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“Why would it trouble me?”
He looked down. “The people I’ve been with before… let’s just say they’re no stranger to transitioned folk.”
“But did they love you?”
His eyes welled with emotion. “No, Dora. I don’t think they did.”
“Let me be the judge of what troubles me,” she said gently.
They took turns undressing each other, starting with their socks and shoes. Next, Alastair removed Dora’s sweater. She helped him out of his coat and vest. Next came her necklace and his bowtie. He nimbly undid the buttons of her blouse.
“I don’t have a fancy bra,” she said quietly. Dora secretly felt the evening called for pretty, lacy underwear but all she had was simple cotton underthings.
“You don’t need a fancy bra,” he said, reaching behind her to unclasp it.
She held her breath as her breasts tumbled free, large and pillow soft.
“Damn,” Alastair said, the lust in his tone so genuine that Dora flushed scarlet, then moaned as he rolled one dusky nipple between his finger and thumb.
She undid the cufflinks of his shirt—a first for her—she’d never seen real cufflinks, then unbuttoned his shirt. As he shrugged it off, she could see the faint scars from the top surgery, silvery horizontal half-moons below where his breasts had been. She put her hands on his chest, looked into his eyes, then leaned down and planted soft kisses on each scar. Alastair moaned, and the affirmation of his pleasure made her wet.
Alastair unbuttoned her skirt. It slid over her hips and fell to puddle at her feet. She was standing now in just her underwear. Alastair knelt, pulling her panties down and off. Dora looked down. He was eye-level with her pussy. She wondered aloud if she should have shaved.
“Why?” he asked. “You may be my Little, but you’re still a woman.” He kissed the downy curls, reaching around to cup her ass as he nuzzled her there, kissed her, dragged his tongue up through her slit. She moaned, swaying from the intensity of the sensation How could anything feel that good? Little rushes of pleasure rippled through her like electrical currents.
He stood then. She reached for his waistband. Their eyes locked as she undid the buckle of his belt, the button on his trousers, and pulled the zipper down. His pants slid down and Alastair stepped out of them, kicking them to the side to join Dora’s skirt.
“I’ll do this part,” he said. He took a deep breath and pushed down the boxer shorts he was wearing. He stepped back, silent.
Dora did not look away, not because she didn’t want him to be uncomfortable but because she saw nothing in Alastair’s anatomy that wasn’t beautiful. Was it different? Yes. He had a distinct labia majora, but the clitoris had swelled and protruded from the top of the cleft. To Dora, it looked exactly like a small penis that was about three or four centimeters long.
“It’s the testosterone,” he said.
“I know. I’ve been doing a lot of reading.”
“That makes me happy,” he said.
“What do I call it?”
He looked down. “Well, I haven’t given it a name.”
She laughed at that. “You know what I mean.”
“A cock,” he said.
“Is it sensitive?”
“Very.”
“Can I touch it?”
“Please.”
She walked over, tentative and shy, and stroked Alastair’s cock with her fingers. It swelled and flinched at this sweet contact. Dora looked at him. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
“This is your first time,” he said. “I want to make it special. I’ve been thinking about how to do that. I can’t penetrate you to the depth that would satisfy either of us completely. I myself am capable of being penetrated but don’t desire it; it’s part of my dysphoria.”
“Is it the same for all trans men?” she asked.
