Breed Me

a story be Elijah Benson.

He pushed his pelvis hard against mine as he held my upper half down with a hand around my neck. Usually I’m not really into being choked but I can tell this guy clearly had experience with the slight bit of air he allowed in, offering the pleasant sensation of submitting to another without feeling like I might pass out in the process. I opened my mouth wide to give the not so subtle message that I wanted - I needed something to suck on. He quickly got the hint and lended me his pointer and middle fingers while his other hand untied the loose sweatpants I chose to match the casually informal vibe of inviting a stranger over to fuck. It didn’t take him long to slide them past my waist, then ankles which stretched up parallel to his body. He flipped me over into a tabletop position and began kissing my ass cheeks passionately. I hadn’t yet told him that I don’t bottom but then he might stop and I ironically love having my ass eaten. Guys often get strange once they learn I’m not interested in being turned into some flesh light they can toss around and use exclusively for their own pleasure. It’s not my thing and never has been. In fact, not only do I not bottom but I’ve never bottomed. It’s not like I don’t think I wouldn’t enjoy it. I probably would love it. I get very turned on by the idea of being filled up by some hairy muscular stranger with a big nose. I imagine it would be incredibly affirming to be fucked, twisted up like a garden hose, thrown around like a trapeze artist. But I also find immense pleasure in bending over said hairy muscular stranger and treating him and his big nose like the slut pigs they are. There’s something about the subversion of their expectations that really gets me going. I don’t have much of a type but I typically am pursued by exaggeratedly masculine men. I’ve been told I ooze femininity, (my signature scent does happen to be named “Pheromoan”) but whatever the reason I almost always end up in bed with self-proclaimed alphas. I’ve learned in my experience that what these men want deep down, under their performative machismo brawn and generationally inherited aspiration to be viewed as the strongest in the room, is to be dominated by a latex-clad mistress with a dick. Cis women rarely harness the ability to treat these guys like the dog shit they are for they too possess the urge for masochist tendencies that can only be satisfied by a failed talking stage with a mustached Hinge match turned ghost, but the difference with men, however, is that they have been conditioned to lead with a front. Cis girls simply can’t play it cool. They wear their feelings on their sleeve so it’s no wonder men treat them like shit - they know their own desire to be dominated won’t be met so what’s the use of treating her with respect? She won’t stomp on his balls anyway. That’s why when they find themselves in my company, all pent up and ready to abuse me like the pornstars they jerk off to, my refusal to bottom and insistence that they put on a pair of crotchless fishnet stockings is always met with gleeful compliance. So there I was, being straddled by a 230 pound beefcake with at least a foot on me as I slid in and out of him smoothly, pulling at his mouth like a hooked fish. He looked like such a whore with his dick bouncing out the side of my black lacy thong. 

A few weeks later I walked into the crummy Irish bar around the block from my apartment to scope out the pool of guys. Irish guys almost always have some sort of suppressed bisexual fantasy that a girl with a dick can help realize. I refuse to go to any expressively queer bar as the chaser crowd isn’t really my forte. Meaning I’ve fucked most of them already and find their eagerness to submit to me unattractive. I don’t need to revisit conquered territory for a victory lap when there are untouched lands ahead. I believe the term is manifest destiny. So there I stood in a dimly lit dump, pretending to be interested in the basketball game that played above the bar as I discreetly surveyed my options for the night. There was a group of guys, dressed poorly in a lackluster attempt at business casual, that clearly had spent the past few hours attempting to lose the memory of another day of unimportant work in a bottle of cheap Japanese whiskey. A couple of them were certainly doable but I tend to avoid groups when cruising unless the energy is palpably clear that they’d be down to hold each other’s ass cheeks apart as I do what I do best. There were a few more men scattered about, most of them in pairs with other women. The two cutest ones, however, appeared to be doing their best at crawling into the other’s mouth in a corner booth (maybe it was time to find a new spot free of vibe-killing faggots.) I like watching guys kiss but only if they do so in an effort to turn me on. Otherwise, the lack of a girl feels borderline misogynistic. I was about to ask the bartender to settle the check (knowing full well I hadn’t paid for a drink in this bar since I got too wasted and accidentally took the heavily accented barback home for a ride in my sex swing) when a towering late 20-something year old entered in a Yankees hat and a stylishly oversized sweatsuit that hid his enormous penis and broad chest pathetically. The target was clear and I was but a homing missile. He sat across the bar and nonchalantly peered up at the games as he waited for his turn to order. I relied heavily on my godly peripheral vision to clock that he looked completely indifferent to everything occurring around him, as though everyone else was merely a background character in his biopic, people who happened to be in the same room as him before he made it big. Nothing seemed to interest him. He thought - knew that he was the hottest guy there. I hated him so much I wanted to beat him then make him fall in love with me. I casually motioned over to my barback. “Can I please have two shots of tequila?” He complied with an excited speed and I tipped him with an air kiss. I carried the two shots over to Mr. Nonchalant’s side of the bar, making sure to appear just as uninterested as him. “Hey, they misheard my order and poured an extra shot. Interested?” 

It wasn’t long before we were naked in my bed, licking each other’s lips curiously as he dry humped me in beat with the music that played from my speaker. His lips were cold and full, his body muscular and coarse. We had smoked a little beforehand, something I tend to avoid with guys because I can sometimes get a little quiet and weird when I overdo it, but this time it only added to the experience. His kisses were electric, his grip was strong, and he would not stop telling how beautiful I am. Consider me weak but it was all enough for me to break my rule and let him slip inside me from the back. He wasn’t too big so it wasn’t much of a chore getting it inside me considering I had experimented with dildos in the past. It wasn’t painful but there was a slightly uncomfortable tension that he eventually massaged out, leaving only pleasure. He fucked me good. “Do you know how many people I’ve turned down just to get to your dick?” I whispered into his ear. He went harder and faster before coming inside me then finishing me off completely hands free. It was the best orgasm of my life. He fell on top of me before picking himself up to get out of bed. “Where are you going?” I asked. “I want to sleep with it in me. Stay.” So he did. And then he practically moved in. For weeks it seemed like all I did was fuck him. Or let him fuck me, rather. He asked me to be his girlfriend and I agreed. He made me come five times that night. I had never felt more like a woman. 

About a month into our fling I started having some pretty serious nausea and mood swings, which I initially chalked up to simply spending so much time with a man for the first time ever but after some reflection I decided he couldn’t be the source as I genuinely really liked him. After a week of having to keep a bucket next to the bed to avoid a mess I made an appointment with my doctor. She did some blood work and poked around asking me if anywhere in particular hurt. I told her the sickness was anything like I’d felt before. “Is my body rejecting my new boyfriend?” “I highly doubt that. Let’s see what your bloodwork says and we’ll check back.” Two days later the moody middle aged secretary who always wore themed scrubs called to schedule a follow up appointment. “No, Telehealth will not be available for this. The doctor would like to see you back in person.” So the following day I was back on the white crinkly paper, dangling my feet below as I waited for the doctor to arrive. The wait was quicker than normal. She skipped her normal pleasantries and sat across from me with a stony face. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re pregnant.” “Pregnant?” “Pregnant.” She spread on a thin layer of jelly and placed the ultrasound probe to the area where my uterus would be had I had one. I couldn’t make it out but the scan confirmed what my bloodwork said - I was eight weeks pregnant and there were no options to abort it. In less than nine months I would give birth and be a mother. 

I didn’t tell my boyfriend for obvious reasons, hiding under baggy clothes and sleeping with a pillow in front of my stomach to keep him from detecting any kicks in the night. And kick it did. This baby couldn’t wait to be born. I kept thinking upon its birth I would have broken two records - one for being the first trans woman to give birth and the other for birthing the most eager baby in history. My cravings started justifiable but once I started making chocolate covered pickles I figured it was time to take more serious measures to cover my tracks. I felt bad lying to him, particularly because he was so excited for me when I told him I would be picking up pottery as a hobby to unwind every couple weeks, but he probably wouldn’t have believed me even if I was truthful and told him I would be meeting with my doctor for prenatal prescriptions. When I failed to come home after 7 months with a single misshapen clay cup or plate he accused me of cheating on him and left me. I cried and pleaded for him to stay. “I’m not seeing anyone else! But I can’t tell you where I’ve been going. You’ll leave me regardless!” Once I had calmed down and realized that I could live out the final weeks of my pregnancy no longer in secret, the situation didn’t seem so bad after all. Maybe I could do this by myself. Women before me certainly have done it so why not me? That blind optimism quickly crumbled once my water broke and the contractions began. I couldn’t dilate so there was no way of telling when I should go to the hospital. I called him and begged him to come get me. “It’s an emergency! I need you!” Wherever he had been staying was surely a bit of a distance because by the time he arrived the baby had already been born. Its birth was painful and gory as my body was not built with the necessary equipment to go through any of the steps of labor. Every inch the baby crept out of me was another inch of ripped flesh and irreparable damage. My penis was torn to shreds and the now unplugged hole gushed blood. The child wailed as I held her close to my chest. My ex used the key he had yet to return to let himself in. When he walked in on the scene I could see every bit of color drain completely from his face. “We made a baby,” I cried. “You made me a woman.” 

I blacked out within a few moments of his arrival and upon my return to consciousness I was informed that the baby had not made it through the night. Her body failed to develop completely, but there was nothing I could have done differently according to my doctor. She was destined from conception to die. My ex moved back in and nursed me back to help. I let him but knew deep down it wouldn’t last. Once my wounds had healed enough to the point where I had most of my mobility back he repacked his belongings and made his final exit from my life. I still hold love for him to this day and don’t regret a single bit of our time together. I have begun masturbating with my new pussy and am hopeful that I will one day feel healthy enough to let someone inside me again (with a condom this time). I buried my daughter and visit her often. Sad as it may be, I think it was all for the best. I literally wasn’t built to be a mother. And besides, domesticity never really turned me on anyway.