Chapter Text
Jerma found himself staring at his reflection. The ‘Catboy Jerma’ outfit. He’d been missing the fishnet stockings when he wore it, and, after belatedly buying them, he dressed up again by himself. He couldn’t take his eyes off it.
When he’d worn it, it was for such a short period of time, and he was distracted with the stream that he didn’t have enough time to fully appreciate it until after. The moment he saw the footage, his jaw was on the floor. He thought he’d looked ridiculous, that it was a funny joke. But he looked hot. Never before had Jerma caught himself drooling over his own body.
He tried to deny it. He told himself he was putting the outfit on again to be funny, or just to see how he looked with the fishnets, or anything except the fact that he was so desperately attracted to the sight.
He liked how the fabric felt on him too, especially since he had taken off his underwear, claiming to himself that it was ‘funny’ without the boxers. His eyes swept down his legs. The fishnets were a good call. He did owe more than the few seconds he’d given in this outfit, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to wear it again on camera without embarrassing himself. This skirt would absolutely not cover it up.
Just thinking about being seen again in this outfit brought a blush to Jerma’s cheeks. To be seen like this. Exactly like this. The ears, the skirt, the erection. No, if he streamed it, it couldn’t be on Twitch.
Jerma sat down on the bed, and crossed his legs. The femininity of his appearance like that was so attractive that he had to uncross them again. Was that what he liked about it? He hadn’t been able to pinpoint it until now. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He looked like a girl, and that turned him on.
Shame curdled in his gut as he took the hem of the skirt between his index finger and thumb, and lifted it delicately. He was so hard. His cock looked good poking out from a skirt. He’d never seen himself like this with his hard-on exposed – never watched himself in a mirror like this – so he was surprised by how pretty his cock looked from this angle.
He wrapped his fingers around himself, and watched his own thighs tremble. Oh, God, he didn’t always look this slutty when he had sex with someone, did he? He hoped it was just the outfit that made him look so slutty. Not the way his legs spread open my themselves, not the way his cock oozed pre-cum, not the way he thrust out his chest.
Jerma made the mistake of looking up at his own face as he stroked himself, and was appalled by the arousal he felt. His eyebrows were all screwed up. He looked pathetic. All spread out for himself. Himself.
He looked – cute?
His eyes flicked between his face as his cock as he jerked off. Faster and faster. More and more frantic. He didn’t realise that he was moaning until he cried out so loud that it echoed back to him, and he had to clasp a hand over his mouth. Which just caused him to appear more pitiful, bringing louder keens from him.
He was driven closer and closer. The palm of his hand wetter and wetter with his drool. He brought himself right to the edge before letting go, and throwing his hands behind him to catch himself before he collapsed onto his back. He tipped his head back with a sigh. His cock was twitching as if begging him to continue.
After a few moments’ rest, he lifted his head again to look at himself. Eyes trailed to his chest, rising and falling jerkily, and he wished he had tits. His hand moved by itself. Sliding up from his hip – over his stomach, under the cropped T-shirt – to rest on his chest. His fingers gripped what they could, and he let out a shuddered breath.
“Fuck,” he said.
When his thumb traced over his nipple, he saw his cock twitch.
“Oh, my God,” he muttered.
He glanced over his body once more. If he was going to dress like a girl, he may as well pleasure himself like one too. Right? He’d always wanted to do this, but he’d felt so much shame each time that he couldn’t bring himself to. Now, all his shame was somewhat drowned out by the thrill he felt seeing himself like this. On top of that, it was almost as though he were a different person in this outfit. It wasn’t Jerma who was reaching for the lube by his bed in order to finger himself – it was someone else.
He propped his feet up on the edge of the bed. Eyes trained on his ass as he squeezed lube onto his finger. This was so weird. It was so fucking weird. And he was so into it.
Jerma’s stomach was bubbling with shame and anxiety as he ran his finger over his hole. What if someone walked in? What if there was a hidden camera in his room, broadcasting this to the whole world? What if someone was watching from the wardrobe?
He cast the thoughts aside, and slipped his finger inside. It wasn’t an unbelievably pleasurable feeling. It felt a little nice. But it was the idea that made him groan out loud. The idea that he was fingering himself in this skirt. With the pressure and itch of the stockings on his legs. Maybe he would shave more than just his face. Give himself an even more feminine appearance.
It brought him a fair amount of shame that he had a pretty good idea on how to finger himself. He thrust the finger in and out, curled it up to hit the sweet spot. He could see on his own face how good it felt. An expression of pure bliss. His cock drooling in delight.
Jerma applied more lube, and slipped in a second finger. There was a stretch. He wondered how people took any more than just these fingers. It seemed painful. The notion of the pain made him feel a sense of disappointment, a sense of loss. Would he not be able to take more than these two fingers? Would he not be able to take a man inside him?
Why was he thinking about this? He didn’t like men like that. Right?
He tried to shake it out of his mind. But it was stuck. A man seeing him the way he was seeing himself in the mirror. A pathetic, ridiculous mess. Legs all spread open and twitching. If he was the man, he would reach out and touch his thighs. To fuel his imagination, Jerma lifted his hand up onto his inner thigh, and grazed his fingers gently over it, stifling a moan.
“Please,” he begged to no one. “Touch my tits.”
Obeying his own word, Jerma slipped his hand under the T-shirt again. He groped at himself. Gasping and moaning. In the mirror, he watched the depraved scene. It was humiliating to see himself like this – one hand fingering himself, one hand fondling his chest. But that just drove him crazy.
His wrist was cramping up with the fervour he was fucking himself with. He had to take his hand off his chest to jerk himself off instead.
The shame in his stomach was being eaten whole by the orgasm building up, and he couldn’t take his eyes off his fingers. He spread them, stretched himself open, and relished in the sight in front of him. There was no way he was keeping this to himself. Someone else had to see. Anyone else.
Jerma’s muscles gave up on him, and he collapsed back in the bed. His hands moved unconsciously. So unconsciously that he almost felt as though someone else were doing it to him. He clung to that feeling, basked in it.
“That feels good,” he panted. “That feels” – his body convulsed as the orgasm rolled over him – “so good.”
Jerma choked on his words. His legs squeezed together, giving himself a hard time to fully milk himself of his orgasm.
“Holy shit,” he breathed in awe. This was the hardest he’d cum in a long time.
His body went limp when he relaxed. He closed his eyes, heaving breath after breath. The scene replayed in his mind. With the post-nut clarity, all the shame came swarming back to him. How utterly disgusting this was for him to do? To masturbate to his own reflection. But, despite the weirdness, he knew it made his body tremble with his climax. He knew he had to do it again. And he needed more.