When Thomas came home from work, I had the present wrapped and waiting on the kitchen table.

“Awww! My birthday’s not until next week, honey,” he said, shrugging off his coat. He gave me the usual kiss hello as I sat at the table observing him, and he immediately went to the pantry and got out his apron, hanging from its usual hook.

I had Thomas well-trained.

Our weeknights went as follows:

1. Thomas would return home from work.
2. He would give me a kiss.
3. He would put on his apron and make us both cocktails of my choice. (Tonight it was mojitos.)
4. Then I’d sit at the table and watch him while he prepared dinner.

Not only was he an excellent chef, he was a competent mixologist. Of course, it had taken time to train him.

I liked to watch him as he cooked. Thomas is handsome, and he knows it, and he likes subtly showing off for me…bending down a little deeper than he needs to put the chicken into the oven, reaching extra high to show off his biceps as he grabs the food processor from the top pantry shelf. I like watching and he likes being watched. And I like that he does all the work, and I get to put my feet up and enjoy the show.

But I don’t usually have wrapped presents waiting for him. He was right about that.

“This isn’t your birthday present,” I said, watching him muddle our drinks. “In fact, it’s really my present. It’s a present for you. For me.”

Thomas raised his eyebrow. He accidentally dropped a lime on the floor. “Oh!” He looked a little nervous.

Let’s just say that Thomas isn’t new to my ideas. I get a lot of ideas. About the way our relationship should be. About the way he should treat me. About the things we should do together and the things he should do to me and the things I get to do to him. And these ideas are a good part of why Thomas likes me. I know that because he tells me and because I know Thomas. I know the kind of man he is and the kind of woman he requires, and I know that I am that kind of woman.

And that gives me a lot of power.

I like power.

But that doesn’t mean that some of my ideas don’t make him nervous. In fact, that’s probably why he likes some of them so much.

“Are you nervous?” I ask. Although obviously I already know.

“No,” he says, not meeting my eyes.

“Just a little, I say.

“Not even a little.”

He crosses the kitchen and hands me my mojito. I grab his hand after my drink is safely on the table.

“Oh. I think you are,” I say. “But you can play coy if you like. Do you like to play coy, baby?”

Now the red rises in his face. He drops his eyes. “Maybe,” he admits.

I can see the bulge growing under his slacks. Like I said, I know Thomas and what he needs.

“Do you like to bend over so you can show off your ass to me when you’re making dinner?”

“Sometimes.” He gulps. The bulge grows.

“Are you my little slut?”

“Oh, Serena.” He slumps down to his knees and puts his head in my lap. “Yes. Yes I am.”

I take a sip of my drink. He’s done a good job. It’s tasty. “Yes, you are what?” I prod.

It’s barely a whisper. “Yes, I am your little slut.” He kisses my leg. “Thank you for letting me be your little slut.”

“You’re welcome, baby.” I tilt his head up so he can look into my eyes. “Do you want to see my present?”

“I do. Please. I do.”

He’s getting really excited now. It’s in his voice. He picks up the package and after I nod my head, he pretty much tears into it. Wrapping paper gets dropped on the kitchen floor. He’ll have to clean that up later, but it can wait. I admit I’m getting a little excited too about seeing his reaction.

The wrapping paper is off and how he’s opening the slim cardboard box that was underneath it.

He gives me a quizzical look as he sees what’s inside. He’s holding a few sort of shiny pieces of red, white and blue fabric and something yellow and silky underneath.

“Lay them out,” I tell him. “On the table.”

He does so, and the fabric takes shape. One red short flouncy skirt. One white tank top with a large blue monogrammed S on the front. A white pair of ankle socks. And a blond wig. In pigtails.

“Go team, go!” I bat my eyes at him.

“Serena. I…”

I can’t tell if he’s going to laugh or cry, but either one will do.

“A cheerleader? I don’t know….”

So, look. This idea didn’t come out of nowhere. Like I said, I KNOW Thomas, and we’ve batted around this cheerleading fantasy during sex before. Thomas likes to feel sexy. He likes to feel taken. He likes to feel slutty. And I think I do a pretty good job of evoking those feelings in him when he’s dressed as a man, or better yet, as I prefer him, not dressed at all.

But the cheerleader thing is deep in his psyche. Just like most high school boys, he watched the school cheerleaders bounce around in their short skirts, their tight tops. He saw the looks the boys gave them—the looks HE gave them, and he imagined things. He imagined what it must feel like to be those girls, to feel desired, envied, wanted.

Also, like most guys, Thomas watches porn. And porn has its fair share of cheerleaders. Porn cheerleaders aren’t real cheerleaders. They are slutty cheerleaders. Vapid cheerleaders. Cheerleaders who exist for the sole purpose of getting fucked often, eagerly and carelessly.

So, Thomas wants to feel like a cheerleader? A slutty, eager, vapid cheerleader? Then he can be MY slutty, eager, vapid cheerleader. Rah! Rah! Sis! Boom! Bah! For me.

The thing is that I’ve never dressed him up in women’s clothes before. A few times I’ve had him wear lipstick. But a full outfit? A wig. This will be a first.

“What if…?” He frowns. He knows he’s not supposed to question me. I know what he’s going to ask anyway. What if I look stupid? What if you laugh at me?

“No. Just put it on,” I tell him. I point to the downstairs bathroom. “Oh, and there’s pink lipstick in there. Be sure to apply it liberally. I want to see it coat my cock.”

Then I take my mojito and go upstairs to wait in the bedroom.

He takes his time. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. I’m starting to get annoyed. I’ve been waiting for him in the bedroom in a black tank and what I call my pegging panties—boy short undies that a dildo slides into and fits snugly. I usually prefer a pink dildo, but today I’ve chosen flesh colored, which seems more realistic. I’m not sure I’m even going to fuck him in the ass, but I want to see him suck my cock, and I think it will help me get into the role.

Then just as I’m about to go look for him, see if he’s had some sort of breakdown or fled the house—that I’ve gone one idea too far—the bedroom door opens, slowly, shyly.

He stands there in the doorway biting his lip and breathing heavily. He can’t look at me.

He looks—adorable. Really.

Thomas has a slim build. Not exactly feminine, but not extremely muscular either. I’ve never considered myself bisexual, but seeing him stand there in the short red flounced skirt that brushes the tops of his toned thighs, the way the tank fits him, almost giving the illusion of a waistline, the two blond ponytails framing his pretty face, the way the pink lipstick makes his full lips look even fuller-bee stung. I’m reconsidering if I could be into women after all.

“Well, aren’t you pretty,” I finally say. “Aren’t you a pretty little thing.”

I get off the bed. “Come closer,” I say. “I want to look at you.”

He slides into the room in his ankle socks, and I can see he’s even walking differently than he usually does. He has a little bit of a bounce in his step. His swishes his waist a little. It’s not quite right, and I consider telling him so. But it’s cute. It’s funny. Charming. It almost makes me laugh but is somehow sexy at the time same time. This is how he imagines it feels to be a woman. I let that sink in.

He stands in the middle of the room, hands at his waist, still staring at the carpet. I circle around him, toy with the edge of his skirt, lifting it up just a little bit with my pinky finger.

“Oh, my” I say, whispering into his ear. “You’re not wearing any panties. Are you?”

He gasps, and I’m not sure if it’s because of my words or because of my touch.

“No,” he says. “You didn’t give me any.”

“I didn’t give you any?” I feign confusion. “Oh, you’re right,” I say, sliding my pinky up against the bottom of his ass, feeling him shiver. “I didn’t. Do you know why?”

“No.”

His massive erection is literally lifting up the front of the skirt, but I ignore it for the moment.

“Because slutty little cheerleaders like you don’t need panties. Do they?

“No. They don’t.” His voice is hurried. Breathless.

“What do slutty little cheerleaders like you need?”

His answer is a question. Tentative. “To get….fucked?”

“Good girl. That’s right. Sluttly little cheerleaders like you need to get fucked. And how?”

“However you want.”

I almost laugh. That answer came much more quickly.

“Oh, that’s right. Such a good girl. Such a smart good girl who knows what she’s here for. Show me what you’re here for. Show me what a good job you can do.”

And with that I push my cheerleader down on her knees in front of my cock.

I don’t even have to order. Thomas eagerly takes my cock into his mouth, swallowing it deep, sucking on it, bobbing his head back and forth like he can’t get enough of it. It makes me wish I could actually feel it.

“You’re so hungry!” I say. “What a good cock hungry little slut you are. What a pretty little slut. It seems like you’ve had a lot of practice.”

I grab the wig pigtails and pull them toward me and fuck Thomas’ face with my cock until drool is spilling down his chin. Then I pull him off and tell him to look at me.

He gives me doe eyes. He giggles. Actually giggles.

“Thank you,” he says. I can tell he’s not sure where to call me ma’am or sir, and I’m not either, so I let the lack of my usual honorific slide. Tonight everything is a little confused.

“You’re so welcome,” I say. I point down to my cock, which is largely pink now. “You certainly did coat it.” I place my fingers on his lips and smear the remaining lipstick over his chin and cheeks. It feels good to make a mess of him. Make him dirty.

The dildo is fun, but that’s not what I want. I’m not feeling masculine exactly, but I’m not feeling feminine either. I want to fuck my pretty new toy, but I want to enjoy it. I want to feel it. I know he’d like it if I bent him over, applied lube generously to his asshole and pushed myself in slowly, but I’m in a hurry. I want to feel it, him, her. He’s there for me to use. I want to use him.

“Get on the bed,” I say, and Thomas scurries off his knees and unto the mattress. He’s on all fours, and I can tell he doesn’t know how I want him.

“On your back” I say. “Don’t you want to get fucked? Don’t you want a good fucking?”

He giggles again and lies down on his back, his erection popping up out of the skirt, which he smooths back down over himself.

“Yes, please,” he says. He’s getting into it now. “Please give me a good fucking. That’s what I’m here for. I need a good, hard fucking.”

I take off my pegging panties, leaving on just my tank and slide between his legs. “You do? Why is that?” I say, rubbing my hands over the silky skirt and feeling his hard cock underneath.

“Because I’m a horny slut,” he says with absolutely no prompting. “I’m a horny slut and I just want to get fucked and used. I want to be good. I want to be a good girl and let you fuck me the way you like. Please fuck me. I need it.”

My hand reaches under his skirt to his leaking cock. “You ARE very wet,” I say. “Is that all for me?”

“Yes, please.” He reaches for his cock, but before he can touch it, I have both of his hands pinned above his head.

I tut tut. “Don’t touch. I’m going to give you what you want baby, but you just lie there like a good girl and take it.”

He goes still. Expectant. And I toss up his skirt and climb on top of him and slide down so he’s balls deep inside me.

He groans. Tries to throw his legs around me, and I feel like yes. I AM fucking him. I’m giving my little slutty cheerleader such a good fucking, the fucking of her life.

“You’re so pretty,” I tell her, running my fingers over her lips and sliding them inside. “Does that feel good,” I ask?

“So good,” she says. “I love it. I love to feel your hard cock inside me filling me up. Thank you, sir. Thank you. I needed this so much. Am I being good? Am I being your good slut? Am I behaving? Am I doing what I’m told?”

What can I say? I want to say that I can feel my orgasm building and never more have I wished to have a real cock, to feel what it would be like to grab my slutty cheerleader by the waist and pump my come deep inside of her, to feel her clench around me as she milked the come out of me like the obedient, vapid, sweet minded toy she was.

Instead I say, “I’m going to make you come now. Be my good girl and come for me. Come hard for me. I want to feel it, slut.”

“Yes sir. I will. I will.”

And I feel Thomas buck up into me as I bear down hard, grinding myself against him unsure of who is clenching into whom, but Thomas is grabbing against me, and I’ve got my arm wrapped around his head, drawing him to my breast and he’s saying, “Thank you sir” over and over again, and I’m whispering, “Take it. Take it my little slut, my good little slut” into his ear until the wave of pleasure hits me, and one of us or both of us is crying, That’s it. That’s it. Just like that, baby”. And then we are slumped on the bed together, both sticky and sweaty and laughing.

“You have such good ideas,” says Thomas.

“You have such good ideas,” says my sweet, lovely, slutty little cheerleader.