I Only Cum When A Dog Watches - Sex Stories

I Only Cum When A Dog Watches

... called Ginger because of his hair colour, but it would also make a good dog name. Does Ginger wantme to be a furry? I’m sure he would have said, and I haven’t seen a leather dog mask lying around. I rack my sex-addled brain to think of that other sect of animal-identifying humans. Thumpers? Two Paws?

Therians. Is that what Ginger is into? Solid fuck that he is, he doesn’t have the physique to leap about like a gazelle.

His cock is still in me, but it does not stretch me as hard. Will he blame me for that? Have I missed some vital clue?

Is this somehow my fault?

My stomach quivers. Can he see the back of my head prickle as the hair begins to lift? I want to shudder, even though it’s not cold. I know better than to ask the ultimate sex-killing question –What’s wrong?

I can’t see behind me. Until now I wasn’t bothered. Now I notice that his hands are still on my hips, which means he’s not reaching for a knife or a bottle of acid. I turn my head and keep my big brown eyes wide in their pretty halo of pink and blue shadow that took me ten bloody minutes per socket this morning.

“Oh?” I keep my voice curious, friendly, andabsolutely not judgemental.

Ginger is looking off to the left. His eyes are distant, his expression slack, and as I watch his chin trembles. Absent-mindedly, his thumbs stroke my hips as if he is comforting himself with my body. With a wince that looks like regret, he pulls out.

I gasp at the wet slipping feel of it, the loss I feel ...

... keenly despite my unease. I try to straighten but I’m dazed and clumsy and my knees aren’t having it.

Keen to reduce my vulnerability, I roll over and keep my gaze on Ginger. He doesn’t notice, which is a relief. One prefers to be a graceful princess, not an oaf whose lower joints are more honest than the rest of her about the approach of middle age.

I wonder if I should go, because what was a rough and glorious set-to amid a care-free realm of innocent clutter now seems sad, almost deluded. I clear my throat to cover my worry and he looks at me.

His eyes are sad, guilty even.

I arrange my long legs to cover my sex and drape an arm across my chest. With my other hand I can massage my thighs and linger on their supple, androgynous grace.

“You gave me a good seeing-to there,” I smile, flirtatious and grateful. I have found that flattery can stave off a kicking, especially one motivated by the attacker’s sense of failure.

“You’re so hot,” he whispers.

I lift my chin.

“Yes.”

Bold narcissism also helps because guys love transgender women. They love chatting us up, fucking us, and discovering our mysterious ways as they do every other kind of woman.

But the ridiculous brat patriarchy that lives rent-free in everyone’s head gets them worried that loving us makes them less manly. It can be tough for their feelings, but potentially lethal for women like me, who then get the brunt of misogynyand transphobia.

It’s got worse over the last five years. I never ...