WARNINGS: Includes homophobic/transphobic language. This is Part 1 of 4.
Two days ago, Natalie had woken up with a pounding headache and chills, fully in the grip of the flu. The timing could hardly have been worse.
Granted, she had plenty of PTO left at work, no upcoming appointments she couldn’t reschedule, and her son and his wife had finally decided to sleep train the baby—yes, *they* had been nothing but gracious about the news—had even sent her a bouquet of flowers, thank-you note attached. They sat wilting in a vase in the hallway.
In other news, Tom had been sent to the store that afternoon to restock on Nyquil and honey lozenges, and come back with two bottles of wine. He plunked them down on the coffee table–littered with the corpses of several dozen Kleenex–and spoke first, with an air of forced casualness. “Want a glass?”
Natalie did not, in fact, want a glass. Her head was pounding so hard, it felt like her skull was forcing its way out of her skin. She’d spent the last 48 hours wrapped in several blankets on the family room couch, drifting in and out of consciousness while marathoning the Great British Baking Show. *Must it* really *be now?* she asked the universe, but pasted a smile on her face anyway. “Sure, dear. Just a splash.”
He had brought glasses, too. He poured a cautious inch in hers, then filled his own up to the rim. It was definitely going to be one of *those* conversations.
Tom crouched down on the floor, back not quite resting on the couch. They both pretended to watch the show for a few minutes. He spoke first.
“That one’s gay.” He pointed at the screen, at a man carefully piping a macaron.
“Well, it’s hard to tell for sure, dear,” murmured Natalie, swirling the wine around in her glass while not drinking it.
“No. They showed his house last episode. No wife, no kids. He cooks for his office. His *office*.” Tom scoffed. “Might as well put a rainbow flag on it.”
It had in fact been three or four episodes ago, because Tom had taken his sweet time at the Walgreens, and did not seem to have remembered the original shopping list either; but she’s been with this man long enough by now to know that there was no point in bringing that up. The only thing worse than having one of *these* conversations would be a fight, which things would devolve into at light speed if she didn’t sit back and let him say his piece. So she smiled beautifically and swirled her wine. They pretended to watch some more.
“*That* lady’s a ball-buster.” Tom pointed out a woman layering a cake with hypnotic focus. “Bet her kids know who wears the pants in their house.”
“She’s ex-military. You’re probably picking up on that.” Natalie felt calling her a ball-buster was a bit unfair, but the producers had clearly made the same decision as Tom. The show cut to a flashback, showing her lining up her four children by height while assigning chores. Tom drained the glass and poured himself another.
This season’s trailblazing transgender character came on screen, and Natalie braced herself. Tom did not “believe” in political correctness when sober, and when less than sober, rarely held back. Normally she would take him to task about it, but right now…
“Not enough hormones. Why the hell would they put their face on TV when they don’t pass yet?” Tom gulped wine like it was water. “There’s making a statement, and there’s standards of *decency*, goddammit.”
Well, now she had to say something. “That’s not kind, Tom. We all have to live in this world somehow.”
“We don’t all have to be on TV!” Tom scoffed. He was almost to the bottom of the glass. “Not everything needs to be put in everyone’s *face* all the time.”
“I’m not making good progress on this glass, Tom – would you like to finish it?” Tom grabbed her glass, poured it into his, and drained it. *Are you drunk enough yet?* Natalie thought with irritation. Tom was six foot four and physically fit, with a body that could have been featured in a certain type of magazine in his younger years—he was more than capable of laying miles of electrical wire by himself, even at 52 years of age. She knew he lifted weights in a makeshift gym in her basement four or five times a week, and regularly cracked open a case of beer to relax. He could probably chug an entire bottle of wine and still drive. Which, of course, was why he had bought two.
Indeed, Natalie had got rather fluent these past few years in what Tom refused to say. She held her empty glass and waited for him to get drunk enough, finally, to speak.
“Cock probably still works too,” he burst out, popping the cork on the second bottle. “Bet he could keep a girlfriend.” He gestured towards Natalie. “Oh, I’m sorry, *they*.”
The pronouns were clearly female, and Natalie breathed out through her teeth. God help her, she had made the decision to date a Republican. “Is this going somewhere, Tom? Or are we just making conversation?”
He glared at her, eyes flashing, as he poured himself another glass. “Is it a problem, Natalie? For us to *make* *conversation*?”
Navigating Tom’s mental state could feel like a high wire act at the best of times, and Natalie was not at her best right now. “Tom, dear, I don’t want to fight. Let’s just watch the show.”
They watched in silence for a few more minutes. Tom abandoned his glass underneath the coffee table, drinking straight from the bottle’s mouth instead. *What a waste of good wine!* thought Natalie. *He really should have just bought liquor.*
At a certain point the Kabuki farce of it all got her right in the funnybone, and Natalie began to laugh to herself –no sound escaping her lips, of course! If she ever let *that* slip out*,* Tom would probably storm right off and “go fishing” for a week. Then again, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad–
“I had a dream.” Tom wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I had a dream, that you were some sort of tranny. Not too much of a stretch, is it?”
*Finally.* “I suppose not.” She leaned back on the couch, settling in for the ride. “Tell me about your dream.”
“You were mostly the same. Just the one extra part.” Tom gulped from the bottle again, with determination. “It was – it wasn’t a toy though. It was part of you. It was… proportional. We were in the car, and you lifted up your dress, and showed me that it was, you know. Ready.”
Natalie had guessed the general content of this conversation the moment she’d seen the wine, but the specifics still managed to surprise her. “Part of my body… wow… that *does* sound convenient.”
Tom turned and looked directly at her then, eyes shining brightly in a flushed face, like a neon sign announcing his arousal. “You told me you didn’t need to prepare anything. You made me pull over, and opened the back door of the car, and had me lie down on the seat, and…” He coughed, and hastily took another swig. “It was *warm*.” His voice dipped lower with disgust, as well as desire.
“Did you enjoy it?” Even when sick, Natalie was still a domme, and something had stirred deep inside. She caught his gaze and held it.
“Like a little bitch.” His voice cracked on the last word. He took another deep, deep drink from the bottle, then slammed it butt down on the carpet, a few drops splashing out from the force. “Goddamit, woman, you’ve finally done it. You’ve made me a faggot.”
*Language!* Natalie bit her tongue. This wasn’t about respecting the gay community. She hadn’t taken Tom’s ass—or anything else–in over 2 months by now, as every spare second had been spent working, or rocking her grandson in the middle of the night while his frazzled parents slept, or grabbing a few precious hours of sleep in between – whatever it took to keep putting one foot in front another. She’d informed Tom of the situation, of course, and asked him to sleep in another room (to maximize her rest), and Tom had been reasonable about it for a while; but as Tom infamously claimed not to masturbate, reasonableness was eventually going to go out the window. Honestly, she was impressed he’d made it this long before kicking off a “chat”.
Three days ago, when Alan and Wendie had finally thrown in the towel on attachment parenting, she’d come home and promised him they’d take time the very next day, just for each other. The flu had pre-empted those plans. But it wasn’t reasonable to get angry at nature, was it? She was pretty sure Tom understood this on an *intellectual* level, but on an *emotional* level, well…
“I don’t think I have that sort of power, Tom.”
He hissed back, “You don’t even *know* the sort of power you have.”
Well, then. Natalie crossed her legs under the blanket. “Tell me more about your dream, Tom. I’m interested.” “What? Interested in being part *man*? No surprise there!” He drained the second bottle, throat working to get every last drop. “…what more do you want to know?”
“Tell me more about my cock.” Natalie tapped a finger on her knee, underneath the blanket. “You said it was proportional. How many inches is that?”
“I didn’t fucking measure!” Tom snapped. “It wasn’t *that* big.” Natalie opened her mouth to suggest a number, but Tom talked right over her. “It was smaller than mine–not micro though. About…” He made a motion with his hand, more delicately than she’d been expecting. “…and I could have put my thumb and finger around it. If I’d wanted to.”
“Five inches, then.” That sounded about right. Her domme brain was working on this now like a math problem. “And about 2 inches wide at the base. Yes, that’s a smaller one.” Compared to some of what she kept in the drawer, certainly.
“I was surprised,” Tom slurred, his eyes following her tapping finger. “I didn’t see it… through your clothes.”
“Did it have veins on it?”
“Yes. It was a *cock*.” Tom’s eyes had traveled from her finger, up to her thighs, and wound their way up her body, lingering on the curves. “Cocks have blood in them.”
“They’re warm, hm?” Tom’s eyes flicked to her face. “When they go inside you.”
She’d hit upon the live wire, there, but at last he was drunk, and aroused enough to talk normally about it. Well… for a certain quality of normal.
“I’m straight.” He rose up partially, leaning over her, one of his hands grabbing the top of the couch. “I’m heterosexual, Natalie.”
“That’s good news for me. As I’m a woman, and we’re exclusive.” Though she wouldn’t lie, there were days she wished she could call up a friend to help deal with Tom’s… everything. “And when your ass needs me inside it, I can strap on a piece of plastic and get the job done.”
“God, you’re such a *freak.*” Tom’s voice was as full of awe as condemnation. “Women aren’t supposed to be *like* this…!”
“But I am, Tom. And you’re my man.” She reached up to touch his cheek – he hadn’t shaved today, and the stubble was rough under her fingers. “And you have to satisfy me… in every way. That’s our agreement.”
His breath caught in his throat – she felt it vibrate through her wrist. “I am. I do. I would—“ He hissed a deep breath in. “*You’re* the one who forgets about it!” Anger mixed with desire, and his eyes flashed as he leaned in closer, pushing against her hand. “You’re the one who can just—*drop* it! It’s been *months*, Natalie!”
“Tom. I caught the flu.” Natalie pulled her hand back, adjusting the blankets around herself. “And my family’s needed me. Wendie’s relatives are all back in Florida now, and none of them can really afford—“
“Don’t tell me about what they can and can’t *afford!*” Tom snarled, leaning so far over that she could feel his breath on her face. “Did they have to fly all fifteen of them out here at once? When they could have just flown her mother out fifteen times?? For *fuck’s* sake!”
“Tom. That’s their business. It’s impolite—“
“*Months*, Natalie!” His voice trembled with an emotion other than rage. “I haven’t even held you, in *months!*”
He had a point. She’d gotten caught up in her first grandchild—luxuriating in the feeling of a baby’s soft skin against hers, enjoying being needed by such a small helpless being, looking for hints of Mark’s features in his smushed little face. Wishing, in the middle of such love, that Mark could still be there—able to watch their son transforming into a father in turn, every bit as devoted and patient as his own had been. Mourning Mark all over again, tears dripping down her face as the baby slept and the clock ticked silently in the early morning hours.
There hadn’t been much room for Tom there – either physically or emotionally. And that was unfair. She could admit that much.
On the other hand, Tom could always just shelve his “proper man” bullshit, stick a non-gendered piece of plastic up his own ass, and get properly plowed the day after she managed to sleep more than two hours in a row without meds. Or—and this was truly a radical idea!—they could TALK about these things, long before the two bottles of wine came out, about his needs and her feelings and their relationship itself, but the moment anything related to the strap-on, or her deceased husband, or his possible feelings about either of those things even *breathed* past her lips there was always something so! Important! That had to be done right now! In another room! Or necessitating a trip by car – by himself! Or NOW was the time to have that fight over putting away the dishes, or, or, or…
Natalie had more or less learned to live with it– this was Tom, for better or worse. But her head was pounding, and he was leaning over her breathing heavily, and his desire was like a fire she was too close to.
“What can I do to help you right now, Tom?” she asked, keeping her tone measured. “I’m not feeling particularly sexy tonight, I’m sorry to say.”
“How convenient,” he snarled back. His hand tightened on the couch until the fabric squeaked.
“I’m saying I can’t fuck your ass.” She allowed a hint of steel to creep into her voice. No part of this was “convenient” for her right now–neither having the flu, nor life reminding her so pointedly of her widowhood, and *especially* not Tom’s impossible attitude. If Tom was going to provoke her, she was going to get… *practical*. “You’re going to unzip your jeans instead.”
His hand – the one not on the couch – hesitated for a moment, then moved slowly to his waist. She watched impassively as he fumbled the zipper down, erection springing out almost immediately, straining against his plaid boxers. “Pull down your pants and underwear to your knees. Don’t move from where you are.” He swore under his breath, but did as he was told – he was, indeed, drunk. Good! Natalie was going to wrap this up as efficiently as possible.
“I can’t fuck your ass right now. So you’re going to have to do part of the work. In your *imagination*.” She was *not* having the goddamn masturbation argument again right now. His hard cock was less than a foot away from her face, precum already leaking from the tip, its size more of an impediment than a turn-on. She licked her lips anyway, then brought one hand out from underneath the blanket and ran her fingertips up and down the shaft. His breathing caught in his chest – his hips shifted closer.
“You told me about your dream earlier – I liked hearing about it, Tom. I’d like to add on a few details. Close your eyes and imagine that what I’m telling you is happening to your body.” She ran her fingers over the head of his penis, gathering up some of the precum and putting it to her lips, mostly out of force of habit. She couldn’t even taste it.
“I’d like you to pretend that I have a cock, Tom. A *proportional* cock. I don’t show it to just anyone, though – it only comes out in a committed relationship.” *Much like my patience.* “I know you’ve been waiting a while. So have I, Tom. Did you forget that? Let’s say we have, oh… 15 minutes to ourselves, in between work and the rest of our lives.” Natalie used the one advantage of the flu to spit a copious amount of mucus into her palm. “That’s all the time *I* need, anyway, to satisfy my cock. And I don’t want to wait any more. So you’ll have to fit your pleasure into it. Understand?” She looked up at his face – his eyes were squeezed shut, as she’d commanded. *Good.* “I’m bending you over the couch, because I don’t have time for romance right now. Spread your legs.” His thigh muscles flexed. “Now *imagine* that I am entering you, with my proportional cock. I don’t have time for foreplay, Tom. You need to take it *now*. Don’t complain! I’m not *that* big!”
Carefully, she wrapped her slicked hand around his cock, spreading as much of the mucus as possible over the head and upper shaft. “I’m a good girlfriend, Tom – I’m giving you a reach-around. You’re a lucky man, to get this from me right now.” *You really are.* “I need you to be quiet and compliant while I pick the best speed to fuck you at. The one that makes my *proportional cock* feel best.” She moved her hand over the head a few times, picking up some more precum, then started to stroke at the rate that she used to put Tom over the top when she was running out of energy at the end of a long fuck. “I’m fucking you at the same rate I’m stroking you, Tom, because that’s what’s *convenient* for me right now. Do you understand?”
Tom had told her at the beginning of their relationship that he preferred to be silent in bed, and he was… until she penetrated him. Natalie kept an ear attuned to his breathing as she jerked him off. *There* – she picked up a small keen in his throat, escaping on every exhale, getting louder as her hand worked. In his mind, she and her proportional cock were pounding him into this couch right now. He wouldn’t last long.
“Good job. You’re pleasing me. I don’t have a lot of time right now, Tom. I just need to cum, and get to my next appointment. I’m *goddamn busy* right now, Tom. You’re mine, aren’t you Tom? You’ll do what I need, as my *man*, won’t you? I need you to focus on my cock, Tom, my cock which is fucking you in your ass, *my* cock, which is what matters right now, and if *your* cock needs to feel good then *you’re* going to have to find some way to enjoy *my* cock fucking *your*—“
“*Fuck!*” Tom gasped aloud, ejaculating all over the blanket. “Fuck! Ugh! *Fuck!*” Natalie had expected it to be fast, but that one had “come” ahead of schedule. She released his cock and let him stagger backwards, eyes blinking rapidly as post-orgasm clarity came upon him. He looked down at her, at the soiled blanket, at her hand still hanging in mid-air–
His face went white and then beet red, and he sputtered “God*damn* this is sad–” Furiously fixing his clothes, he stormed past her, slamming the door to the family room on his way out so hard that the pictures trembled on the walls. Then slamming the front door. Then—Natalie waited for it—slamming the door to his trailer parked outside, loud enough that the sound traveled through several walls to reach her.
Sighing, Natalie grabbed some fresh Kleenex and did her best for the blanket. It would have to be put in the wash. Tom, though, would take a bit more than a spin cycle.
Without question, Natalie would *strongly* prefer to end these “conversations” by drilling Tom into the nearest mattress until he could no longer form coherent speech (and that was probably the response he was hoping for) but the less likely that was to happen – no matter the reason – the sharper the edge of his anger as he kicked one off. She wasn’t stupid–she knew he was trying, inelegantly, to ask her to take him (while avoiding all emasculating phrases such as “my ass” “put it in” “I want”, etc) – but why couldn’t he read the situation, and at least *time* it better? Did he think insulting the LGBT community to her face was going to overcome an illness that had knocked her flat for 2 straight days?? *Ugh!*
Letting her head fall back on the pillow, she took several deep breaths, directing her mind towards what was most important. Right now… she needed to focus on getting well. Tom was a problem that could wait.
And if he didn’t like that, well–he could park his stubborn, needy ass right down on a chair, read any of the five or six books she had gifted him so far that contained the words “communication” and “relationship” in their titles, and then try *literally anything* written on their pages.
She already knew, though, that he wouldn’t.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/dxyvyb/give_and_take_part_1_fm_femdom_pegging_mature