To keep up appearances

It was… vaguely early on a Monday morning, and you were jogging. Replaying the events of the day before in your head as you jolted around the footpaths of the park. Of course, it wasn’t as if you were opposed to exercise as such. You had a very strict regime you tried to keep to in order to keep your body as slim, lithe and perky as your master might like. Still, flashbacks of him folding into Maisie’s oh-so-flexible form kept popping into your mind and driving you onwards until you either collapsed or grew some real ovaries, whichever came first.

Of course that also brought some other issues… Your ‘workout’ outfit was very tight: a soft, cotton thong hanging out over the top of a tiny pair of lycra short-shorts and matching strappy boob-tube that all barely left any room to maneuver anything. The inner visions of magnificent bodies sloshing against one another resulted in a constant cycle of embarrassing battle against what would be an all-too-obvious erection, followed by self-conscious awareness that you were losing said battle and panicked, blushing scanning for any passers by who might notice this.

It didn’t help, naturally, that you also had a thick, rubber plug buried in your rectum; jolting rhythmically with every step you took. You were quite fond of ‘Mr Smiley’ though: One of your oldest companions and named after the cheery, bright-yellow face that sat upon his cap and thus grinned out between your butt-cheeks. He had been your workout partner for a long, long time now… providing a strange sense of self-confidence even back when you’d been **** to trek into busy, inner-city gyms in baggy sweatpants. Still vaguely hoping that anyone who noticed you would assume you were some skinny runt trying to finally ‘bulk-up and impress the ladies’, rather than trying to make your ass look better for when your girlfriend’s new lover might next decide to slap his balls against it.

Thus each metre of ground you covered was a rolling cascade of pulls and strains: The friction and churn of Mr Smiley against your innards, the gentle gulps and grips of your sphincter around his girth, the twitch and throb of your cock and balls against their demure entrenchment and the tightening answer from the fabric itself. The otherwise general exposure of your freshly-shaven legs and midriff barely felt worthy of notice in comparison. Yet every rare, stray figure you passed sent a shivering fit of panic trembling through your bones as if every dirty secret you’d ever held was painted across your skin.

Which made you all the more regretful of the decision you’d made to meet Trev here at any moment. You still had no real clue if the sweet young man had any idea over who or what he’d got himself involved with. Was it wrong to enjoy the idea that he might be attracted to you solely on the premise that he thought you were just like any other girl? To be so validated in the femininity you had worked so hard to formulate? Was this choice of meeting and outfit actually a purposeful attempt at self-sabotage? An exhibitionist parading of what you simply could not hide well enough that he’d surely have to notice?

The thing was, you didn’t really have answers to any of these questions. You’d never really even had to broach the subject before. Most of the people who knew you these days were probably better acquainted with the look of your asshole than with your face. Such was the disconnect between the boy who’d been born and raised in baggy jeans and the sex object who hung around alleyways in short skirts and stiletto heels. You still saw yourself as primarily little more than a bucket to be filled, what did it really matter what manner of handles were attached?

It was of course during this thought that you completely collided with Trev himself.