Newspaper Boy's Gay Feminization

Lionel was nineteen the Saturday his route ended at the last house on the block. He had been delivering newspapers since he turned eighteen, extra cash while he worked nights stocking shelves and tried to decide what came after. The canvas bag on his shoulder hung nearly empty. Heat glued his T-shirt to his back. His final paper was still folded in his fist when the door of the pale stucco house opened and a man in the doorway lifted two fingers, signaling him closer.

Marco was forty-two, tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair gone gray at the temples. He wore only an open silk peignoir, ivory and thin, the sash undone so the robe hung off him like an afterthought. Nothing underneath. His cock was thick and already hard, standing heavy from a dark thatch, the flushed head glossy, a vein raised along the underside. It swayed when he shifted his weight. Lionel stopped on the walk and forgot the newspaper.

"Hot out there," Marco said, easy and low. "Come in. I'll give you coffee."

Lionel could have turned around. His sneakers carried him up the steps instead. The silk brushed his arm as he passed. Inside, the house was dim and cool, blinds drawn against the glare. Marco did not close the peignoir. He walked ahead into the kitchen, and Lionel followed the swing of that rigid shaft, unable to stop staring. It stayed erect the whole way, bobbing with each step, balls heavy beneath. Marco set two mugs on the counter and poured. Steam rose. The smell of dark roast mixed with the faint musk of a man who had not bothered with clothes.

Lionel stood with the bag sliding off one shoulder, eyes locked on the cock. His own stiffened so fast in his shorts it almost hurt. Marco turned with a mug and caught him looking. He did not cover himself. He held the coffee out, and when Lionel took it their fingers touched. The older man's shaft jumped, a visible throb. Lionel swallowed around the first sip and still could not look away from the swollen head, the way it glistened, the slow pulse in the vein. Marco watched him watch. The corner of his mouth lifted. Neither of them spoke. The air between them tightened, charged and mutual, the spark of a want Lionel had never let himself name and Marco had clearly been waiting to offer.

Marco leaned a hip against the counter, robe falling wider, cock angled up toward his belly. "You keep staring at it."

"I know," Lionel said. His voice came out rough. He did not step back.

Marco set his own mug down. He studied the boy's flushed face, the way Lionel's free hand had curled into a fist at his side like he was holding himself still on purpose. "Have you ever kissed a girl?"

"No."

The word sat small in the quiet kitchen. Marco's cock twitched again. He did not smile this time. "A man?"

Lionel stayed silent. Heat climbed his neck. His eyes dropped, then dragged back up the thick shaft to Marco's mouth, and he did not answer. He did not leave. His chest rose and fell too fast, and the front of his shorts tented plainly.

Marco closed the distance. One broad hand settled at the back of Lionel's neck, not trapping, just resting, warm and sure. He waited a breath, long enough for Lionel to pull away if he wanted. Lionel leaned in instead, a small helpless tilt of his chin. Marco kissed him.

It was deep and hungry from the first second, Marco's mouth opening over his, tongue sliding in, tasting coffee and the salt of a long morning. Lionel made a shocked sound that broke into a moan. His hands came up on their own and gripped the open edges of the silk robe. The kiss woke something raw in him, a lust that had been sitting under his skin for months without a name. He kissed back, clumsy and eager, learning the shape of a man's mouth, the scrape of stubble, the low groan Marco gave when Lionel sucked on his tongue.

"Good," Marco murmured against his lips. "You want this. Say it."

"I want it," Lionel said, breathless, and meant it.

Marco's skilled hands moved slow. He pushed the bag off Lionel's shoulder, peeled the damp T-shirt up and off, and smoothed his palms down the younger man's chest, thumbs brushing nipples until Lionel shivered. He undid the shorts and shoved them down with the briefs. Lionel's cock sprang free, slimmer than Marco's, already leaking, the head wet against his stomach. Marco wrapped a fist around it and stroked, firm and unhurried, watching Lionel's face the whole time.

"Look at you," he said. "Hard from a kiss and a look at my cock. Come here."

He sank to his knees on the kitchen tile, robe pooling, and took Lionel into his mouth. Heat and wet and suction closed over him. Lionel gasped, one hand flying to Marco's hair. Marco worked him with a practiced mouth, tongue pressing the underside, lips tight, taking him deeper until Lionel's thighs shook. Spit shone on the shaft when he pulled off to lick the head, then sank down again. Lionel stared, wrecked, at the older man swallowing him, at the thick cock still jutting untouched between Marco's thighs.

"I want to—" Lionel started, voice breaking. "Let me. I want to touch you too."

"Then do it," Marco said, and stood.

Lionel dropped without being pushed. The tile was cool under his knees. Marco's cock filled his vision, heavy, flushed, a bead of precum at the slit. Lionel wrapped his hand around the base, felt the heat and the throb, and opened his mouth. The first taste was salt and skin. He took the head in, awkward, tongue exploring, and Marco's hand settled in his hair, guiding but not forcing.

"That's it. Slow. Use your tongue. Good boy."

Lionel learned fast because he wanted to. He sucked, hollowed his cheeks, stroked what he could not fit, and moaned around the thickness when Marco praised him. Marco fucked his mouth in short careful thrusts, letting him breathe, letting him choose to take more. Lionel chose it. He gagged once, pulled off, spit shining on his chin, and went back down hungrier. His own cock jerked, untouched, dripping onto the tile.

Marco hauled him up before either of them finished, kissed the taste of himself off Lionel's mouth, and bent him over the counter. A slick finger, then two, worked into him while Marco talked him through it, voice rough with want. "Breathe. Push back if you want it. Tell me to stop and I stop."

"Don't stop," Lionel said, and pushed back.

When Marco slid into him, thick and slow, Lionel cried out and reached back to grip Marco's thigh, holding him there, taking him. They moved together, Marco's hand on Lionel's cock, Lionel's moans filling the kitchen, both of them choosing every thrust. Marco came first with a gritted curse, pulsing deep, and the flood of heat dragged Lionel over with him, spilling across Marco's fist and the cabinet. They stayed locked a moment, breathing hard, Marco's mouth on the back of his neck.

"Next Saturday," Marco said against his skin, "if you want more, you come inside. I'll have something for you to wear."

Lionel, still shaking, nodded. "I'll come."

The following Saturday Lionel finished the route with his pulse already high and walked straight up Marco's steps. He was nineteen, willing, and hard in his shorts before the door even opened. Marco let him in wearing the same open peignoir, cock half-hard and thickening at the sight of him. On the bed in the dim bedroom lay what he had promised: a matching set of black lingerie, sheer panties cut high, a delicate bra with thin straps, a garter belt, and stockings so fine they looked like smoke, the tops banded in lace.

"Only if you want it," Marco said.

Lionel was already pulling his shirt off. "I want it. Dress me."

Marco did it slowly, like a ritual. He smoothed the stockings up Lionel's legs, the sheer nylon clinging, and clipped the garters to the lace tops with careful fingers. The panties went on next, stretched over Lionel's stiff cock so the outline showed lewd and obvious through the sheer fabric. The bra cupped his chest, straps settling on his shoulders, and Marco adjusted them until the cups sat just so, turning the flat of him into something soft and offered. He stepped back. Lionel stood in heels Marco had set out, black and slender, legs long in the stockings, face flushed, cock straining the panties.

"Look at you," Marco said, voice gone dark. "My pretty thing. Turn around."

Lionel turned. The panties disappeared between his cheeks. Marco's cock was fully hard now, thick and drooling. He came up behind, one hand spreading over Lionel's stomach, the other cupping him through the sheer fabric. "On your knees. Mouth open. I want that lipstick mouth even if you aren't painted yet."

Lionel sank, stockings whispering, and opened. Marco fed him the cock in one slow push, past the lips, over the tongue, until the head nudged his throat. Lionel moaned like he had been waiting all week, which he had. Spit spilled immediately, shining on his chin, dripping onto the bra. Marco held his hair and fucked his mouth in steady strokes, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room.

"Take it. That's my good girl. Look up at me while you suck."

Lionel looked up, eyes wet, and hollowed his cheeks. He sucked sloppy and eager, tongue working the underside, one hand braced on Marco's thigh, the other slipping down to rub himself through the panties until Marco slapped the hand away.

"Not yet. Mouth first. You come when I say."

He fucked deeper. Lionel gagged, tears tracking, and pushed forward anyway, taking another inch, moaning around the shaft so the vibration made Marco curse. Precum and spit mixed, filthy, sliding down Lionel's chin onto the bra, darkening the cups. Marco pulled out, slapped the wet cock against his cheek, then shoved back in. Lionel's throat fluttered. He sucked harder, desperate, nose brushing the dark hair at the base on the deepest thrusts, and when Marco warned him he did not pull off.

The first load hit the back of his tongue in thick pulses. Lionel swallowed what he could and lost the rest. Cum flooded his mouth, spilled from the corners, striped his lips and chin, and dripped in heavy ropes onto the bra, soaking the sheer cups until they clung. Marco stroked the last spurts out across his face, painting one cheek, the bridge of his nose, a fat streak over his open mouth. Lionel licked at it, whimpering, tongue chasing the taste.

"More," he said, voice wrecked. "Please. I need you in me. Fuck me. Use me."

Marco hauled him onto the bed and stripped the panties aside without unclipping the garters. The stockings stayed on, lace tops framing his thighs. He pushed Lionel's knees up and open, slicked his cock with the cum still on his hand and a bottle from the nightstand, and pressed in raw. Lionel arched, a broken moan tearing out of him as the thick shaft stretched him open, inch by inch, until Marco's hips met the garter straps.

"Tight little ass," Marco growled. "Made for this. Tell me."

"Made for it," Lionel gasped. "Fuck me. Please, harder."

Marco gave it to him. He drove in deep, pulled almost out, and slammed back, the bed knocking the wall. Lionel's cock bounced against the bra, leaking, the head smearing precum on the cum-soaked cups. Marco bent and sucked a nipple through the sheer fabric, teeth grazing, while his hips kept that brutal rhythm. Lionel clawed at his shoulders and begged, voice climbing, stockings rasping against Marco's ribs.

They shifted. Marco rolled him onto his stomach, yanked his hips up, and mounted him from behind, one hand fisted in his hair, the other spreading a cheek so he could watch his cock disappear into that tight hole. The garters snapped softly with each thrust. Lionel pushed back, greedy, meeting every stroke, moaning into the pillow like a slut who had forgotten any other sound.

"Say what you are."

"Your slut," Lionel sobbed. "Your girl. Fuck your girl's ass. Fill me."

Marco did. He pounded until his rhythm broke, buried deep, and came with a rough shout, pumping thick heat into Lionel's ass. Cum leaked out around his shaft on the next shallow thrusts, white and heavy, smearing the stockings where they met skin. He pulled out and stroked another spurt across the small of Lionel's back, then turned him over and striped his chest, painting the bra, the soft swell the cups made, ropes of cum crossing from one side to the other.

Lionel was not done begging. "My face. My thighs. Please, I want it all over me."

Marco was still hard enough, worked up past the first edge, and he knelt over him and milked more from his cock, thick spurts landing on Lionel's open mouth, his chin, the lace tops of the stockings. Cum clung to the sheer nylon in glossy streaks, slid down the inside of one thigh, pooled in the hollow of his hip. Lionel came untouched at the sight and the feel, cock jerking, his own load mixing with Marco's across the ruined bra, and he moaned through it like he was breaking open.

Marco was not finished with him. He flipped Lionel onto his back again, hooked those stockinged legs over his shoulders, and pushed back into the messy, cum-slick hole. The second fuck was slower and meaner, grinding deep, Marco's thumb rubbing cum into Lionel's lower lip while he talked filth.

"Look at these thighs. Look at this pretty ruined mouth. Next week I'll put lipstick on you before I wreck it. I'll have you walking my house in nothing but stockings and my cum. You want that?"

"Yes," Lionel cried, heels digging into Marco's back. "Yes, make me your girl. Fuck me, come in me again, I can take it."

Marco fucked him through another peak, balls slapping, the wet sound of cum and lube filthy between them. He pulled out at the last second and came across Lionel's chest and stomach in heavy ropes, then shoved back in to grind the rest deep, so Lionel felt every pulse. More leaked out when he finally withdrew, running down over the garter clips, soaking the stocking tops, dripping onto the sheets. Lionel's face was glazed, chin and cheeks streaked, bra transparent with spend, thighs painted. He lay there panting, licking his lips, eyes glassy and bright.

"Don't stop," he whispered. "I want to be yours like this. All the way."

Marco kissed the cum from his mouth, slow and claiming. "Then we keep going. Every Saturday. Until you don't want to take it off."

Lionel nodded, already aching for the next time, cum cooling on his skin and stockings, and smiled like a boy who had just found the shape of his hunger.

Over the weeks that followed, Marco kept his word and Lionel kept coming back, eager every time. The lingerie grew more complete. Makeup appeared: soft mouth, darkened lashes, a mouth painted before it was used. The name arrived the morning Lionel stood in the bedroom mirror in full makeup, heels, and a white garter set and did not recognize the hesitant boy with the newspaper bag.

"Simone," Marco said behind him, hands on his waist. "If you want it."

"I want it," Simone said, and the voice fit.

He moved in before the month ended, the route abandoned, the apartment left behind. Marco's house became theirs. Simone lived there as his wife in everything but the paperwork they had already started, devoted and cock-hungry, learning the particular worship of a husband's body. Every Saturday morning found her on her knees in the kitchen where it had begun, full makeup perfect, heels dug into the tile, lingerie sheer and clipped to stockings, swallowing load after load while Marco drank his coffee and petted her hair. She took the first down her throat, the second across her tongue so she could show him before she swallowed, and begged for the third with cum still shining on her lips.

This Saturday she was already scheming the next. While she licked him clean, Simone planned the bridal set she had hidden in the closet, the veil, the way she would wake him before dawn with her mouth and not let him leave the bed until she had been filled in every hole and painted again from face to stockinged thighs. Next Saturday she would not wait for coffee. She would be his wife on her knees at the door, mouth open, ready, and she would not stop until he had nothing left to give.