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You're pinned, face down in the bed you've been sleeping in since fifth grade. Above you, your lover (for tonight, at least) breathes heavily as she presses the tip of her strap-on against the tight ring of your asshole. Her hand, palm down, presses into the side of your head with enough force to keep you still.
You could probably get out from under her if you wanted, but you're not sure. She's stronger than you, that much is certain.
It's fun, this power play. The way she fucks you is the way you imagine a man might, if you could stomach a male partner. Her cock, clean silicone that cannot infect you, wielded by a woman who perhaps cares for your pleasure too, slips inside your ass, and she swears softly, crass delight at the way you are violated. You feel her stir the head of her cock around inside you, toying with your anus. Both you and she can revel in the delicious stretching of that tight ring.
"Fuck, baby," she says, "your ass is so tight. Are you sure you can take me?"
"Yes," you say, your voice muffled by the pillows. You nod for good measure, making sure she feels your consent.
Your clit, achingly stiff and leaking on your bedsheets, begs for her touch. She ignores it, choosing instead to take your breasts in both hands as she pushes deeper into you. Her nails are short, but she makes sure you feel them in the soft flesh of your tits. Not too much to hurt, but enough to hint at it, as if to say I could tear you apart. And as her hips rock back, preparing to plunge her cock into you, you hope she'll manage to mark you. It's always so much fun to send your lovers pictures of where you can still see their hands on your body. Bruises on your neck, thighs, or breasts; the sharp red flush of blood warming abused skin.
"Good girl," your lover groans, relishing how you whimper as she thrusts back into you. "You're so pretty, with your little hole full of me."
She's a talker, but you love talkers. It can be so easy to get lost in your head during sex, to imagine all the ways your partner is bored or unsatisfied, all the ways in which you are not what they truly want. But if you're fucking someone who likes to talk, they'll make sure you know how wanted you are, how pretty and submissive and open they can make you.
Unfortunately, she’s not the best at it.
Punctuating each word with a thrust of her cock, she grunts, “Pretty… Little… Thing…”
There’s a shocking dearth of dykes willing to talk dirty in ways beyond the perfunctory silliness that even straight people are familiar with. Good girl and slut and meaningless expletives that do little to really describe the service you are providing to each other. Abuse in name only. And given that reality, it’s no surprise that most of these dykes really aren’t great at fucking trans girls like you. They know enough to affirm your femininity and praise you for it, and it’s still hot. But like, you haven’t been called ‘princess’ in months.
"Such a slut," she says, grunting with each impact of her hips against your ass, working herself into a desperate frenzy as she rakes through your insides. Heat fills your chest and head as you imagine her getting off to the sight of you stretched around her strap, like she doesn’t even need to reach down and touch herself because of the loveliness of the girl splayed beneath her. "Such a whore for my cock."
She lets go of your tits, and you fall back into the pillows, too fucked out to hold yourself up. A moment later, her hand strikes your ass in a slap that burns and almost echoes around your room. She groans in unison with you; you imagine that she is watching your skin flush in the shape of the hand that struck you. She hits you again, just as hard— "good girl" —and slips her free hand around your hips to hold your clit.
You bite the pillow as she strokes you. You can feel the way you're making a mess of her fingers, leaking pitifully, whining just loud enough that she can hear. The sound of your slick being rubbed back into your shaft is almost as good as the feeling of her soft palm against the head of your clit. She reaches further, slams her cock into you, and caresses the soft skin between your asshole and clit. You shiver; she knows just how to touch you.
She strokes at your most delicate places, not gently either, but that’s how you like it. The possessiveness she exerts over you is as erotic as the way she gets you off. Her hands, out of her own sight, are clumsy and meandering. When you come, it will be all over her fingers. The thought drives your hips back, desperate to feel her deeper inside you.
"I knew a little slut like you would like that," she says, her voice going low and hoarse. "Girls like you are so easy."
Those words are like a hex, a curse, a blessed transmutation of the soul. You're her possession, now. Her toy, until she decides to stop playing with you. The way she's touching you? Her fingers making a ring around your clit tight enough that you can feel your own heartbeat throbbing between your legs? You'll never be able to let it go. She owns you, and rightly so. Don't you remember? You begged for her cock, in that dark booth at the bar. She had such pretty brown eyes, but they went dark and hungry when you asked her if she'd like to fuck you. "I don't fuck just anyone," she'd said. And you assured her that you were certainly more than anyone.
Now, she's half a foot deep in your tight little asshole, grunting with exertion as she toys with your clit, determined to make you come harder than anyone has in a long, long time. She doesn't fuck just anyone, and you can tell. Who cares if all she can talk about is how slutty you are, how tight you are, how little she thinks of you? She wears her cock with pride, and knows how to use it.
Her hand latches onto the back of your neck, pulling you up by the hair and forcing you to arch your back. The bite of pain in your scalp is delightful. It brings you back to this moment, the moment in which her cock thunders into you more deeply than you could have imagined. It is salvation; she is salvation.
She stuffs wet fingers into your mouth with a whispered, “take it,” and you taste the salt of your own arousal. Your lover told you she liked to make a mess of girls’ faces, and now you’re reaping the rewards. Spit and slick mingle on your tongue before she pulls her fingers across your cheeks, smudging what remains of your eyeliner. As you gasp and drop your head to rut back into her still-thrusting pelvis, she growls in displeasure.
“Eyes up, slut,” she says. Her hand grips under your chin—not gently—and pushes up. Your eyes find the blank ceiling above, your wet face cool in the air, mouth open and tongue lolling out. You can’t quite see her behind you.
Her hand reaches over your face to fill your mouth with wet fingers, her palm pressed against your nose. She stuffs herself into your throat, and you happily gag for her, the lewd sounds of your violated windpipe almost as loud as the squelching of your asshole.
“Messy whore,” your lover groans, trailing the fruits of her labor across your face and up into your hair. She’s making sure you won’t be able to forget her with a quick shower. Your hair is thick and luscious, one of the many blessings that estrogen bestowed upon you, and the mess that she’s gotten in it will take effort and thought to clean up.
Your eyes drift closed as you bask in the sensation of her hips stuttering with exhaustion. This has always been your favorite part, when your lover’s stamina wears thin and their movements become incautious and desperate. Fuck me, you think, with everything that you have, until I am nothing but a mess of come and lube and abused holes.
The palm of her hand collides with your cheek in a wet smack. You gasp, eyes flying open and clit throbbing. She hit you, like the easy whore you are. Not worthy of respect, not worth keeping her marks hidden below your clothes. She smacks you again, groaning in delight at how you gasp. Her hand takes your throat, choking just enough to burn, just enough that your eyes flutter and your body shakes, and then she slaps you again. The searing heat of her hand on your face, of her cock inside you, of her gasping breaths as she struggles to fuck you into exhaustion.
You hear her spit into her palm once, then twice. She smears her own spit across your face, ruining your makeup even further, marking you as her own. You feel the pressure in your core building as she does this, her final act of possession, and you gasp out the words nearly too weak for her to hear, “I’m coming.”
A string of nonsense follows, your ability to form coherent thoughts abolished. She hooks her fingers into your cheek, taking control of you and hilting her cock as deeply as she can. Her free hand strokes furiously along your clit, and together you feel the rising, pulsing orgasm. You spill into her fingers, scorching pleasure erupting along your length, and she growls in delight.
A moment later, you taste yourself as she dribbles your mess across your face and into your open mouth. It is ecstasy; you belong to her.
In the morning, she will be gone. All that will remain of her will be the soreness in your ass and the mess on your face. But right now, she is here. And like all good lovers, she holds you in the aftermath. Her hands, now gentle and clean, stroke your hair and caress your skin. And she reminds you that you are pretty, and clever, and funny, and that her treatment of you in the heat of lust cannot change those things.
“Obviously,” you say, grinning absently at her, “I get prettier when nice ladies like you make a mess of me.” She laughs, kisses your forehead gently, and tells you to go to sleep.