Posted at 15:00 on 14 Sep 2020 by Pandora / Blake
I'm bent over the sofa, naked. My lover is punching my arse. Every thump sends deep vibrations echoing through my body. They would be spanking me if they could, but it would wake the baby. Punching is quieter.
This is the first time our little one has napped without being held. They're one year old. During lockdown, without any outside support and with a baby who only sleeps on my body, we've had barely any opportunities for adult play between the two of us.
I've been craving a beating for months. This is the first chance we've had.
Their fist lands on the tender backs of my thighs, sending ripples of pleasure into my cunt. When they hit me either side of my butthole it makes me hungry for more.
"Good boy", murmurs my top. The word rolls over me like a blanket. I drop my head and wag my tail.
We usually prefer gender neutral language during play. Praise for either of us is "good slut". To signal obedience it's "Yes, Mastress".
But lately my lover knows that I've been struggling with dysphoria. Childcare, housework and breastfeeding have all added to a heavy dose of feminised gender roles. It helps that we share the childcare and housework evenly between us - as evenly as possible given my partner's disability.
Although we're both non-binary, our assignations at birth cast a long shadow over our present choices. It's taken conscious effort to untangle our roles and our genders; especially when our roles, like breastfeeding, are defined by our bodies in ways that are heavily gendered.
We shaved each other's heads during lockdown. I haven't worn makeup for months. The day I lost enough baby weight to fit back into my 'menswear', I felt myself standing straighter, taller.
Now that "boy" reverberates through me like the thuddy impact of a well-placed punch. I feel it turning me inside out, folding some things away and opening parts of me up.
I feel myself relaxing, going deeper. My unshaved legs are perfect. My hairy cunt is perfect. Layers of unmet expectations and conditioned anxieties sluice away. My lover trails a fingertip over the shorn hair at the nape of my neck, and I shiver. Their view of me from behind is perfect.
They hit me again, and I groan. I want more.
"Please," I ask, "punch my cunt."
When I'm read as female I sometimes notice myself subconsciously responding in feminised ways. During sex I undulate. High pitched whimpers come out of my mouth. When my lover speaks to me in the language of pillow princess, submissive girlslut, if I'm vibing with them I inhabit that frame of reference. Or else I'm resistant, disconnected.
When my lover says "Good boy", it helps me feel into my boyness. They speak boy to me and I start to think in boy. My internal language shifts. My body language shifts.
I'm a non-binary sub boy. I'm a trans fag waving my arse in the air. I'm bending over offering my boycunt to be beaten.
The punch is shocking. It feels good. The impact translates the body part into a new language.
Cunt pain has always been a hard limit before. I've flinched away from it, enjoying the fear at times, but never craving the sensation. Perhaps all it needed was this.
The gentle violence of each blow rocks my world. There's a surface sting and deep subterranean quakes within. I grunt and twist, moaning low in my throat. A fantasy ripples up: that my cunt is being slapped with the heavy head of a monster cock which is about to shove into one of my holes.
I can feel myself opening up inside. When the ache to be filled gets too much I twist around and wrap my fingers around my lover's cock. They reciprocate, encircling my erection. "Your clit is so hard," they gasp, and we frig and fondle each other until their boner is as hard as mine. We're sweating, panting, whispering dirty talk to each other, and any moment now I'm going to bend back over, and they're going to fuck me in my bruised abused hairy boycunt, and it's going to feel so good.
I hear a wail. The bedroom. Our eyes meet and I jump up, abandoning my lover and my slut self on the sofa. I step into my role as parent, breastfeeder, crossing the threshold in an instant to another world.
But the rest of the day, that glow of affirmation stays with me, grounding me. The residual ache in my cunt brings a smile to my face. I'm breastfeeding my baby, and I'm my lover's good boy.