Erotic short. A man makes a pretty good housewife, on Tuesdays.
Explicit M/M erotic short between a cis man and his trans husband. 3k. Featuring housewife play, D/s, service kink, mild food kink, lingerie, plugs, cockwarming.
More soft and domestic than hot and in need of satisfaction — the trans man does wear a dress and lingerie, but the emphasis is on the texture of the clothes, and there’s no element of gender play or playful misgendering outside of “traditional” gender roles.
Terms used for the trans man are clit, lips, and cunt.
Michael woke up naturally on Tuesday morning, a few minutes before his alarm was due to go off. He always woke up before his alarm on Tuesday mornings.
Carefully moving over in bed, he flicked the alarm off on the digital clock, and then picked up his phone. It was already set to Do Not Disturb — he automatically set it to roll over to that setting on Tuesdays — so he just unplugged it and set it beside the lamp, so he could pick it up tomorrow.
Erik was still asleep, sleeping soundly with his face mashed into the pillow, and Michael grinned to himself as he carefully extricated himself from the covers, taking up the outfit Erik had laid out for him last night and slipping into the bathroom.
When they’d first started doing this, he’d thought Erik would want him to wear make-up, to wear a wig, but it wasn’t really about that then, and it wasn’t about that now. He smiled to himself as he rubbed testosterone gel into his shoulders, noticing where his nail polish was a little chipped — later on, after Erik had gone to work, he would take off it off and repaint, like he did every Tuesday morning.
The routine was soothing in itself.
He slipped on the chemise first, then sat back to roll the cream-coloured stockings up the length of his legs, smoothing out the fabric until he brought it up to his thighs. He’d shaved everything last night — he hated how the hair felt on most days, his leg hair especially making him itch, but it was worst in the clothes he wore on Tuesdays — and he shivered at the sensation of each sock sliding over the smooth, clear skin, banding around his thighs until he fastened the garters from the chemise in place.
No panties, not today — Erik wanted him easy to access.
The dress Erik had picked out was new, one that Michael hadn’t worn before, and once the gel was dry and he slipped it over his head, he marvelled at the feeling of the soft, silk lining, the smooth slide of the fabric against his chest, his belly, the textured feeling of the layered skirts around his waist and his thighs. It zipped up easily, and he undid the halter at the neck, redoing it to tighten it across his chest.
The dress was heavy, but not in a way that felt oppressive or uncomfortable, not like any dress he’d worn as a kid — the lack of sleeves was liberating, and as he shifted his hips, he felt the underskirts move and shift against one another, brushing against his thighs and the tops of his knees.
The house slippers were the most comfortable thing, cushioned ballet shoes that made almost no noise on the laminate or the wood, and Michael tiptoed past Erik still sleeping in bed.
He started with the hall, cleaning with a pan and brush the leaves that had gathered by the door during the week, trodden under their boots, and set all their shoes and coats properly on the rack, so that it all looked neat; he watered all the houseplants; he put food down for Primrose and emptied her litter tray — he’d clean it out properly later; he fed the fish and ran a cloth over the top and front of their tank…
As the oven pre-heated, he unpacked the dishwasher, and started on the pancake batter as the bacon grilled. He was smiling faintly to himself as he worked, whisking through the mixture, and once everything was cooking at once — the pancakes on the griddle, the eggs scrambling under the movements of his spatula, the bacon crisping up and the tomatoes frying audibly — he inhaled, taking in the mixed scents of everything.
Erik was already dressed when he came into the room, and he sat at the place setting Michael had put down for him, not looking up from his phone. He looked well-rested, contented, and he was smiling slightly as he read the news, and Michael put the three pancakes on the plate, the bacon, the eggs, the tomatoes, and set it in front of him at the same time he put Erik’s tea down.
“Good morning,” said Erik, putting his phone aside, and he pulled Michael down into a kiss, palm sliding around his waist.
“Morning,” said Michael breathlessly, and before he began to eat, Erik pulled Michael down lower. He did it roughly, roughly enough that the breath was pushed out of Michael’s chest as he landed over Erik’s lap, and Erik gave him no warning before he gathered up the skirts and slid his fingers between Michael’s legs, making him hiss.
“Hm,” said Erik, mildly disapproving. “Not wet yet. You’re taking time out of my busy schedule, sweetheart.”
“Sorry,” Michael moaned against Erik’s thigh, gripping at the side of his calf to try to keep his balance, and Erik’s fingers played over the back of each of his hairless thighs, and then they slid up further, using his outer lips to shield his fingers and gripping his clit between them, sandwiching the thick bud of it between the fat flesh, and squeezed. Michael whined at the sudden, thrumming sensation, but Erik didn’t let up, gripping very tightly and rolling his clit between his thumb and forefinger, the whole of his cunt throbbing as he pulled and tugged at his lips in the process.
He knew that Erik was eating with his other hand, because he heard the quiet clink of his fork against the plate, and it was so painfully hot he couldn’t stand it, his cheeks burning, the whole of his body throbbing with want.
Erik was handling him roughly, casually, as he focused on eating his breakfast, and it wasn’t intended to make him come — it was just intended to get him aroused, get him wet enough that when Erik brought his hand down against Michael’s open cunt in an open slap, the sound it made was wet.
The pain was searing, and Michael yowled into the meat of his arm, and Erik hummed a distant, grudging approval before sliding a thick plug inside him. It was thickest at the base, but the whole of its surface was nobbled over and textured, and Michael sobbed out a noise as he felt it slide against his inner walls, rubbing inside him, before Erik pulled his hand away and let his skirts fall back over him.
Erik pulled him up then, and he turned Michael around and sat him back heavily on his knees — heavily enough, in fact, that the plug was shoved hard inside him, and he gasped, but Erik didn’t push his skirt up or play with him anymore. He framed Michael with his arms and kept eating, cutting his food into eat pieces, and Michael was vibrating with want, his clit throbbing, but he knew not to fidget, knew not to demand anything, not to ask to come, to try to come.
That wasn’t what Tuesdays were for.
Erik brought a forkful of pancake and bacon up to his mouth, and Michael obediently opened his lips, taking it, chewing, and Erik smiled at him, touched his lips to the side of Michael’s jaw.
“Going to be good for me?” he asked softly. “Going to get my house in order, make everything nice for me?”
“Yeah,” said Michael. “Yeah, yes, Erik, yes — ”
“Good boy,” said Erik, squeezing him around his middle. “I’ll be back for lunch at one, and home after work at six — maybe a bit late, depending on traffic. Okay?”
“Yes, sir,” said Michael, and Erik tilted his chin in to kiss him again, curving his hand around Michael’s knee, not sliding up any higher up his thigh, just playing against the back of his knee. It tickled a little, but it made his skin feel sensitive and made him want for more.
Erik didn’t let him go until they’d cleared the plate together, and then he kissed slowly up the side of Michael’s neck, kissing bit by bit up toward his jaw.
“Are you full?” asked Erik softly, raising his knee underneath Michael’s arse to nudge the plug inside him, and Michael giggled, leaning further into his mouth.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Good,” Erik said. “If you want something else for breakfast, remember to eat something. You want a list?”
“If you want to give me one,” said Michael.
“Clean the kitchen, clean the fridge,” said Erik, dragging his teeth over the pulse point at the adjoining of Michael’s neck and jaw and making him whimper. “Litterbox. Clean the bathroom. Vacuum everywhere. Dust the bookshelves. Anything you haven’t thought of yet?”
“No,” said Michael softly, and Erik’s laugh was low and rich and made Michael’s heart swell with pride.
“You’re getting good at this, sweetheart,” said Erik, and gently pushed Michael off his knees.
Michael helped him on with his coat, handed him his satchel, and kissed Erik goodbye before he went to work.
Tuesdays were an island of calm in every busy week, and every Tuesday that came and went he couldn’t believe how relaxed he felt whenever they came about. He’d been stressed, yesterday, but he could barely remember what about, and he didn’t want to remember — it was Tuesday, and none of that mattered today.
All of the world was closed out on days like this, everything brought in close to just be about Michael’s home with Erik, just be about Michael keeping Erik happy. On days when Erik was off on the Tuesday as well — his job was more changeable — they’d play all day, and Erik would truss Michael up or invite people over to play with him, or they’d scene without even doing anything big, just let Erik lounge with Michael warming his cock.
Most Tuesdays —
Most Tuesdays were like this. A list of things to do, things to clean, tidy, fix up. The apartment was cleaner and tidier than it had been in years, since they’d started doing this, but it was more than just the cleaning, it was the pride that came with it, the knowledge that he’d done it, and that he’d done it for Erik.
It didn’t feel like work, when it was set aside like this, when it was all for Erik — it felt like chores, yeah, but there was a meditative lilt to it, a sort of quiet liberation, and all the time there was the reminder of the plug inside him, shifting its weight in his cunt, making him moan quietly when he bent over too quickly or shifted his hips in such a way that he was reminded of its presence.
This was what he thought about as he cleaned the kitchen and cleaned out the fridge, as he vacuumed, as he dusted. He didn’t put on music — it wasn’t against the rules, and he put some on sometimes, but he wasn’t in the mood, just hummed to himself and enjoyed the quiet of the house, of his and Erik’s four walls.
As he chopped some chicken and veggies for Erik’s pasta salad at lunch, Primrose came to wind around his ankles, purring up a storm and bumping her flattened little face against Michael’s calves, and Michael laughed quietly.
Michael stirred the pasta with one hand and swept around a feather toy with the other, sending Primrose flying up and into the air, each time launching herself to hip height until she grabbed the feather toy between her teeth and dashed off with it, taking him by surprise and tugging the stick from his hand.
Michael laughed, because as Primrose sprinted into the corridor, he heard the front door open, and he laughed harder when he saw the shock send Primrose launching into the air again, bouncing off the wall and putting the stick clattering to the ground.
“My beautiful boy playing with my beautiful girl?” asked Erik as he came in, coat already off, and Michael pulled him closer by his tie, pressing a kiss to his mouth.
“She didn’t want to play with me anymore,” said Michael, “just ran off with the toy.”
Erik nudged the door shut, keeping Primrose out of the kitchen, and Michael shivered, going to drain the pasta.
Erik pulled out a cushion for Michael’s knees, sitting back a little from the kitchen table, and once the plate was made for them, a serving bowl of a little more ready for him to take from, Michael obediently sank to the floor between Erik’s legs, his hands behind his back.
Erik fed him, before he ate himself.
He always did this, always, and Michael didn’t mind — he was a good cook, and he knew that his pasta tasted good, that the salad and the chicken paired well, that it was tasty.
Once Erik was satisfied Michael had eaten enough, he unzipped his suit trousers and pulled out his cock, and fed that into Michael’s mouth as well. Erik’s cock wasn’t hard just yet, and Michael sighed through his nostrils as he relaxed his jaw and let Erik’s cock slide over his tongue, filling the whole of his mouth, touching into his throat, until Michael’s nose was brushing against Erik’s pubes and his cheek was resting on the cushion of Erik’s thigh.
He was surrounded by Erik like this, Erik’s knees either side of his shoulders, Erik’s cock, salty and heavy and warm, filling his mouth, Erik’s musky scent filling Michael’s nostrils, even the dress Erik had picked out for him silken soft against his body, the skirts a pleasant weight on top of his thighs. He didn’t thrust down on the plug inside him, but he was aware of its weight, the comfortable shift of it inside him as he rested back on his heels.
He looked up at Erik through half-lidded eyes as Erik began to eat, and released a low, pleased sound as he put the first mouthful of chicken in his mouth, humming around the taste of spiced ginger.
Michael liked to cook for Erik.
He liked to see the way Erik’s eyes closed, the way his lips pressed together, the slow and thoughtful way he chewed on the first mouthful like this, fork held loosely against his bowl. He enjoyed the cooking of the meal, but the eating of it was where the satisfaction was, the way the tension went out of Erik’s shoulders, the way he relaxed with one of Michael’s meals.
“This is good, sweetheart,” said Erik softly. “Really good.”
Michael closed his eyes, and he rested in his place as Erik ate, letting out a sound of quiet pleasure every now and then. It was wonderful, sitting like this, feeling Erik’s cock on his tongue as Erik ate a meal Michael had made for him.
It was only half an hour, but it felt like a blissful eternity, and Erik pulled Michael gently off his cock by a hand in his hair, zipping himself back up as Michael rubbed sleepily at one eye, blinking himself back awake.
“See you for dinner,” he said as he pulled his coat back on, and Michael nodded, smiled, clenched around the plug inside him — a promise of what would come later.
He didn’t work quite as fast in the afternoon — he cleaned Primrose’s litterbox, cleaned the bathroom, rehung the door on the medicine cabinet because it was starting to get on his nerves, the way it was creaking, and oiled the hinge once he’d reset it.
He sat with Primrose in his lap for an hour or so before he got up again to cook — he’d meant to play something, or at least watch an episode of something on the television, but instead he’d just ended up resting in the quiet with her, listening to her purr and smiling down at her. She had a habit of grabbing hold of his hand and wrapping her paws around it, insisting the flat of his palm rest directly against her softly vibrating rib cage, and he didn’t even realise how much time had passed until he heard the ice cream van tinkle through the neighbourhood.
The steaks he’d set to marinate earlier, but he fried chips for the first time and set them to towel off for a little, salad already set aside, when Erik came directly into the kitchen, came up behind him, and wrapped his arms loosely around Michael’s middle.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Not yet,” said Michael, leaning back into his chest.
“Play a game?”
“Mm.”
Michael didn’t actually play, found he wasn’t in the mood, but he sat on the sofa with his body curled into Erik’s as he played, Primrose sprawled across their laps, making biscuits on the air. Michael only took the controller two or three times when Erik got to quick time events he kept fucking up, but otherwise, he just —
Sat.
“My good boy,” murmured Erik as Michael got up to put on the steaks.
They ate from the same plate, and after, Erik carried Michael back to the couch, pulled the plug out of him and replaced it with his cock. Michael sighed, falling against Erik’s chest with his knees spread either side of his hips, his face buried in Erik’s neck as Erik went back to the game.
“You okay?” asked Erik, and Michael nodded. “You want to come?”
Michael thought about it.
It wasn’t about that, but it wasn’t about it being about that, that wasn’t why Erik was asking.
“Maybe later,” said Michael.
He was asleep before later came, and woke to Erik carrying him into the other room, bridal style. Michael’s head was lolling against Erik’s elbow, and Erik was smiling in a way that made Michael feel like he was being dropped in a warm bath.
“I’m going to eat you out,” said Erik, tipping him forward to undo the halter at his neck and unzip the back of the dress.
“Yes, sir,” said Michael blissfully, and let Erik position him as he pleased.
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