That’s when we saw him. Marcus. Standing beside a cherry-red muscle car that looked like it had been polished with blood and sin. He was leaning against the driver’s side door, sunglasses hiding whatever demons danced behind his eyes, but I could feel them. Oh, I could feel them from fifty yards away. This wasn’t just a man; this was a force of nature, a walking catastrophe waiting to happen.

Jenna saw him too. Her breathing changed—shallower, faster. Her nipples hardened against the thin cotton of her dress. I knew that look. I’d put it there a hundred times, but never like this. Never with such raw, unfiltered hunger that made my own blood run hot and cold simultaneously.

“Pull over,” she said, and it wasn’t a request.

My foot moved to the brake before my brain could process the command. That’s the thing about Jenna—she doesn’t ask, she announces. And I’ve always been the kind of man who’d rather crash than question her directions, especially when her voice drops into that octave that says someone’s about to get fucked, possibly literally.

The gravel crunched under our tires as we pulled over. Marcus didn’t move, didn’t smile, just watched us approach like a predator sizing up prey. Up close, he was even more intimidating—broad shoulders stretching his t-shirt, arms roped with muscle, a jawline that could cut glass. And those eyes—when he finally removed the sunglasses, they were dark and bottomless, like looking into the void and having the void look back with interest.

“Car trouble?” I asked, because that’s what civilized people do, even when every instinct is screaming that the man in front of you is anything but civilized.

Marcus smiled then, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. “No trouble here. Just waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Jenna asked, and her voice had that breathy quality that meant her panties were already soaked.

“For you,” he said, and the words hung in the air between us, thick and undeniable. He wasn’t looking at me when he said it. His eyes were locked on Jenna, and she was leaning into his gaze like a flower to the sun.

My stomach twisted. Part jealousy, part arousal, part something darker I didn’t want to name. This was wrong, all wrong, but my dick was already hard, pressing against my jeans like a trapped animal begging to be set free.

“We should go,” I said, but the words came out weak, pathetic even.

Jenna laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “We’re not going anywhere.” She stepped closer to Marcus, close enough that I could see the heat rising from his skin. “Are we?”

Marcus’s hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to say: mine now. “You have a choice,” he said, but his eyes were on me. “Watch or leave. But if you stay, you stay by my rules.”

My throat was dry. “What rules?”

He smiled again, and this time it was all teeth. “You watch. You don’t touch. You don’t speak unless I tell you to. You just watch me take what’s mine.”

Jenna moaned, a soft, desperate sound that went straight to my cock. She was already his, and we both knew it. The question was whether I’d stay to witness the surrender.

“I’ll stay,” I heard myself say, and the words tasted like defeat and something else—excitement. Dark, twisted excitement that made my hands shake.

“Good,” Marcus said, and then he pulled Jenna against him, his mouth crashing down on hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was an invasion, a claiming. His hands roamed her body possessively, squeezing her ass, pulling her hips against his growing erection. Jenna melted against him, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body arching into his touch.

I stood there, frozen, watching as another man’s hands explored my wife’s body. My wife. The woman I’d sworn to protect, to cherish. And here I was, rock hard and watching as a stranger peeled her sundress over her head, revealing the black lace bra and panties I’d bought her last month for our anniversary.

“Look at you,” Marcus murmured, his voice thick with lust as he cupped her breasts through the lace. “All dressed up for me.”

Jenna whimpered, her head falling back as his thumb brushed over her nipple. “Please,” she begged, and I’d never heard that sound from her before—raw, desperate, completely undone.

“Please what?” Marcus asked, his fingers hooking into her panties, teasing the sensitive skin beneath.

“Please touch me,” she gasped. “Please.”

He laughed, a dark, rumbling sound that vibrated through my own chest. “Oh, I’ll touch you. I’ll touch you everywhere.”

And then he did. His hands were everywhere—on her breasts, between her legs, gripping her ass, pulling her closer. Jenna was writhing against him, lost in sensation, her eyes glazed with desire. I could see the wet spot spreading on her panties, could smell her arousal mixing with the desert air and the scent of Marcus’s cologne.

“On your knees,” Marcus commanded, and Jenna dropped without hesitation, her hands going to his belt buckle. My own knees felt weak as I watched her unzip his pants, freeing his cock. It was huge—thick and long, with a slight curve that made my mouth water. Jenna wrapped her hand around it, her fingers barely meeting, and looked up at him with worship in her eyes.

“Suck it,” he said, and she did. Her lips stretched around him, her head bobbing as she took him deeper, her cheeks hollowing with suction. Marcus groaned, his hands tangling in her hair, guiding her movements. “That’s it. Take it all.”

I could hear the sounds—wet, sloppy, obscene. Jenna gagged slightly as he hit the back of her throat, but she didn’t pull back. If anything, she took more, her eyes watering, tears streaming down her face as she worshipped his cock with her mouth.

My own dick was aching, trapped in my jeans. I wanted to touch it, to relieve the pressure, but I remembered his rules: you watch, you don’t touch. So I stood there, hands clenched at my sides, watching as my wife pleasured another man, her body humming with a desire I’d never been able to evoke in her.

“Enough,” Marcus said finally, pulling her off him with a wet pop. Jenna looked dazed, her lips swollen, her chest heaving. “On the hood of your car. On your back.”

Jenna scrambled to obey, scrambling onto the still-warm hood of our convertible, spreading her legs. The black lace of her panties was dark with her arousal, clinging to the curves of her pussy. Marcus stood between her thighs, his cock jutting out, hard and ready.

“Look at your husband,” he commanded, and Jenna’s eyes found mine. They were dark with lust, but there was something else there too—apology? No, not apology. Triumph. She was enjoying this. Enjoying my humiliation, my arousal, my complete inability to look away.

“Tell him what you want,” Marcus said, his fingers tracing the edge of her panties.

“I want you,” Jenna breathed, her eyes still locked on mine. “I want you to fuck me. Right here. Right now.”

Marcus grinned, hooking his fingers in her panties and ripping them away. The sound of tearing fabric echoed in the desert air. Jenna gasped as the cool air hit her wet pussy, her hips lifting instinctively.

“Since you asked so nicely,” Marcus said, positioning himself at her entrance. And then he pushed inside.

Jenna cried out, her back arching off the hood of the car. Marcus was big, and she was tight, but he didn’t give her time to adjust. He thrust deep, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion.

“Oh god,” she moaned, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the metal hood. “Oh god, yes.”

“God’s not here,” Marcus grunted, setting a punishing rhythm. “Just me. Just this cock. And your husband watching.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, but they also made my dick twitch. Because he was right. God wasn’t here. This was something primal, something dark and deliciously wrong. And I was complicit in it, standing here watching as another man fucked my wife on the hood of our car in the middle of nowhere.

The sounds filled the air—skin slapping against skin, Jenna’s moans and cries, Marcus’s grunts of exertion. I could see everything: his cock stretching her pussy, her juices glistening on his shaft, the way her breasts bounced with each thrust, her nipples hard and begging for attention.

“Harder,” Jenna begged, her voice ragged. “Please, harder.”

Marcus obliged, his thrusts becoming more brutal, more demanding. The car rocked beneath them, the metal groaning in protest. Jenna was lost now,

The car rocked like a vessel in a hurricane, and Jenna was the storm. Her nails scraped against the hood of the convertible, leaving faint trails in the dust as Marcus pounded into her, each thrust a seismic event that rattled not just the car, but the very foundations of my pathetic little world. I could hear the wet, sucking sounds of their connection, a obscene percussion section to the symphony of her moans and his guttural grunts. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on with a desperation that was both terrifying and utterly mesmerizing. This wasn’t the woman I’d married. This was something else, something wild and untamed, unleashed by this man, this force of nature in a torn t-shirt.

“You see this?” Marcus snarled, not looking at me, but somehow speaking directly to my soul. His voice was ragged, strained with effort. “This is how a woman’s supposed to be fucked. Not that gentle, love-making bullshit. This is a claiming.”

Jenna cried out, a sound that was half pain, half ecstasy, as he drove into her particularly hard. Her head was thrown back, her throat exposed, a column of pale flesh in the harsh desert sun. I could see the pulse beating in her neck, a frantic drum solo signaling her complete and utter surrender to the moment. To him.

“Tell him,” Marcus commanded, his rhythm never faltering. “Tell your husband how much you love this cock.”

Her eyes, glazed and unfocused, found mine. There was a universe of depravity in that look, a whole new reality we were building together on the side of a deserted highway. “I love it,” she gasped, her voice cracking. “Oh god, I love his cock. It’s so… so much bigger than yours.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, a fist to the gut that knocked the wind out of me. And yet, my own traitorous dick, still trapped in my jeans, throbbed with a sick, twisted approval. Humiliation and arousal, two snakes coiling in my gut, biting and releasing in a dizzying, nauseating rhythm.

Marcus laughed, a dark, triumphant sound. “Bigger, thicker. It’s stretching you, isn’t it? Filling you up in ways you’ve only dreamed of.”

“Yes,” she whimpered, her hips rising to meet his thrusts. “So full. I’m so full of you.”

He slowed then, to an almost maddeningly deliberate pace, pulling out until just the head of that magnificent cock remained inside her before sliding back in with excruciating slowness. He was savoring it, savoring her, savoring me. He was drawing out the agony, turning the knife in my gut while simultaneously twisting my balls into a knot of pure, unadulterated lust.

“Touch yourself,” he said to Jenna, his voice low and commanding. “Show him how you come on a real man’s cock.”

Her hand snaked down her body, her fingers finding her clit with practiced ease. She began to circle it, her movements frantic and desperate. The sight of it—my wife, lying on the hood of our car, being fucked by a stranger while she masturbated—was so obscene, so profoundly wrong, it felt like a religious experience. This was the real sacrament. This was the true communion. Blood, sweat, tears, and cum.

“That’s it,” Marcus encouraged, his pace picking up again, faster this time, harder. “Come for me. Come all over this cock while your husband watches.”

Her body began to tremble, a fine sheen of sweat covering her skin, making her gleam in the sunlight. Her moans became higher, more desperate, little animal cries of pure need. “I’m close,” she panted. “Oh god, I’m so close.”

“Look at him,” Marcus demanded, his voice sharp as a whip. “Look at your husband when you come.”

Her eyes locked onto mine again, and in that moment, she shattered. Her back arched, a silent scream on her lips as the orgasm tore through her. I could see the spasms racking her body, her pussy clenching around Marcus’s cock, milking him for all he was worth. It was the most beautiful, most horrifying thing I had ever seen. She was utterly, completely lost in it, a vessel of pure sensation, and I was just an observer, a ghost at the feast of my own wife’s pleasure.

Marcus wasn’t far behind. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself deep inside her and let out a roar that seemed to shake the very heavens. I watched his balls tighten, watched the muscles in his ass clench as he pumped her full of his cum, marking her, claiming her, making her his in the most primal way possible.

They stayed like that for a long moment, a tangled heap of limbs and sweat and satisfaction on the hood of our car. The silence that followed was heavier than any sound, thick with the smell of sex and gasoline and the desert air. I felt like I should say something, do something, but I was frozen, a statue carved from shame and desire.

Finally, Marcus pulled out, his cock glistening with their combined fluids. A thick stream of his cum leaked out of Jenna’s pussy, running down the crack of her ass and pooling on the hood of the car. It was a filthy, beautiful sight, a masterpiece of modern depravity.

He tucked himself back into his pants and zipped up, then turned to me, a smug, satisfied grin on his face. “Well,” he said, his voice casual as if we’d just finished a round of golf. “That was fun.”

Jenna sat up slowly, her movements languid, like a cat stretching in the sun. She looked wrecked, thoroughly used, and more beautiful than I had ever seen her. Her hair was a mess, her lipstick was smeared, and she had the look of a woman who had been well and truly fucked.

Marcus walked over to me, his steps confident, assured. He stopped so close I could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell Jenna’s pussy on his skin. He reached out and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. His eyes were dark, dangerous, and filled with a mocking amusement.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice a low murmur. “Watching me fuck your wife.”

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t lie, couldn’t deny it. I just nodded, my throat tight, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Good,” he said, releasing me with a little shove. “Because we’re not done.”

My eyes widened, and I looked from him to Jenna, who was watching us with a hungry, expectant look on her face. “What… what do you mean?” I managed to stammer.

“I mean,” Marcus said, walking back over to Jenna and pulling her into his arms, “that your wife is a greedy little slut. And one cock is never enough for a greedy little slut.”

He kissed her then, a deep, possessive kiss that left no doubt about who was in charge. When he pulled away, Jenna was panting, her eyes bright with excitement.

“He’s right,” she said, her voice husky. “I want more.”

“More what?” Marcus prompted, his hand cupping her breast, his thumb teasing her nipple.

“More cock,” she said, her eyes meeting mine. “I want your husband’s cock.”

My head was spinning. This was too much, too fast. I had been a spectator, a voyeur, a willing participant in my own humiliation. But this… this was something else entirely. This was crossing a line, a line I wasn’t sure I was ready to cross.

“Go on,” Marcus said to me, his voice dripping with condescension. “Don’t be shy. Your wife wants you to fuck her. Or are you too scared?”

The challenge hung in the air, a gauntlet thrown at my feet. I looked at Jenna, at the raw, naked need in her eyes, at the cum still leaking from her pussy, at the way her body was already arching in anticipation. And I knew I was lost. I was a moth to her flame, a junkie to her drug, a willing victim in her delicious, depraved game.

I walked toward them on legs that felt like they were made of lead. My hands shook as I fumbled with my belt, with the button of my jeans, with the zipper. My cock sprang free, hard and aching, desperate for release.

“That’s it,” Jenna encouraged, her voice a siren’s song. “Come here. Come fuck me.”

I positioned myself between her legs, my cock hovering at her entrance. She was wet, so wet, slick with her own arousal and Marcus’s cum. The thought of it, of sliding into her used, cum-filled pussy, was so dirty, so wrong, it made my head spin.

“Fuck her,” Marcus commanded, his voice a low growl. “Fuck her while I watch.”

I pushed inside, and the sensation was overwhelming. She was hot and wet and stretched from his cock, her walls still fluttering from her orgasm. I could feel his cum in there, a slick, welcoming lubricant that coated my cock as I sank deeper into her.

“Oh yes,” Jenna moaned, her hips rising to meet me. “That’s it. Fuck me.”

I started to move, my thrusts clumsy and desperate compared to Marcus’s confident, punishing rhythm. I was like a boy who had just discovered sex, fumbling and eager, while Jenna was the seasoned pro, guiding me, encouraging me, her body responding.

My hips moved with a desperate, frantic energy I didn’t know I possessed. Each thrust into Jenna’s cum-filled cunt was a revelation, a violation, a homecoming all at once. The slickness of Marcus’s seed coated my cock, a warm, obscene welcome mat into the territory he had just conquered. The sensation was alien and intoxicating—the familiar tightness of my wife’s pussy, but stretched, remolded, and branded by another man. It was like returning to a house you’d lived in your whole life only to find someone else had redecorated in a way that was both terrifying and undeniably an improvement.

“Look at him,” Marcus’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and amused. “He’s like a fucking dog who’s been given a steak. Doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

He was right. My rhythm was pathetic, a clumsy, jackhammering parody of the controlled brutality he had demonstrated. I was all instinct and no technique, a raw nerve ending of pure, unadulterated need. Jenna didn’t seem to mind. Her legs wrapped around my waist, her heels digging into my ass, pulling me deeper, urging me on.

“Harder,” she breathed, her voice a ragged whisper against my ear. “Don’t hold back. I want to feel you.”

So I let go. I stopped thinking, stopped worrying about looking foolish, stopped caring about the man standing there watching us like a critic at a particularly avant-garde play. I just fucked her. I poured all my confusion, my jealousy, my sick, twisted arousal into every thrust. I was trying to erase him, to overwrite his presence with my own, to reclaim her with my body. But it was a fool’s errand. I wasn’t erasing him; I was simply adding my layer to the masterpiece of depravity he had started.

The desert sun beat down on us, turning the hood of the car into a griddle. The metal was hot against Jenna’s back, and I could feel the heat radiating through her body, mingling with our own. Sweat dripped from my forehead onto her face, mixing with her tears of pleasure. The air was thick with the smell of sex—her musk, his cum, my sweat, the metallic tang of the car. It was a heady cocktail, the kind of shit that could make a man forget his own name.

“Turn her over,” Marcus commanded, his voice calm, authoritative. “I want to see her ass.”

Jenna whimpered, a sound of pure, unadulterated anticipation. I pulled out of her, my cock glistening with their combined fluids, and helped her to her hands and knees on the hood of the car. Her ass was perfect, round and pale, with a slight pink flush from the heat and exertion. Her pussy was red and swollen, her lips parted slightly, a milky stream of Marcus’s cum leaking out and trickling down her thigh.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Marcus said, stepping closer and running a possessive hand over her ass. “A true masterpiece.”

I could only nod, my throat tight, my eyes fixed on the sight before me.

“Fuck her from behind,” he said, his hand still caressing her, his fingers dipping between her legs to gather some of the cum leaking from her pussy. He brought his fingers to her lips, and she sucked them clean, her eyes locked on mine the entire time. “And make it count.”

I positioned myself behind her, my cock throbbing with a need that was almost painful. I slid into her again, and this time the angle was different, deeper. I could feel the head of my cock hitting her cervix with each thrust, and she cried out, a sound of pain and pleasure that made my balls ache.

“Fuck yes,” she moaned, her hands braced against the hood of the car, her knuckles white. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was lost in the sensation, in the sight of her ass bouncing against my hips, in the sound of our bodies slapping together, in the knowledge that Marcus was standing there watching, his presence a palpable force that fueled my every move.

But Marcus wasn’t content to just watch. He moved around to the side of the car, his crotch level with Jenna’s face. He unzipped his pants again, and his cock, still semi-hard but already showing signs of renewed interest, sprang free.

“Open up,” he said, his voice low and demanding. “Time for round two.”

Jenna didn’t hesitate. She opened her mouth and took him in, her lips stretching around his girth. I could see her cheeks hollow as she sucked, her head bobbing in time with my thrusts. The three of us were a single, writhing entity, a machine of pure, unadulterated lust, fueled by the desert sun and our own dark desires.

I watched as Marcus grew hard in her mouth, his cock thickening and lengthening until it was just as formidable as it had been before. He tangled his hands in her hair, guiding her movements, setting a pace that was both brutal and intoxicating.

“That’s it,” he grunted, his hips thrusting in time with her sucking. “Take it all. Show your husband how a real cock is worshipped.”

The words were a poison dart aimed directly at my ego, but they only made me fuck Jenna harder, faster. I was trying to compete, to prove myself, to show him that I could be just as rough, just as demanding. But it was no use. I was a child playing at a man’s game, and we all knew it.

Jenna was in heaven, sandwiched between us, filled from both ends. Her moans were muffled by Marcus’s cock, but I could feel them vibrating through her body, a constant, hum of pleasure that pushed me closer and closer to the edge.

“I’m gonna come,” I gasped, my thrusts becoming erratic, my control slipping.

“Not yet,” Marcus commanded, his voice sharp as a whip. “You don’t come until I say so.”

It was an impossible demand, a cruel and unusual punishment, but I tried. I gritted my teeth, I thought about baseball, I thought about my grandmother, I thought about anything and everything to keep from spilling my load. But it was no use. The sight of Jenna’s ass, the feel of her pussy, the sounds of her moans, the knowledge of what we were doing—it was all too much.

“Please,” I begged, my voice a pathetic whine. “I can’t hold it.”

“Then you’ll have to be punished,” Marcus said, a dark, menacing edge to his voice.

He pulled his cock out of Jenna’s mouth and walked around behind me. I felt his presence before I felt his touch, a wave of heat and menace that made my skin prickle. His hand came down on my ass with a sharp crack, the sound echoing in the stillness of the desert.

“Did I say you could come?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

“No,” I gasped, the sting of his slap a shocking, electrifying pain that only heightened my arousal.

He slapped me again, harder this time, and I cried out, a sound of pain and pleasure that was utterly foreign to my own ears.

“Then you won’t,” he said, his hand coming down again and again, a rhythmic, punishing barrage that left my ass stinging and my mind reeling.

Jenna watched us over her shoulder, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and excitement. She was getting off on this, on my humiliation, on my punishment. And the knowledge of that, of her complicity in my degradation, was the final straw.

I came with a guttural roar, my cock erupting inside her, my body convulsing with a force that was almost violent. It was the most intense orgasm of my life, a mind-blowing, soul-shattering release that left me weak and shaking.

Marcus stopped spanking me, his hand resting on my red, stinging ass. “You disobeyed me,” he said, his voice cold and hard.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped, my body still trembling from the aftermath of my orgasm. “I couldn’t help it.”

“You’ll have to be punished for that,” he said, his fingers digging into my flesh. “But later. Right now, I have unfinished business.”

He pulled me away from Jenna, my cock slipping out of her with a wet, sucking sound. She whimpered at the loss, her body still humming with unfulfilled need.

Marcus positioned himself behind her, his cock hard and ready. “Your husband came too soon,” he said to her, his voice a low murmur. “But I won’t. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t stand, until you can’t remember your own name. And he’s going to watch.”

He pushed into her, and Jenna cried out, a long, drawn-out sound of pure, unadulterated bliss. He started to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first, then faster, harder, more demanding. I stood there, my spent cock hanging limp between my legs, my ass still stinging from his punishment, and I watched. I watched as he fucked my wife, as he took her to places I could only dream of, as he claimed her, body and soul, right in front of me.

And I knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and strangely comforting, that this was just the beginning. We were on a highway to hell, and we were flooring it, with no intention of ever looking back.

The post She’s More His Now, and My Cock is Hard first appeared on Fetish Stories.

It all started back in college, when I was still figuring out my FTM journey. I’d been on T for about a year, my voice had dropped, my body was starting to bulk up in all the right ways, and I was feeling that surge of confidence that comes with finally seeing the man in the mirror staring back at me. But sex? That was a whole other beast. I’d hooked up with a few people before transition, but now, as an FTM guy, I craved something deeper, something that acknowledged my scars, my packer, my everything. I wanted a partner who saw me as the rugged, horny dude I was, not some curiosity. Enter Eaton—tall, tattooed, with that brooding artist vibe that screamed trouble. He wasn’t FTM himself, but he got it; he’d dated trans guys before and knew how to make a man feel desired without the bullshit questions.

We met at a dive bar near campus, the kind where the air smells like stale beer and regret. I was nursing a whiskey, feeling the burn down my throat, when he slid onto the stool next to me. “You look like you’ve got stories,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine with this intensity that made my cock twitch—well, my meta, but you know what I mean in these FTM sex stories; it’s all about that raw sensation. I laughed, told him I had plenty, and before I knew it, we were swapping tales of bad hookups and wild nights. His hand brushed my thigh under the bar, casual at first, but then firmer, like he was testing the waters. I didn’t pull away. Hell, I leaned in.

By the time we stumbled out into the night, the city lights blurring around us, I was buzzing—not just from the booze, but from the heat building between us. We ended up at his place, a cramped apartment filled with canvases and the faint scent of paint. He pushed me against the door as soon as it closed, his lips crashing into mine, rough and demanding. I grabbed his shirt, yanking him closer, feeling the stubble on his jaw scrape against my own. “Tell me what you want,” he growled, his hand sliding under my shirt, fingers tracing the binder I still wore sometimes for that extra flat chest feel. I smirked, my voice low and gravelly from the T. “I want you to fuck me like the man I am. No holding back.”

He didn’t need more invitation. We tore at each other’s clothes, my shirt hitting the floor first, revealing the faint scars from my top surgery. He paused for a second, not in pity, but in admiration, his eyes darkening with lust. “Fuck, you’re hot,” he muttered, leaning down to kiss along the lines, his tongue flicking over the sensitive skin. It sent shivers through me, that mix of vulnerability and power that’s so unique to FTM sex stories. I pushed him back onto the bed, climbing on top, grinding against him. My packer was still in my boxers, but I could feel the pressure building in my own body, that ache deep inside.

Eaton flipped me over effortlessly, his strength turning me on even more. He yanked down my pants, exposing me—my FTM body in all its glory. No pussy talk here; it was my hole, my cock, my rules. He dove in with his mouth, no hesitation, his tongue lapping at me like I was the best damn thing he’d tasted. I groaned, my hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer. “Deeper,” I demanded, my voice hoarse. He obliged, sucking and teasing until I was writhing, my hips bucking against his face. The wetness was everywhere, slick and messy, and he loved it, humming his approval as he fingered me open, stretching me with those calloused artist hands.

But I wasn’t just gonna lie there. I wanted control too. I pushed him off, rolling us so I was on top again, straddling his waist. His cock was hard, straining against his boxers, and I freed it, wrapping my hand around it—thick, veined, pulsing. I stroked him slow at first, watching his face contort in pleasure, then faster, making him gasp. “You like that, huh? Feeling a FTM guy jerk you off?” I teased, my own arousal dripping down my thighs. He nodded, eyes half-lidded, and pulled me down for a filthy kiss, all teeth and tongue.

We didn’t stop there. He grabbed lube from the nightstand—always prepared, this guy—and slicked us both up. I positioned myself, lowering onto him inch by inch, feeling that stretch, that fullness that made my eyes roll back. Riding him was euphoric, my muscles clenching around him as I bounced, my small cock rubbing against his stomach with every thrust. Sweat slicked our bodies, the room filled with the sounds of skin slapping, moans echoing off the walls. “Harder,” I panted, and he thrust up to meet me, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind my eyelids.

Hours blurred into a haze of positions—him behind me, pounding into me doggy style, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise; me on my back, legs over his shoulders as he went deep, whispering dirty praises about how tight I was, how masculine, how fucking irresistible. We came multiple times, him spilling inside me the first round, then pulling out to paint my chest the next. I orgasmed from his fingers, his mouth, his cock—each one more intense than the last, waves crashing over me until I was spent, trembling in his arms.

But this FTM sex story doesn’t end with that night. Oh no, we kept it going for months. Eaton became my go-to for those late-night cravings. One time, we snuck into the campus art studio after hours. The place was dark, lit only by moonlight filtering through the windows. He bent me over a workbench, surrounded by half-finished sculptures, and took me from behind. The risk of getting caught amped everything up—my heart pounding as his cock slid in, slick with spit because we forgot the lube. I bit my lip to stifle moans, but he didn’t make it easy, thrusting hard, his hand reaching around to stroke my cock, fingers circling the head until I was leaking all over the floor.

“Fuck, your FTM body is made for this,” he whispered in my ear, nipping at the lobe. I pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, the wood digging into my palms. We finished fast that time, adrenaline fueling us, collapsing in a heap of limbs and laughter afterward.

Another memory that sticks out: a road trip we took to the coast. We rented a shitty motel room with a view of the ocean, but we barely saw it. As soon as we checked in, clothes were off. He tied my hands to the headboard with his belt—consensual, hot as hell—and teased me for what felt like forever. His mouth on my nipples, still sensitive from surgery, sending jolts straight to my core. Then down, licking stripes along my inner thighs before burying his face between my legs. I begged, “Please, fuck me already,” but he just grinned, edging me until I was a mess, cursing and thrusting my hips.

When he finally entered me, it was slow, torturous, building to a frenzy. We went at it all night, switching roles—I strapped on my prosthetic and fucked him too, watching his face as I pegged him, feeling that power dynamic shift. FTM sex stories often gloss over the versatility, but damn, topping as a trans guy is empowering. His ass clenched around me, moans spilling out, and I came from the friction against my own body, grinding into the harness.

Of course, it wasn’t all smooth. There were moments of dysphoria, like when he’d accidentally touch a spot that reminded me of pre-T days, but we’d talk it through, make it part of the intimacy. That’s what made our sex so real—not generic vanilla, but layered with emotion, dirtied by sweat and come, elevated by trust.

As time went on, we experimented more. Toys entered the picture—a vibrating plug that he worked into me while sucking me off, making me see double. Or the time we role-played, me as the dominant FTM boss, him as the eager subordinate, on his knees worshipping my body. “Suck my cock,” I’d command, and he’d obey, his mouth hot and wet, taking me deep until I exploded.

One particularly filthy night stands out. We’d been drinking, inhibitions low, and ended up in the shower. Water cascading over us, he pressed me against the tiles, fingers plunging in and out while he jerked himself. “Come for me, you sexy FTM fucker,” he urged, and I did, squirting against his hand—yeah, that happens sometimes, and it’s intense. Then I dropped to my knees, water streaming down my face, and took him in my mouth, sucking hard, tasting the salt of him mixed with soap. He came down my throat, gripping my hair, calling my name.

Our story evolved beyond just sex, though. We shared vulnerabilities—me opening up about my FTM transition struggles, the injections, the surgeries, the highs and lows. He’d listen, then show his appreciation physically, making love slower sometimes, tender kisses contrasting the rough fucks. But even those tender moments had an edge; he’d bite my shoulder, mark me as his, while whispering how my body drove him wild.

Eventually, life pulled us apart—graduation, jobs in different cities—but the memories linger. Every time I read another FTM sex story online, I think of Eaton, of those nights where we pushed boundaries, got dirty, and embraced the erotic chaos. If you’re an FTM guy reading this, know that your stories matter; they’re hot, they’re valid, and they’re worth sharing. And if you’re not, well, maybe this gives you a glimpse into the passion we bring to the table.

But wait, I can’t stop there; this post needs to dive deeper because that was just the beginning. Let me tell you about the reunion we had a year later. I’d moved to the city, bulked up more from the gym, my beard fuller, my confidence skyrocketing. Eaton hit me up out of the blue, saying he was in town for an art show. We met at a hotel bar, the tension thick from the start. One drink led to another, and soon we were in his room, door barely closed before hands were everywhere.

This time, it was even more intense. He’d learned new tricks, and so had I. He stripped me slow, appreciating every change—the hair on my chest, the muscles in my arms. “God, you’ve gotten even hotter,” he said, pushing me onto the bed. He ate me out for ages, his beard scratching my thighs, tongue delving deep, making me soak the sheets. I pulled him up, kissing him, tasting myself on his lips—salty, musky, addictive.

We fucked missionary first, my legs wrapped around him, nails digging into his back as he pounded away. “Tight as ever,” he groaned, sweat dripping onto me. I flipped us, riding reverse cowgirl, grinding down hard, feeling him hit every nerve. Then, on all fours, he took me rough, spanking my ass until it stung, the pain mixing with pleasure in that perfect way.

We didn’t sleep much that night. Round after round—him coming on my face, me licking it off my lips; me fingering him while he stroked me; using a dildo on each other simultaneously, moans syncing up. It was dirty, sticky, exhausting, and utterly satisfying.

Reflecting on it now, these FTM sex stories aren’t just about the physical; they’re about claiming space, owning desire, and reveling in the eroticism of our bodies. Mine with Eaton was special because it was authentic—no scripts, just two guys losing themselves in each other.

And yeah, there were more encounters after that. One time, at a pride event, we hooked up in a bathroom stall—quick, desperate, his hand over my mouth to muffle my cries as he fingered me to orgasm. Another, in his car parked in a secluded spot, windows fogged, radio playing softly as I blew him, then he returned the favor.

But let’s get into the details of one epic weekend. We rented a cabin in the woods, away from everything. No distractions, just us. Friday night, we built a fire, but soon it was us heating things up. He laid me on the rug, firelight dancing on our skin, and worshipped my body—kissing from toes up, lingering on my scars, my cock, making me beg. When he entered me, it was slow, deep, building to a crescendo where I came screaming his name.

Saturday, we hiked, but ended up fucking against a tree, bark rough on my back, nature all around. Quick and dirty, pants around ankles, his thrusts urgent. That night, bondage—ropes tying me spread-eagle, him teasing with ice cubes, melting them on my skin before licking the trails. His cock in my mouth, then my hole, alternating until we were both wrecked.

Sunday morning, lazy sex in bed, spooning turning into penetration, his arm around me, hand on my cock as he moved inside. We came together, bodies synced.

These memories fuel my fantasies even now. If you’re into FTM sex stories, share yours—let’s keep the conversation going. Mine’s just one, but it’s packed with that erotic, dirty energy that makes life exciting.

So, that’s my FTM sex story—raw, erotic, filthy, and full of truth. Hope it got you going. What’s yours?

The post The Guy Who Knew Exactly How to Fuck a Trans Man first appeared on Fetish Stories.