Scales are tipping

Week seven opened with the scores finally tipping in Mark’s favor for the first time in a month. The notification lit Talia’s phone while they were still tangled in the sheets from the night before, her freckled thigh thrown across his bare, hairless hip, the black lace panties he had never taken off after the previous evening’s date still damp and sticky against the smooth skin of his cock. He stared at the numbers longer than he needed to, the reality of a win settling slowly.

He was so used to the morning ritual that his hand had already reached for a fresh pair of panties before he consciously decided to put them on. Soft pink cotton this time, the fabric settling over the average three-and-a-third inches of his soft cock and the tight, smooth sac beneath with the same familiar pressure. The bra followed out of pure habit, empty cups and underwires settling against his ribs. Talia watched him from the pillow, blue eyes half-lidded, red hair tangled across the freckled skin of her shoulder.

“My week,” he said, voice rough from sleep. “Mornings change. You suck me while I eat you. Sixty-nine. Every morning. Nights stay the same—my mouth first, then I fuck you.”

She didn’t argue. The bet was the bet.

The first morning she woke him by straddling his chest in reverse, the soft weight of her freckled ass settling near his face, the already-wet folds of her cunt hovering over his mouth. Mark’s hands spread her open; the scent of her filled his nose, warm and musky and faintly sweet from sleep. He dragged his tongue through her slit in one long, slow stroke, tasting salt and skin, the soft inner lips parting under the pressure. At the same time her freckled hand freed his cock from the pink panties and her mouth closed over the head. The heat of her was immediate and slick. She took him deeper in slow increments, lips stretching around the four-and-two-thirds-inch girth, tongue pressing flat along the underside while she sucked. The wet sounds of her mouth on his average cock mixed with the wetter sounds of his tongue working her open. Every time she sank down on him the head brushed the soft palate at the back of her throat; every time he licked harder against her clit her hips twitched and a fresh rush of wetness coated his chin. He felt her start to tighten, the freckled thighs on either side of his head beginning to tremble, and he focused on the swollen bud of her clit, sucking it between his lips and flicking it with the tip of his tongue until she came with a muffled moan around his cock, her cunt pulsing against his mouth and flooding him with fresh slick. The clench of her orgasm and the vibration of her moan around his shaft pulled his own climax out of him in thick, heavy pulses; he spilled across her tongue in rhythmic spurts while she swallowed and kept sucking until he was soft and oversensitive. Only then did she climb off, lips shiny, freckled cheeks flushed, and tuck his spent cock back into the pink cotton.

That night the old rule held. He knelt between her spread thighs on the bed and worked his mouth over her cunt until she came a second time that day, the taste of her still familiar, the soft freckled skin of her inner thighs warm against his cheeks. Only after her legs stopped shaking did she let him pull the panties aside and push into the swollen, fluttering heat of her. He fucked her slow at first, feeling every ridge and clench of her walls around the five-and-one-sixteenth inches, the smooth hairless skin of his groin pressing flush against her freckled one with nothing but the stretched elastic of the panties between them. She came again on his cock, cunt clamping down hard enough to make him grit his teeth, and the second orgasm of the night dragged his own out of him in long, pulsing waves that left him buried deep and shaking.

The pattern held through the week. Every morning the sixty-nine—her mouth hot and wet and greedy around his cock while his tongue worked her open until she came first, the vibration of her climax always enough to finish him. Every night his mouth between her thighs until she shook, then the privilege of sinking into her while the panties stayed shoved aside and the bra straps cut into his shoulders. He still wore the full feminine clothing for the dinners and dancing she had not removed from the standing rules; the heels, the dresses, the careful makeup. The win had only bought him the right to put his cock in her mouth every morning. Everything else remained hers.

Week eight belonged to Talia again, and she used it without mercy.

“Week-five rules back in full,” she said when the scores locked. “Mouth before cock, twice a day. Makeup. Panties. Bra at home. Dinner and dancing as a woman every night. And new additions.” She held up her phone, screen already open to a folder of carefully chosen clips. “Every afternoon you watch. Trans women. Confusion porn. Girls who still have cocks, girls who used to, girls who can’t decide. I pick the outfit. I stroke you while you watch. You don’t come until I say. Then we get ready for dinner.”

The first afternoon she dressed him in a tiny black skirt that barely covered the pink panties, a tight white crop top that left the empty bra visible underneath, and the same heels he wore for dancing. She sat him on the couch, opened the first video, and wrapped her freckled hand around his cock through the cotton. The screen showed a slim blonde with a soft face and a hard, average-looking cock between her legs being fucked by a woman with a strap-on while another girl sucked her. Mark’s own cock twitched hard in Talia’s grip. She stroked him slowly through the panties at first, the fabric growing damp under her palm, then pulled the crotch aside and wrapped her bare fingers around the hot, smooth shaft. The contrast between the images on the screen and the reality of his own average cock in her hand made his stomach tighten. She worked him with long, twisting strokes, thumb smearing the steady leak of pre-cum over the head, while the sounds from the video—wet skin, soft moans, the slap of a strap-on—filled the living room. When his hips started to lift she tightened her grip and slowed, denying him the edge until the video ended. Only then did she lean down and take him into her mouth for three wet, perfect sucks before pulling off and tucking him back into the ruined panties.

“Dinner,” she said, voice calm. “Then you can finish later. If you earn it.”

That night after the restaurant and the slow, close dancing she made him keep the tiny skirt and heels on while he knelt and ate her on the living-room rug. The mascara she had applied earlier left dark smudges on her freckled inner thighs. He licked until she came, the taste of her thick on his tongue, then she pushed him onto his back, yanked the pink panties aside, and sank onto his cock while the crop top was still shoved up under his armpits. She rode him hard, the empty bra cups bouncing, the little black skirt flipped up around his waist, until she came a second time and the clench of her cunt forced him over the edge with her.

The second afternoon the outfit was a soft pink baby-doll nightie that barely reached the tops of his thighs, no bra underneath, only the pale pink panties and the heels. The video was longer—two trans girls kissing while a cis woman stroked them both, then the cis woman taking one of the cocks into her mouth while the other fucked her from behind. Talia sat beside him on the couch, freckled legs tucked under her, and stroked his cock with deliberate, filthy patience. She kept the panties on at first, rubbing the wet cotton along his shaft, then pulled them down just enough to free him and worked the bare, smooth skin with a slick fist. Every time his breathing grew ragged she slowed or stopped, watching the screen instead of his face. When the video ended she was still only halfway to letting him come. She left him hard and leaking in the baby-doll, the front of the panties dark and sticky, and made him finish his makeup for dinner with the ache still throbbing between his legs.

Back home that night she added the next new rule without warning. While he was on his knees between her thighs, mouth already working her open, she reached down, slicked two freckled fingers with her own wetness, and pressed them against the tight, smooth pucker of his asshole. Mark’s tongue faltered. She pushed the first finger in slowly, the ring of muscle resisting and then yielding, the sensation sharp and intimate and strange against the complete absence of hair. She worked the finger in and out while he licked her, adding a second when the first moved easily. The stretch burned in a way that made his cock throb harder against the front of the panties. She came on his tongue with both fingers buried in his ass, then pulled them free, flipped him onto his back, and sat on his cock while the residual sensation of the stretch still pulsed through him. The dual feeling—her cunt tight and wet around his shaft, the recent memory of her fingers inside his ass—made him come faster than he wanted, flooding her in thick pulses while she watched his face.

By the middle of the week the afternoon sessions had become the center of the day. Different outfits each time: a micro-skirt and fishnets, a schoolgirl pleated skirt with knee socks, a tight red bodycon dress that left nothing to the imagination. Different videos: trans girls being praised for how pretty their cocks looked, trans girls confused and aching, trans girls being used by women who called them good girls while stroking them. Talia’s freckled hand never rushed. She stroked him through the chosen panties or with a bare, slick fist, always stopping short of letting him come, always leaving him aching and wet for the dinner and dancing that followed. At night the fingering during oral became routine. Two fingers, sometimes three when she was feeling generous, working in and out of his tight, smooth hole while his tongue worked her clit. The stretch and the fullness made every orgasm she allowed him afterward more intense; the first time she pressed against the spot inside him that made his vision white he came so hard he left her dripping down her own thighs.

Friday afternoon she dressed him in nothing but a pair of white lace panties, a white lace bralette that still sat empty on his chest, and the heels. The video was the longest yet—a trans girl being told she looked prettier with a cock than without while a woman edged her for nearly twenty minutes. Talia matched the pacing exactly, freckled fingers slick with lube, stroking Mark’s average cock in the same slow, torturous rhythm until the front of the white lace was transparent and his thighs were shaking. When the video finally ended she didn’t let him come. She left him hard and leaking, made him put on the soft pink dress over the lace, and took him to dinner with the ache still pounding between his legs. On the dance floor she pressed against him so the soft weight of her body rubbed the wet lace against his cock with every movement. He came in the panties halfway through the second song, the orgasm forced out of him by the friction and the denial, pulsing and spilling into the white lace while she held him upright and smiled against his neck. She made him keep the ruined panties on for the rest of the night. Back home she ate his mouth with the taste of his own cum still faintly present on the lace when she finally pulled it aside and sat on his face, then on his cock, until she had come twice more and he was soft and empty and shaking.

Week nine opened with a win for Mark that felt hollow the moment he checked the overall standings. His team was still buried at the bottom of the league. Talia’s was already locked into the championship bracket. The season was effectively over for him. He was going to lose. He was going to be the woman in the threesome with Karma. The knowledge settled into his stomach like cold water.

He used the single week of power anyway.

“The afternoon handjobs change,” he said. “We take turns. Ass. Mouth on ass. Both of us. Enemas first so it’s clean. The rest of the rules stay—your rules, the dresses, the dancing, the mouth before cock at night. But the afternoons are mine this week.”

Talia’s blue eyes studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded once.

The first enema was warm and strange and intimate. She filled him in the bathroom while he leaned over the sink in nothing but the pink panties and the empty bra, the water flowing into him until the pressure made his cock twitch against the cotton. The release was humiliating and oddly erotic; the empty, clean feeling afterward left his hole soft and sensitive. She went next, freckled body bent over the same sink while he held the bag and watched the water disappear into her. When they were both clean she led him to the couch, still in the middle of the afternoon, and pushed him onto his back.

She started. Her freckled hands spread his smooth cheeks; her tongue dragged over the tight, clean pucker of his asshole in one long, slow stroke. The sensation was electric—hot and wet and so intimate it made his cock jump hard against the front of the panties. She licked him open with deliberate patience, the tip of her tongue circling, pressing, finally pushing inside the ring of muscle while her freckled hand stroked his cock through the cotton. The dual stimulation—her tongue in his ass, her hand working his average shaft—had him trembling within minutes. She didn’t let him come. She simply worked him until he was dripping and desperate, then pulled away and turned around, presenting her own freckled ass.

Mark’s face burned. He spread her open with both hands, the soft freckled flesh yielding under his fingers, and dragged his tongue over her clean, pink hole. The taste was clean and faintly soapy from the enema, the texture soft and tight. He licked her the way she had licked him—long strokes, circling pressure, the slow push of his tongue inside when the muscle relaxed. She moaned low in her throat and pushed back against his face. He kept at it until her thighs shook and she reached back to fist a hand in his hair, grinding her ass against his mouth while her other hand worked between her own legs. She came that way, hole clenching around his tongue, a long broken sound muffled in the couch cushions.

Only then did she turn around, pull the pink panties aside, and sink onto his cock. The heat of her cunt after the rimming was almost overwhelming. She rode him hard, still tasting herself on his mouth when she kissed him, until she came a second time and the clench of her walls pulled him over the edge with her.

Every afternoon that week followed the same pattern. Enemas first—warm water, the intimate pressure, the clean empty feeling afterward. Then the mutual rimming on the couch or the bed, her freckled body bent over him or straddling his face, tongues working tight clean holes while hands stroked cocks and clits. The sensation of her tongue inside his ass never stopped feeling shocking; the taste of her clean hole under his own tongue never stopped making his cock throb. She always finished the afternoons by sitting on his cock and fucking him until they both came, the residual sensitivity in his hole making every orgasm sharper.

The nights remained hers. Makeup. Dresses. Heels. Dinner. Dancing. His mouth between her thighs until she came, then the wet heat of her cunt around his cock while the panties stayed shoved aside and the bra straps dug into his shoulders. The fingering during oral continued; two or three freckled fingers working in and out of his ass while he licked her, the stretch and the fullness now familiar and necessary.

By Friday afternoon the routine felt as natural as the panties themselves. They cleaned each other, then took turns with mouths on asses until both of them were shaking. When she finally sank onto his cock she did it while facing away, so he could watch the stretch of her freckled hole—still soft and slightly open from his tongue—while her cunt took every inch of him. The visual was enough to make him come first for once, flooding her in thick pulses while she ground back against him and followed a few seconds later.

She collapsed forward afterward, freckled cheek against his bare, hairless calf, breath warm.

“One week left,” she said quietly. “Championship week. You already know how it ends.”

Mark’s soft cock twitched inside the ruined pink cotton, still trapped against the smooth skin she had created weeks ago. Outside the apartment the final scores of the season were still days away. Inside, the rules had finished rewriting him.