Fahima
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by J. Agnes Snow
Copyright J.Agnes Snow 1999
I watch him, kneeling now, hair falling just above his shoulders. It
pleases me he has let it grow, allowed it to be shaped and colored. He can be
so good, and so bad.
What was I thinking, that first time I asked him to be a woman for
me? How could I have ever imagined it would go this far? All those firsts:
the first time he wore a bra, lipstick, stockings, pierced his ears and shaved
his legs. His first night out, first time shopping and to the beach, his first
aerobics class. Incredible. Has it only been a year?
It comes so naturally to him. His fingers, longer now with nails
polished red, surround the base of the cock, holding it as he brushes the tip
with his lips, eyes half closed. I reach down to stroke his nipples through the
sheer cups of his bra and watch his reaction. So sexy, sultry, he is more wife
than husband. I watch fascinated as she takes it into her mouth.
She is there for me, only for me, on her knees. I caress her,
encourage her, grab her hair to remind her I am in charge. There is time to
admire her body as she works. Standing over her, I have a good perspective.
From her long, lean legs to her graceful shoulders, she has fine lines, and
curves, accentuated and defined by the black nylon and satin of her lingerie.
Straps, hooks and garters bind her skin.
She presses deeper, and I have the urge to push back. Her head in my
hands, I feel just the right resistance. She is good. And I am thinking now
of what is next, my eyes drifting back to her ass.
I pull her off the cock. She is reluctant to let go. I force her to her
feet and lean into her, pressing my lips over hers. We each know what the
other likes, what buttons to push. With her arms wrapped around my neck,
she drags her nails through my hair. I counter with her breasts, knowing just
what will make her lose control. I break off the kiss and move back to watch
her expression as I continue to fondle her.
You like that. She leans over, allowing me to better cup and palm her
breasts. Don't you?
Stop.
Stop what, this? I take my hands away.
No. She grabs my hands, moving them back to her tits. No, stop teasing
me.
I'm not teasing. I lie. I just like knowing what you like, what you're
feeling, what you want. Tell me what you want.
You know. I don't have to tell you. You always do this to me. She is the
one pressing now, pressing with her hips against the cock between my legs.
My hands slide off her breasts, around and down to the cheeks of her ass.
Tell me.
No. Her breathing quickens. She squirms in my grasp.
Tell me.
No.
Then show me. Show me what you what.
I release her and step back. She sways uncertainly in her heels, lips open,
lids heavy. I watch her turn and looking over her shoulder, bend seductively
over a chair. She reaches back with those red nails and draws her thong
down below the tops of her stockings. In one hand I hold the cock, the other
I place flat against the base of her spine. As a woman, I never felt such a
combination of lust and power. Spread your cheeks for me. With both
hands behind her, she has difficulty balancing. Quickly. I give her ass a
slap. That's better. I caress her just below, between her thighs. Reward and
punishment. I go slowly now. Not that I feel any less urgency than she, but
because I want her know what it is to beg, first with her body, then her
words.
Watching her move to me, hearing her, I enter her when she least expects it,
eliciting an animal-like moan. Is it me? Her? It doesn't matter. My cock
does the thinking. She has become an object I bang my hips against, warm,
tight, supple. I lean in and grab some tit, bite her neck, the male in me
concerned only with what I feel and want. Selfish, dominant.
It ends powerfully, with each of us learning more about ourselves.
Months Later
The progression that follows is no longer surprising, but somehow
natural and expected. With some help, nature takes its course. The curves
become rounder, the skin softer. The ties and jackets in her closet are
replaced by skirts and dresses. The lingerie hanging in the bathroom is no
longer mine. Even in her old male drag, she can no longer pass as a man.
And she develops her own style. It makes me smile when I think of
it.
I lie in bed and wake slowly. I have good dreams to share and I feel
for her, but the bed is empty beside me. I hear water running in the shower.
I wait, and wait. Like any woman, she takes her time.
At last, she steps into the room with only a towel wrapped around her
hair. I pretend to be asleep. I just like looking at her. Everything is long,
except her tits and ass which are high and firm.
Where are you going?
She turns, startled. When she sees me staring at her, she reaches
down and tucks her penis between her legs, leaving a neat little bush within a
narrow tan line.
To make you breakfast.
Since when do you get up specially to make me breakfast?
Since when? Since I started liking it. I make you dinner, make your
bed, make myself up for you, make you feel like a man. She pulls the towel
off and shakes out her hair. Why shouldn't I make you breakfast? What
would you like?
Nothing that's in the kitchen.
No?
No. She's standing that way she stands that drives me crazy. What
then?
I was thinking fruit. You know a fruit plate. What's in season?
Well, we have mangoes. She uses her hands to display them for me.
She likes touching them as much as I do.
Are they ripe?
Very. She holds them tighter. In contrast, her nail polish is plum.
Full and sweet. Would you like a taste? She does it so well.
If that's what you're recommending.
Yes, they're on special. But. She climbs up on the bed. No
touching with your hands. You'll have to put them behind your back.
Wouldn't want you to bruise the fruit.
Is that really necessary? She is over me now, on her hands and
knees.
House rules. This morning, anyway. She bends down further over
my mouth to her elbows.
Weeks later
I wait again, wait for her return from the Ladies Room. The club
continues to fill with a growing crowd of South Beach regulars and
wannabes, replacing the tourists searching desperately for local color. It
makes for good entertainment. Despite the open windows and overhead
fans, the atmosphere is heavy, hot and Latin.
Ready for another? asks the waitress.
Sure. She lingers.
And what about your lady friend, is she coming back? I nod.
Too bad. I figure it must be my haircut. Or the linen suit. I watch
her. She works the club as well as any good fisherman, casting here, trolling
there.
But nothing matches the performance of my lady as she returns. She
walks the length of the room, threading her way past people at the bar and at
tables as if she were on stage. I can tell she is on. Heads turn, men and
women, to watch the show. Tan, tall and exotic, wearing mules, a purple
satin bustier and long sheath skirt with a slit, exposing lots of leg, auburn
hair swept back behind one ear, her make-up and nail polish tropical colors.
You'd have to be dead not to look.
Bravo, I say as she twists her hips and lowers herself into the chair,
her bare legs crossed and to the side, within reach. She is daring me to touch
her. I raise my glass. You are gorgeous.
Thank-you. She leans forward on her elbows and almost whispers.
You are my biggest fan.
But not the only fan.
The only one that matters. She is truly an animal, a jungle beast.
Am I? The question unsettles her, but she does well to disguise it.
What about your beach Romeo?
Who?
Your friend at the beach. Did you really think I was asleep when you
were in the water? The advantages of a wide brimmed hat.
We were talking. Just talking.
That's what I like about you. You let your body do the talking.
Stop it. Curiously, words come to mind like slut and bitch. You
sound like some jealous husband or something. What about you? You think
I don't notice you flirting with that girl serving drinks?
She's no girl.
Queen then. What does it matter?
She crosses her arms under her breasts and turns away, every bit the
indignant lover. Reaching forward under the table and gently stroking her
thigh just above the knee, I change tactics.
Look, it's nothing to be ashamed of. I'm not angry. It was only a
matter of time.
What are you talking about?
You can't help it. You have needs, like any woman with a large
sexual appetite.
Stop it. I don't want to talk about it anymore. She pulls my hand
away. I warn you. Don't go there.
Okay, forget it. We'll talk about something else. Let's see...what?
The weather? She gives me a nasty look.
Yeah, the weather. She leans in and suddenly I feel her nails digging
into my left leg. And the forecast is stormy.
I'll get out my umbrella.
Aluminum, I hope. No doubt there'll be lightning.
We each take a breath and try to stare the other down. When it's clear
neither side will submit, I extend the olive branch, which in this case is a rum
punch.
Peace.
Peace.
Glasses clink. For the rest of the evening, there is nothing in my
voice or manner that betrays what I have in mind for her.
Ready for bed? I ask at last.
She answers with her eyes. Feeling her under my arm as we leave
the club, smelling her, the sound of her heels on the pavement, I have second
thoughts. We walk along the beach on our way back to the hotel. Out over
the water, a bright flash illuminates the horizon.
It is a storm, she says.
No, heat lightning.
Hmmm, she purrs. Even better.
The concierge is waiting for us in the lobby. Good Evening. Was
the club as you expected?
Oh yes. Just what we were looking for. I steer her into the elevator,
where we share a passionate kiss, and when we reach our floor, into the
hallway past one door, then another.
Wasn't that our room? she asks looking back over my shoulder.
Yes, it was.
Well? Where are we going?
I've made other arrangements. It's a surprise. We stop in front of
the door at the very end of the hall. I hold her tightly about the waist with
one hand and reach into my coat pocket with the other for the key. Only then
is she suspicious.
What kind of arrangements?
I turn the lock, the door clicks open. If I told you, it wouldn't be a
surprise, would it? I feel her hesitate. C'mon, I promise you'll like it.
She steps through the doorway, eyeing me carefully. But after
looking about the room, she spins on her heels and throws her arms around
my neck.
A suite, how romantic.
Again, second thoughts. She thanks me with her lips, quietly, softly,
on my neck, along my cheek, under my ear, and I am reminded of just how
powerful a drug is a woman's affection.
My sudden weakness awakes the demons. Don't let her get to you.
She's no different. You know what she wants. You're doing her a favor.
Besides she has it coming. They whisper their silent secrets and help me to
regain my senses.
I take control. My hands drop to the zipper on her skirt. It slides off
her hips and down her legs to the floor to form a black pool of fabric at her
feet. You haven't seen the bedroom yet. She is inside my coat now.
Who needs a bed. Let's do it here.
No, the bedroom, I instruct her.
Oh, please, she begs, using her hips and tits to press her point.
No.
She pulls away. You can be such a traditionalist, she says mocking
me, which makes it easier. She walks ahead of me down the short hall, in
nothing but a thong, the bustier and mules; both hands propped on her hips
for effect. As she turns the corner into the bedroom, I hear her gasp.
Who is it? she asks after catching her breath, afraid to look again at
the figure tied spread eagle to the bed, naked but for the gag and hood. I can
see in her eyes that for a moment, at least, the he is back, repulsed and afraid.
Does it matter? I answer my own question. I think not. But if you
must know, it's your beach friend.
How did you ever..?
It wasn't difficult. Not with you as bait. I hold her under the chin.
Go ahead, take another look. Then more emphatically,I said look at him. As
she turns, I cuff her wrists together in one quick motion before she thinks to
resist.
What? Why?
Aren't you the coy one. You know as well as I do why? I've seen
you, watched you. You can't hide it from me, can't fight it. It won't go
away, not now any way. You've come too far. Take a good long look.
That's it. That's my girl. From behind, I peel down the cups of her bustier
to expose her tits, and flick my thumbs quickly across her nipples. She leans
toward the bed. You feel it, don't you.
She is incapable of words.
It's yours, all yours. But...only on my terms. Her eyes flash back at
me and I see the hunger in them. She is all beast now. I point first to her
wrists and then at our guest on the bed. The cuffs stay on and the gag stays
in. There are no other rules.
I sit in a chair and watch: long enough to satisfy my own perverse
needs, to quiet the demons, and to see and experience at that moment the
expression on her face.
Days Later
What's your name again? Waving my hand, I stop him before he can
answer. No, don't tell me. In a moment it won't matter.
He has done everything I have asked him. And he is pretty enough.
But I have my doubts until I hand him the bra and watch as he slides his arms
effortlessly through the straps and hooks it in back like a pro.
Yes, I tell him, you'll do.
(the end)
Grace
- 19.12.2022
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