The FFM begins

Ben’s low groan cuts through the kiss. His hand stills on his cock, fingers tight around the base, and he looks at both of you with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Beth,” he says, voice rough, “I need to bury my cock inside your friend. Let’s head to my place. You girls are so fucking hot. I can’t wait too long.”

Beth’s mouth leaves yours slowly. Her fingers are still under the hem of your dress, resting against the damp red lace, and she doesn’t move them right away. She turns her head toward him, lips swollen and glossy, and smiles—small, knowing—before her gaze comes back to you. Her thumb strokes once, lightly, over the thin fabric covering your pussy.

“What do you think, Amy?” she asks, soft enough that only you and Ben can hear. Her other hand stays at the nape of your neck, fingers gentle in your hair. “We can go. Or I can put you in a car right now and you come back to mine. No pressure.”

The words hang in the warm air of the alcove. Under the table Ben’s knee shifts closer; you can feel the heat of his thigh and the faint tremor still running through him. Your own body is still thrumming—the lace of the g-string clinging wetly between your lips, the sheer dress brushing your tightened nipples, the stockings smooth and tight against your thighs. Every small movement makes the suspender straps tug at your hips. The throb between your legs hasn’t eased; if anything, the blunt promise in his voice has made it sharper.

Your mind snags again on the same impossible fact. Yesterday you were a man. Yesterday the idea of a cock inside you didn’t exist. Now Ben is sitting inches away, hard and leaking, telling Beth he wants to bury himself in the body you’re wearing, while her fingers rest on the soaked lace that barely covers you. The warning from the phone call flickers through you—don’t let a man come inside or you stay like this—and your stomach tightens. At the same time the new, swollen ache low in your belly answers the image his words just planted: the thick stretch, the weight of him, Beth watching or touching or kissing you through it.

Beth’s eyes stay on yours, patient. Outside the booth the bar keeps moving, bass low and steady, voices rising and falling. The single warm bulb above the table catches the sheen on your lips and the fine red lace at the tops of your stockings. Ben’s hand flexes once around his cock, waiting. The leather creaks under you as you shift, the dress sliding higher, the nylon whispering against itself. Your heart is beating hard enough that you can feel it in your throat and between your legs at the same time.

Beth pulls back from the kiss just far enough to look at you, lips still wet, eyes dark. Her hand stays between your thighs for one more slow second, fingers pressing the damp red lace against your swollen lips before she draws it away. She glances at Ben—already tucking himself back into his jeans with obvious reluctance—then back at you. The question is there without words. You nod, barely, the movement small. Your face is hot under the blush, heart hammering, the throb between your legs sharp enough that standing feels complicated.

They move quickly. Beth stands first, smoothing her dress down, then offers you a hand. You take it and rise on the strappy heels, the sheer fabric of your own dress sliding back into place over the stockings and the suspender straps. The g-string is soaked; every step makes the lace cling and shift. Ben is already on his feet, one hand resting low on Beth’s back as he steers the three of you toward the door. Eyes follow you through the crowded bar—quick, lingering looks at the split in your dress, at the red lace visible when the fabric moves, at the way your breasts shift under the thin material. The cooler air outside hits the damp lace and the tops of your thighs and makes you shiver.

The Uber is already waiting at the curb. Ben opens the rear door. Beth slides in first, then you, then Ben on the other side so you’re pressed between them on the back seat. The door shuts. The driver pulls away. In the dim interior the dress has ridden high again; the lace tops of your stockings and the thin red straps of the suspender belt are fully visible. Beth’s hand finds your bare thigh immediately, fingers tracing the edge of the nylon. Ben’s palm settles on your other knee, larger, warmer, thumb stroking once along the stocking before sliding higher. Neither of them speaks much. The low thump of the music from the bar is gone, replaced by the quiet of the car and the sound of your own breathing.

You can still taste Beth’s mouth. The memory of Ben’s fist working his cock a foot away sits heavy in your stomach. Every small movement of the car makes the g-string drag against your slick lips and the nylon whisper against itself. Yesterday you were a man. Tonight you’re in the back of an Uber in a sheer dress and red lace, thighs parted just enough for both of their hands, heading to a stranger’s place because he said he needed to be inside you. The city lights slide across the windows. Beth leans in and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, just under your ear. Ben’s hand moves higher, fingertips brushing the damp lace at the edge of the g-string. The driver keeps his eyes on the road. The throb between your legs doesn’t ease.

Soon you are into Ben’s large well furnished flat and you fall into Beth’s arms. Her fingers slip under the thin spaghetti straps and ease them off your shoulders. The sheer dress slides down your arms in a slow, whispering rush of fabric, catching for a moment on the high curve of your breasts before it pools at your waist. Cool air hits your bare skin. Your nipples tighten at once, already peaked from the long tease in the bar, and the sudden exposure makes the throb between your legs pulse harder. The red lace suspender belt and the tiny floral g-string are all that’s left above the stockings; the delicate straps frame your hips, and the soaked patch of lace clings visibly to the swollen lips of your pussy.

Ben has his shirt half off, belt open, cock already out again and heavy in his fist. He strokes slowly as he watches Beth work the dress the rest of the way down your legs. You step out of it in the strappy heels, unsteady for a second, and the movement makes the nylon whisper and the g-string shift between your cheeks. The lace is drenched; every small sway sends a fresh slick drag across your clit. Yesterday that place didn’t exist on you. Now it feels swollen, hot, and desperately empty.

Beth steps in close again, still mostly dressed, and kisses you while her hands roam. One palm cups a breast, thumb circling the nipple until you gasp into her mouth; the other slides down your stomach, over the suspender belt, and cups you through the wet lace. She presses the heel of her hand against you, slow and firm, and the pressure makes your knees soften. You can feel how open you already are, how the thin fabric has worked between your lips, how every circle of her palm drags the lace across the most sensitive spots. A soft, helpless sound leaves you. Ben groans at the noise, his fist tightening.

“Look at you,” Beth murmurs against your jaw, fingers slipping under the edge of the g-string to stroke bare, slick skin. “So wet already. You really want it, don’t you?”

You nod, breath catching as two of her fingers glide along your entrance, not pushing in yet, just spreading the wetness. The stockings feel tighter somehow, the lace tops pressing into your thighs. Ben moves closer; you feel the heat of his body at your back, the blunt nudge of his cock against the upper curve of your ass, still outside the lace. His free hand settles on your hip, large and warm, thumb stroking the thin red strap. Beth keeps kissing you—slow, deep, filthy—while her fingers circle your clit through the clinging lace and Ben’s cock rests hot and heavy against your skin. The apartment is quiet except for the soft, wet sounds of her hand, the low rasp of his breathing, and the small, shaky noises you can’t quite hold back. Every touch reminds you how new this body is, how intensely it answers, how completely the man you were yesterday has been replaced by the aching, lace-clad girl standing between them.