Two's company; three's a mess

I got a like from a woman on the swinger app. This was unusual enough, back in the early days. That app was the first one I used, and in many ways the grungiest. But the firehose of male attention was as intense and overwhelming as ever. Getting a like from a femme profile was maybe... one in a hundred.

So my interest was piqued.

"Hey beautiful, lovely to see a new face on here. How's the inbox looking? I bet you're getting a LOT of attention huh?"

Looking for subby girls to join me and master, said her profile's tagline. The photos showed no faces, but they did show some nice boobs, a nice body especially for an older lady, and the testimonials (a quirk of this app which I'd love to see come back to the other, more modern ones...) gave at least some confidence that this 'couple' was the real deal. Besides, having her demonstrate her understanding of what receiving this insane volume of messages was like came across as an appreciably human gesture. 'Fuck it,' went my internal monologue.

It was to be my second hookup.

"Hey, thanks! Uh yeah it is A Lot! I didn't expect it to be like this." And then in my second message: "Just checking you know I'm trans?" This was to be my standard opening gambit for years.

"You what?"

"Just making sure you've read my profile. I'm a transgender woman. Not everyone is okay with that. I'm just checking you are."

She took a little while to respond, but a few minutes later I got: "Wow... I didn't know. Well in that case we are even more interested." I let her retain the initiative and waited for more messages. I probably backed out of the chat and looked at some others, to be honest. There was a guy who launched straight in with requesting sexty selfies and, like an idiot, I was obliging him. (Yes I know. I was such a baby at the time... although I say that like I've learned my lesson.)

"Master says he will get us a hotel room. Next week?" I'll confess I wasn't quite prepared for this level of to-the-point-ness.

"Uh... sure. Can I talk to him a bit first, though?"

I paused, heart rate spiking a bit. What's the etiquette here? Am I intruding on their D/s thing by pushing back? Is she going to get in trouble for asking a question? Am I being rude by asking to talk to a guy whose subby little side piece is quite overtly trawling for femmes and being the one to reach out, appearing more non-threatening as a result, and overall displaying at least some warning flags of predatory behaviour.

Yeah, sure, baby wixxy. It is you who is being rude here.

But of course I didn't know this, back then. I felt like any person's interest in me was fragile and that it would be rare enough that I'd need to make all sorts of compromises to ensure it didn't break. I'm proud of myself for even asking, to be honest.

"Of course you can talk to him. I'll make a group chat."

The following Thursday, I'm outside an East London hotel. I've tried to dress in a confident, sexy, kink-adjacent-yet-street-safe outfit: black blazer, skinny black jeans, a black tshirt that I'm convinced is tight enough to show off my six months HRT boobs, fleece-lined biker boots. I have a duffel bag with all the items I guessed the night before that I might need. Make up bag. Hair clips. Lube. Toys (such as I have yet... LoveHoney didn't get much of my money back in those days.)

We're going to meet for coffee first, but of course I'm twenty minutes early so I'm anxiously scouting out the area. This is the third time I've stood in front of the hotel doors.

Apparently there is an app to book unused hotel rooms during the day. "Everybody knows it's just for people to shag," Master had explained, "but I think the shareholders like to pretend it's for business travellers waiting for trains."

In our group chat, he'd offered me the choice of what to call him. A few options were suggested. I thought Master would be easiest seeing as my unnamed co-sub would be calling him that. We'd had some very healthy negotiations about boundaries and limits - it would be literal years before I had another pre-scene chat that was as safe, sane and consensual as this one - and the only thing suggested by him that I had ruled out was being pissed on. That, and for any play, discussion, deliberate touching of my cock. But I had presented that ultimatum. They did not seem too concerned by that, which definitely reassured me.

It was time to meet Her in the Coffeetopia across the street. I don't even remember what I order, but I know it isn't coffee: I don't want sour breath for the next few hours. Or for the digestive 'impacts' of caffeine to hit at an awkward moment. But it is a cold morning in February and my outfit is not warm, so bless you, poor baby wixxy, for having Good Bottom Instincts even so early in your career, and not ordering the hot drink you desperately needed before entering a hotel room with two strangers.

The chat, unfortunately, is extremely awkward. I had not expected Her to be so nervous. And I've never been the best at small talk, and I don't yet know any of the etiquette about hookups like this. What's polite? Should I ask about her week? Surely she's here to get away from all that! She's quiet and shy and although she's pretty she has a manner that feels a little off-putting, but I can't put my finger on why.

When Master arrives, though, he is chatty and breezy and honestly surprisingly charismatic. I really didn't expect to feel more drawn to him than to her - any other unicorns reading this will know how rare this is, although again baby wixxy definitely only had instinct to draw on at this stage. Good girl, though. She wouldn't find another three way bisexual dynamic where the guy was more appealing for years, and... well, I don't have time now to go into all that. Let's just say it's probably still never happened since.

"Here's the key. Why don't you two go and make yourselves look nice. Text me when you're ready." Master picks up a second cup of coffee and makes a show of opening a magazine. I get a thrill from being so clearly told the conversation is over, although it is dampened by the prospect of spending more time alone with Her.

I try to make a little more small talk in the lift. I infer from her brief answers that she is, indeed, married to somebody else and that her home life is very dull. She seems to at least bring some enthusiasm to talking about this ongoing affair of theirs, because it had been my concern that she is not entirely consenting to this whole situation. In retrospect, I think she is just shy and nervous. But at the time it feels quite creepy to me.

Getting ready together is fun, though. It's a shared feminine experience, albeit with a twist, of a kind that wixxy now gets all the time, but wixxy then had never had. We're doing eyeliner for each other, fussing with hair, adjusting bra straps and getting opinions on outfits. This brief series of moments will, it eventually turns out, be the most affirming part of today for me.

Master has provided a bulging shopping bag full of the cheapest, sleaziest sex shop tat for us to dress ourselves in. Shrink-wrapped one-size stretch fabric pieces of nothing emblazoned with phrases like 'Daddy's little girl' and 'Nasty bitch' and of course, the omnipresent and evergreen 'SLUT.' The problem, if there is just one, is that my early transition body doesn't have much in the way of curves, and so I desperately need for example the structure of an actual bra to have any sense of chest fullness at all. Flimsy pieces of fabric that can stretch to accommodate any body shape generally don't look good on every body shape (if they look good at all) and so I try on, and reject, most of the items. In the end I keep my own knickers on, as I need the compression to minimise my bottom dysphoria, but I'm **** to concede that Oops, sorry daddy flatters my top half the best. It's a white crop top type thing with pink writing, which goes fine with my pink undies, and my pokey little nipples make the fabric stretch obscenely such that the O of Oops and the third d of Daddy are distorted. It is otherwise completely unstructured and I'm certain it's made of a material that will have completely dissolved into microplastics by the time of writing.

I try not to think too hard about the implications of wearing an item that apologises to some notional 'daddy' about some kind of insolent transgression, when a guy twice my age is in the lift up to my hotel room to fuck me. Anybody who's read wixxy's previous works may be surprised at this. But suffice to say that experiencing a slightly more real **** fantasy was the beginning of the end for my enthusiasm for that genre. I resolve to continue calling him Master despite what my idiotic clothing may imply.