Men Seeking Men's Sex Stories

by Kimmie Holland (address withheld)

*** 

A sissy goes to sleep with a cock in her mouth--and 
wakes up with a cock in her mouth. (M/m-teen, oral, tv, 
sissy)

***

4. Cock-a-doodle-doo (and bacon too!)

I kiss H on the forehead and slip out of bed. A girl 
needs to tidy herself up first thing in the morning and 
a girl like me needs even more tidying up than most. In 
front of the mirror, I survey the ravages. Not so bad. 
It could be worse, much worse, and don't I know it. A 
touch up here and there and I'm reasonably presentable. 
I pad into the kitchen, still in my fishnet stockings, 
get the coffee started, wash last night's dishes.

From whence forth comes this instinct�so immediate and 
unalloyed that indeed I can only call it "instinct"�to 
take care of an alpha male, to satisfy his desires, to 
feed his appetites, all his appetites? I ponder this 
question while the coffee drips into the carafe and I 
tend to the bacon for H's breakfast sizzling in the 
pan. 

I've done another quick change into a pink babydoll and 
a pair of low-heeled open-toed mules, the kind with the 
superfluous little feather puff on the instep�a 
metaphor for my existence. I look like a complete pansy 
standing there in my pigtails but I feel so strangely 
content and complete: could it be that, ridiculous as 
it is, this is the role I was engendered to fulfill in 
the Great Movie of Oblivion?

by Kimmie Holland (address withheld)

***

A sissy goes to sleep with a cock in her mouth -- and 
wakes up with a cock in her mouth. (MM, tv, oral)

***

2. Pillow Talk with a Mouthful 

Having changed into a short black chemise, I tiptoe 
around the bed and slip under the blankets next to H. 
His big body radiates heat and has already warmed the 
sheets. This is my favorite part of the evening. I curl 
up, snuggle close, almost clinging to him, like a koala 
bear on a eucalyptus tree. He puts a heavily-muscled 
arm around my waist and pulls me even closer, his hand, 
burning like a brand, resting possessively on the bare 
cheek of my ass, a.k.a. his ass, as he occasionally 
likes to remind me.

"Whose ass is this?" he'll ask, giving me a playful�if 
still stinging�slap on the bottom. Or sticking his 
finger inside me without preamble.

"Yours."

"Don't forget it."

"I won't."

From where I lie nestled against his hairy chest, I 
stare up at the shadows of the roses that he brought me 
earlier in the evening; they're dancing hypnotically on 
the ceiling in the scant light of a scented tea candle. 
H. begins to reminisce in the dark. He's recalling the 
night he took me to an upscale restaurant along the 
shore. I was wearing an itsy-bitsy backless black mini-
dress, silver heels, black thigh-highs. He tells me 
that as we walked up the stairs to the dining room he 
could see the exposed place between the tops of my 
stockings and my sheer panties.