Sexy Femboy in Lingerie Seduced by a Hot Hunk

Silk, Rain, and a Knock on the Door

The rain had been tapping the window all evening, a patient rhythm that made the flat feel smaller and warmer. I’d been pacing between the mirror and my bed, adjusting the delicate straps of a black lace set that fit like a whisper—soft, close, electric. I’m a blonde British amateur with more clothes from the women’s section than I’d ever admit; tonight I wanted the confidence they give me. The stockings hugged my smooth legs, the garter kissed my thighs, and the satin ribbons at my hips felt like secrets tied in a bow. My phone buzzed again. Still up? Open if you want me.

Ryan lived two floors down, the kind of neighbour people notice: tall, broad, a square jaw softened by a lazy smile and a sleeve of black-ink tattoos that looked like storm maps on his forearm. I’d seen him in the lift enough times to memorise the veins on his hands and the line of his throat. He was a hot hunk in the uncomplicated sense—strong, certain, the type who says little and makes it count. I typed a single word back: Yes. Then I put on a thin silk robe that did nothing to hide me and waited for the knock that came two minutes later, punctual and inevitable.

When I opened the door, the hallway light silhouetted him. Rain dotted his hair, and the fabric of his tee clung to his chest. Those eyes swept over me—my collarbone, the hint of lace, the length of my stockings—and stopped on my mouth. No jokes, no small talk. He stepped inside and closed the door with his heel, bringing the quiet of the corridor with him. I was suddenly aware of the smell of rain on cotton, of amber cologne, of the city’s night air clinging to his jacket. He smiled. “You look beautiful,” he said. Two simple words, and the nerves in my belly unknotted like string.

We stood there a heartbeat too long. I tugged the robe’s belt. He stared at my fingers as though they were counting down. When I turned and walked toward the living room, he followed without asking where we were going. The hardwood was cool under my feet; the lamp by the sofa cast a slow gold. He took my hand. The way his thumb rested at my wrist—firm, not tight—was enough to say it: I could let go and be held, and he would do the rest.

Silk Against Skin, Ink Against Hands

He sat me on the edge of the bed and stood close, barely touching, the heat of him ghosting over my knees. When he shrugged off his jacket, I saw the tattoos climb his arm and vanish under his sleeve. He pulled his tee over his head in one motion; the light found the lines of his chest and shoulders, the gentle scatter of hair across his pecs. I reached up without thinking and traced the curve of an inked wave that curled toward his elbow. He didn’t move—just watched my fingers, watched the way I touched him.

“Spin for me,” he said, voice steady. I stood, turned slowly. The robe fell open and stayed that way. His breath came closer at my shoulder. His palm settled at the small of my back to guide me. I wasn’t just showing him the lingerie; I was showing him the intention. A femboy in his best sexy wear, ready to be seen by a man who wanted him. When I faced him again, he tipped my chin with one finger and kissed me. Not soft. Not rude. Possessive. The kind of kiss that empties the head of thought and fills it with heat.

His hands mapped me like new territory. He learned the texture of lace over skin, the give of my waist beneath the band, the slick silk when his fingertips glided down my thighs. I was a cute twink by category, a sub bottom by temperament; he was a dom top by instinct, by the way he waited and then commanded. We were an amateur gay couple in the making—two neighbours with an appetite, a POV story writing itself as my pulse matched his.

He kissed down my throat, along the edge of the bra, over the sheer fabric that didn’t hide the way my body begged for more. The light caught his tattoos as his hands slid, and I felt the contrast—the softness of lace, the roughness of his palm, the cool grain of ink under warm skin. “Say please,” he murmured, mouth at my ear. I did. I said it twice.

When Control Meets Surrender

He laid me back on the bed and knelt between my knees, parting them with a calm authority that made my breath hitch. He kissed the inside of my thigh so slowly that the world narrowed to that single place, that single heat. The first glide of his tongue was a line of fire. He teased, then deepened, then teased again, and soon my hands were in his hair and my hips were moving without permission. He laughed softly against my skin, pleased at how quickly I became a map he could read.

“I’ve got you,” he said, and pulled my hips to the edge of the bed. The garter straps tugged with a satisfying snap. He spread me and tasted me, patient and intense, working me open with his tongue, rimming until my thoughts came apart in shining threads. I remember the sounds I made—small, breathless, surprised; I remember the deep hum in his throat when I begged him not to stop. He didn’t. He pressed two fingers in slow, then three, the stretch sweet and burning, his other hand splayed over my belly like a claim.

When he finally pushed inside me, it was with a deliberation that made me gasp. No fumbling—just a single, sure glide after a long, careful build. Raw and intimate, the connection landed in my lungs. He paused, forehead to mine, watching my face, letting me settle around him until my nails tapped his shoulders in a signal that meant more. He moved. Long strokes at first, the kind that make you feel everything—his warmth, his weight, the way your body yields and then wants.

The pace shifted as his control tightened. He found the angle that wrung a helpless sound from me every time and stayed there, hammering, retreating, returning, his breath breaking in my ear. The headboard knocked a soft drumbeat against the wall. He was relentless, and I was open; he was power, and I was permission. My stockings rasped against his waist, my heels pressed into his back, pulling him deeper, begging with my whole body. “Look at me,” he ordered. I did. I held his gaze while he took me apart.

He flipped me effortlessly, lifting my hips so my chest met the sheets, my back arched, my garter taut. He pinned my wrists with one hand and pressed his palm between my shoulder blades with the other, and when he pushed back in, I cried out. Fingers laced, breath stolen, I felt his tattoos scrape lightly against my skin as he drove me forward again and again. The world shrank to the clap of us, the rough drag, the wet heat, the praise in his voice that sounded like growls. “Good. Good boy. Take it. That’s it.”

He pulled out. The sudden emptiness made me whimper. He turned me over and slid down, mouth hot, tongue greedy, swallowing me deep until my spine bowed and my hands clawed the sheets. Then his tongue returned to where I burned, lapping, teasing, edging me until my vision spotted at the edges. I was wrecked and still I wanted more—more of the pressure, more of his dirty encouragement, more of the way he shaped my body to his purpose.

When he pushed back into me, I met him halfway. Our rhythm found something hungry and honest—less performance, more confession. We were two people who’d decided this was the night to be all the things we’d rehearsed alone. He told me what I was to him; I told him what I wanted him to do. He pinned me to the mattress and drove me through the edge until I shattered with a sound I didn’t recognise as my own. I came with my whole body, a wave starting low and tearing upward; he followed with a brutal, beautiful stillness, buried deep as heat flooded me. He stayed, pulsing, pressing, breathing my name like a promise.

We didn’t speak for a while. He held me there, still connected, as if letting the moment cool would be a waste. When he finally pulled back, he watched the way I trembled and kissed my knee, my thigh, my hipbone, a trail of gratitude that felt like worship. “You’re perfect like this,” he said. I believed him because I felt it—ruined and remade, lingerie crooked, eyeliner smudged, the silk robe somewhere on the floor like a fallen flag.

Tea, Towels, and a Text

Aftercare is its own kind of intimacy. He brought a warm cloth and wiped me gently, murmuring nothing words that meant everything. He helped me out of the stockings—slowly, as if unwrapping something valuable—and kissed the faint ring the garter left on my thigh. I loved that: the ceremony of undressing after, the way he treated the sexy wear like part of me rather than a costume. He lifted the duvet and tucked me in while I blinked at him, dazed and happy.

“Tea?” I asked, voice hoarse. He grinned and headed for the kitchen as if he’d lived here for years. I heard the rattle of mugs, the soft thump of the cupboard door, the click of the kettle. I lay there feeling the slow throb of satisfaction settle into my bones. The flat smelled like rain and sweat and laundry powder; the window fogged at the corners; the city moved far away from our little pool of light.

He climbed back into bed with the tea, nudging my knee with his. We sipped in silence, the easy kind. His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist where my pulse lived; mine traced the edges of his tattoo like I could learn its story by touch. He wasn’t just a hot hunk with a beautiful body; he was tender in the ways that mattered, a patient dom who read a sub like a book and turned the pages without tearing them.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from him, sent even though he sat right there: Next time, leave the robe at the door. I laughed, cheeks hot. “Next time?” I asked aloud. He kissed my knuckles. “Next time.” We finished the tea. He pulled me onto his chest and I drifted, the steady beat of his heart under my ear like a metronome.

Later, in the bathroom, I caught my reflection—hair messy, mouth swollen, eyeliner blurred into something smoky, the bra strap fallen off one shoulder. I looked like a secret answered. I straightened the lace and thought about how easily he’d made space for me to be all the things I am: crossdresser, femboy, lover, partner-in-heat. Raw, yes. Loving, yes. Amateur by label, but not by feeling. I padded back to bed and crawled under the duvet. He opened his arms and I fitted myself there like I’d been made to measure.

Outside, the rain had eased to a hush. In here, the afterglow was bright and soft. We talked about nothing and everything: how he’d noticed me in the lift, how I’d watched his hands; how he liked my smooth skin and the way silk sounded when I moved; how he wanted to try a few things next time—different positions, a slower pace, maybe a mirror. We made plans without naming them. That, I think, is what makes a gay couple: not the labels we wear but the ordinary promises wrapped in nights like this.

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