Harry – A Trans Erotica Story
When Harry and I first met his bicep was the size of my head, and his chest was a forest of black curls my fingers would traverse every night until my eyes turned from open to closed. The forest has thinned out within the last five years and no longer gets nightly visitors. Now my fingers are busy turning the page in a novel about people decades ago watching their friends and family die because of a new illness.
Harry slumps a bit lower next to me and places his hand on my knee cap. His hands are still larger than most of my body parts, and I blushed looking down at the back of his hand with it’s few black hairs and ropy veins. This was the first part of him that touched me where I’d never let anyone else explore.
Under where my breasts had been are two, faint red, smiley face scars. If I had the talent to tan the scarring would be lighter I’ve been told, but unfortunately as a ginger I’m ghostly white. That first night Harry told me he loved how pale I was. He’d just barely rub his beard against my shoulder blade and I’d shudder before my skin broke out in goosebumps. Then pants were coming off, and even though I’d told him what to expect my stomach knotted and flopped.
Harry was thick, stiff. My hands had been placed in front of my groin before Harry got down on his knees and just peeled them away, I starred straight ahead at the white wall of my sophomore dorm room. To some it looked like just an over-sized clitoris, but Harry called it my cock, and when he called it that I believed him. He buried his face between my thighs and licked, and slurped along my length. I moaned, and I moaned, and I moaned, until I was grinding against Harry’s face telling him I was going to shoot my load down his throat.
I’d thought that night I’d be returning the favor, but Harry was tugging on a condom before laying me back. His mouth found mine, and between heavy, wet kisses he asked if he could fuck my front hole. My skin was so hot I could’ve fried an egg on it, I got out a yes, and I could feel his prick against my fleshy opening. There was some resistance and then he was inside. I moaned. He moaned.
His pumping was rhythmic, and the twin sized bed frame smacked against the brick wall. Looking up at him I didn’t understand how my body could feel so inhabited, it was like I was finally living in my own skin. When I blinked he came into focus, and it was like turning on a television, everything was sharp, clear. His frame was double mine, and tan with black hair. He was solid muscles bulging, and he was inside of me, we both were, together.
I haven’t turned a page in my book in the last five minutes, and I can feel my skin breaking out in goosebumps like it did that first night.
“It’s been a few nights ya’ know.” Harry says, and squeezes my kneecap.
I turn another page in the book I’m reading before placing it on the night-table. I turn back towards Harry and take his face in my hands and seal my mouth against his. My fingers roam against his bare chest before he breaks away to flip off the lights.
Quinton Jordebrek is as unassuming as they come. He lives in the quiet Midwest, and is an emerging artist. He’s not a social media person, but you can follow him on Instagram at jordebrek.