’s going to come on my face. I stick my tongue out. His head beats against it as he vigorously strokes himself. Warmth splashes across my lips, into my beard.

I sit back on my heels once more, savoring a job well done and plotting my exit. He’s surely done with me now that he’s come. That’s how all these things end.

Instead, he tells me to touch myself again. I prepare to decline, but rub my clit instead. I don’t want to give up this fantasy quite yet. He watches me intently. Smiling wide as I crumble into this feminine touch. 

In moments, I climax, spilling forth on a towel on the bed. He thinks he’s won something. That through his raw masculinity he broke down the bear and made him something else. This sissy he so craves. But there’s a woman in me already waiting for her moment to come out. She’s gotten to stretch her legs. And for that I am grateful. 

I earn one final “Good girl” and I hold onto it. Cupped in my hands like a fragile flame, I keep it safe until I’m ready to start a fire.