s*x in C Major

Chapter 1 I don’t do soft and sweet, came the warning. Stefan’s mouth went dry, and his heart picked up a few beats. Meaning? he asked. Meaning I might wine and dine you, but then I’ll be holding your legs open in the back seat of my car and f*****g you raw for afters. You’d feel me for days. Stefan’s breath caught, and he flicked back to the profile picture. The guy—callmeSir—was obviously a gym goer, tattooed muscles bulging out of his T-shirt. And he was grinning, but maybe he wouldn’t, if they got to the back seat of his car. I wouldn’t be opposed to that, Stefan admitted, and bit his lip. Waiting. And waiting. And— You like your men to take control, do you? I have fantasies, Stefan gushed, his heart beating a mile a minute. He had a stupid grin on his face, and he knew it. It wasn’t entirely appropriate for a bus station. An old lady was giving him a funny look. What kind of fantasies? Like maybe when we get to the back seat of your car, I’m saying no and you just get frustrated and f**k me anyway. The minute he typed it, Stefan’s stomach clenched. And his d**k swelled. He adjusted his jeans awkwardly, and tried not to blush too hard. He never spoke of his dreams. Not ever. But callmeSir had started the conversation, saying he was in the market for something to ride his d**k and Stefan was just the kind of toy he was looking for. And God, it was so sick, but Stefan had found it so damn hot. You’re a sub? Maybe, Stefan replied. Sounds like a sub to me. You wanna pay your half of the bill by getting on your knees? Heat pooled low in Stefan’s stomach. Yes. Sir. Spit or swallow? I’ve never blown anyone before. You a virgin? Yes. Yes what? Stefan had to bite back a groan, and shifted in his seat again. The old lady waiting for the Bradford bus was frowning at him. Sir. Sorry, sir. I’d beat a sub for that. Looks like I’ll have to train you. The groan escaped. His d**k hurt. f**k, he’d need to dive into the gents if callmeSir didn’t stop. You better be a fast learner. You spill any c*m down yourself, I’ll split your tight little arse open. And I’m not a fan of lube. Stefan hesitated. If he was going to hook up with this guy…well. It wouldn’t just be…just be the arse, would it? Even if the guy wasn’t interested in using anything else, he’d…notice. What about my cunt? There was a sharp pause. Then: What? Stefan took a deep breath. I’m transgender. There was another long pause. Stefan could feel a sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. So you’re a woman? Stefan flinched. No. I’m a transgender guy. You got a cunt, came the rapid reply, so you’re a woman. Stefan’s stomach rolled. His thumbs froze, shaking over another denial, but he was too slow. I’m gay, I don’t do women. Stefan started to type a reply—about his binder, about he’d do anal, about his hormone therapy—but callmeSir struck again before he could formulate a reply. Plus I don’t do mental subs. You need therapy, not a f**k. Tears blurred Stefan’s vision, and he deleted the thread. His next breath was barely there; the one that followed shook in the middle, and one of the tears escaped. His face felt too hot, and his skin too tight. He wasn’t a f*****g woman. He wasn’t, he wasn’t, he wasn’t. The Harehills bus was pulling into the bay, but Stefan turned on his heel. He fumbled with change for the barriers, then crashed into the toilets and barricaded himself into the nearest cubicle. He chewed on his knuckle not to sob, his other hand fumbling for tissue, and he mopped himself up as quietly as possible. What did he expect? The one time he’d found someone to talk to who wasn’t freaked out by his fantasies, and then they didn’t do freaks like him for the other reason. “Freak,” he whispered. This guy hadn’t said it, but plenty had before. And they were right. He was a freak, a f**k-up, f****d-up. He wasn’t right in the head. Who wanted to be raped after a date? Who actually fantasised about being dragged into a car and brutally f****d against their will? Men didn’t. So Stefan wasn’t one. The guy was right—but he couldn’t be. Stefan had only clicked on callmeSir because of the username and the picture. They had nothing in common, and Stefan hadn’t wanted that. He hadn’t wanted to like the same movies. He’d—God, he’d wanted to be forced to call the guy sir. To be shoved to his knees. To be told he wasn’t allowed out of the guy’s car until he’d blown his master. To feel fingers fisted in his hair, to be dragged into the back seat and his jeans ripped down, and— Stefan fumbled with the fly on his jeans, and shoved his hand into his underwear, leaning back against the cold, dank tiles. He closed his eyes as he began to jerk himself, and shoved the damp tissue between his teeth to keep quiet. If he’d said that, and Sir had been sitting right there in the bus station with him, maybe he’d have dragged Stefan into the toilets anyway. Called him a lying b***h. Said he’d been stringing Sir along, and Sir wasn’t going to stand for that. “You owe me,” he’d say, and when Stefan argued, he’d clamp a hand over Stefan’s mouth, and squeeze until it hurt. Stefan squeezed his free hand around his mouth, imagining the grip. Sir would have rough hands. He’d tell Stefan to pull down his own jeans and underwear. It’d be cold, and then Sir would spit in his hand, and Stefan would try and beg him not to do it. Only he’d not be able to speak, and Sir would shove him up against the wall. He’d use his own weight to pin Stefan to the tiles and open Stefan’s legs. He’d be breathing on Stefan’s face, and— Stefan’s breath staggered, and he bit his lip until it hurt. Because it would all hurt. He’d never been f****d before. Sir would thrust in hard, right to the root, and it would split Stefan open and hurt, hurt like nothing he’d ever felt. He’d go limp between Sir’s hand around his jaw and Sir’s c**k in his arse, and he’d just hang there and sob as he was f****d, like a plaything, like a doll, like a slave. And it would last forever, and Sir would f**k hard, in long, brutal strokes, and he’d bite Stefan’s ear and grunt out his rhythm there, so Stefan was crushed by his weight, ripped apart, destroyed— The pressure burst. Stefan came hard, his fingers digging bruises into his face. His breathing staggered. The tiles above swayed out of vision, and shimmered slowly back in. The next breath raked through his lungs. He gasped for stale air. His hands were damp. Then he closed his eyes again. Oh, God. He’d just…just been rejected, because he was trans, and his response had been to go into the toilets and imagine the guy raping him? And he’d gotten off to it? The tears returned, hot and stinging. “Freak,” he breathed. “Freak, freak, freak.” Then he wiped off his hands, zipped himself up, and tried to stop shaking. Drink. He needed a drink.