As soon as I got home, I knew it was my turn to comfort Sir.

Crawling into bed next to him, I shuffled up close and put an arm around his waist. With our faces inches apart, I could see even more clearly what had already been pretty apparent when I’d entered our bedroom. He was lying on his side under the duvet, his body limp, his expression downcast, his eyes clouded.

“What’s up?” I asked softly, rubbing his hip in what I hoped was a comforting gesture.

“Eh, nothing much,” he replied, making an effort to look more alert and less downbeat. He did that whenever I saw him sad, trying to play off the problem as ‘nothing much’. I suspected it was for my benefit - he didn’t want to spread his sorrow to me.

Not being an idiot (today), I wasn’t fooled, and I wasn’t letting it go. “Tell me,” I urged him, giving his side a squeeze.

After a couple of seconds’ hesitation, he said, “You know we had a supply teacher today?”

“Yeah.” I’d seen it in the morning briefing email.

“Well, she couldn’t get her head around ‘Mr. Dexter’. I got a whole day of being called ‘Miss’.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I groaned. “How hard is it -?”

“I mean, I don’t think she was doing it maliciously. She just... couldn’t process me being a man. Which is fair, I guess, because I don’t look like one...”

“You know you don’t have to defend her, right?”

“I know, it’s just - in every other way she was a perfectly nice lady. Good with the kids, friendly with the other staff, chatted with us all at breaktimes... I really don’t have anything to complain about.”

I gave him a perplexed look. “Except for the constant misgendering.”

He grimaced. “Yeah. Except that. I mean, it’s not her fault I’m fairly femme presenting...”

“It’s not yours, either!”

Sir fell silent for a minute, staring into space again. I lay quietly and waited for him to speak again, still patting his hip.

“It’s just, I don’t care, most of the time. I really don’t. I know I’m not obviously trans - I’m short, and I dress quite femme a lot of the time, and I’ve got a feminine face, a feminine voice, and big jugs...” I grinned faintly as he gestured to his chest (and yes, it’s pretty well-endowed). “And I like that. I don’t want to change, necessarily. I definitely don’t want to get rid of my tits. And I don’t have any desire to grow any facial hair or anything, ’cos that’d be a sensory nightmare.”

I smiled again. I wouldn’t have minded him growing out his facial hair - I do like a bloke with a beard - but I understood his reasons not to. And I was definitely glad he didn’t want to ditch his tits. I loved his tits. Boobs beat beards, any day. (Quite a reversal of my old opinions, but then Sir had spent a year stomping the straight out of me.)

“I just, I also wanna be acknowledged as a man, and for people to just get that, and not need constant reminding.” He bit his lip. “Is that unreasonable of me? It feels unreasonable. Especially since this lady was perfectly lovely, and also in her late sixties, and probably doesn’t really get trans stuff.”

“It’s not unreasonable,” I assured him. “You are a man. A man with a very pretty face and great big honkers, yes.” That made him laugh, which was a victory as far as I’m concerned. “But a man nonetheless. Of course you deserve to be seen and treated that way. You deserve to be called ‘Mr. Dexter’, Sir. Hey - you fucking deserve to be called Sir. And as for dressing femme - it’s not like you went in wearing a skirt today, you were in pretty neutral clothes.” (He’d changed out of them now, into a grey nightshirt with some kind of anime art on the front, and chequered pyjama trousers.) “But even if you did, it’s still not valid to call you Miss.” I arched an eyebrow. “I assume you corrected her...?”

He cringed a little. “A couple of times,” he muttered - which was the answer I anticipated, and yet probably still higher than the actual total. Knowing him, he probably didn’t say anything until about the third time she addressed him as Miss, at which point he would’ve awkwardly corrected her. Then, when she persisted for the rest of the day, he just let it slide to avoid a confrontation.

I sighed, letting my exasperation show a little even as I continued to comfort him. “You need to stand up for yourself when this happens. Yes, I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm, but you are upset, and rightly so. You deserve to be seen for who you are. By everybody.”

His eyes glistened a little as he smiled warmly at me. “Thanks, Rain. That means a lot.”

“Well, I mean it. Your happiness is very important to me. As your girlfriend, and as your live-in free-use toy soldier sex slave cocksleeve.” I meant to cheer him up (and turn him on) with those last remarks, but I instantly regretted ‘cocksleeve’. What if by saying that, I was reminding him that he didn’t have a cock, and that just darkened his mood all over again...?

He didn’t seem fazed. Grinning at me, he rolled onto his back and reached for his bedside table. “You wanna nap with me? Be my body pillow?”

“That is on my CV too,” I smirked. “Right between ‘stim toy’ and ‘human cashpoint’.”

“Nice,” he laughed, opening the middle drawer and reaching inside. I swallowed suddenly - that was our sex toys drawer. “But, since you’ve done such a good job comforting me, and made me feel so much better, I think you deserve a treat. And although I can’t actually give you the D, I can give you a D.”

“Works for me,” I said with a flustered laugh, as he rolled back to face me, his hands slipping under the duvet and reaching for my waist. I made absolutely no attempt to resist as he tugged my tights halfway down my thighs and pushed my panties aside. A heartfelt moan escaped my mouth as he inched the toy into me, before pulling my knickers back into place, bulging from the protruding base of the dildo.

“Fffuck,” I gasped.

He slid along the mattress, moving right up to me, and wrapped his arms around me. “How’s that feel, love?”

“Nngh... Sir, your D gets an A-plus from me,” I whimpered.

“Why thank you, Miss Jones,” he sniggered, squeezing me warmly. “I do my best. Oh by the way, that’s locked in for now. You can’t take it out, only I can.”

“That’s what I assumed,” I sighed long-sufferingly, squirming slightly in his embrace.

He chuckled gently, and then fell silent, resting his chin on the top of my head. I tried to stay as still as I could as we lay there cuddling closely, my face buried in his ample chest, his disembodied dick tucked up my cunt. It felt so lovely, to be able to cheer up my owner, and fulfil my function as his body pillow and his cock holster. I felt so grateful for a partner who repaid my kindness with this treatment, a brilliant blend of degrading and loving.

He might sometimes doubt his validity as a trans man, but I never have for a second. Yes, he’s quite different from my previous boyfriends. Yes, he’s quite femme-presenting. It’s never mattered to me. He is who he is, and I love every bit of him. Besides, he’s done things to me that no-one else ever has. How could any other man ever compete?

As far as I’m concerned, my Sir, my owner, is the perfect man.