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Alicia pulls her hair back tightly, as smooth to her skull as she can. The ponytail falls down her neck in a neat wave, but from the front view her hair could be clipped short. It's an effective illusion.

She turns left and right, studying herself in the mirror. Black tank top, cut high in the neck so her chest isn't bared. Her arms are, though, smooth muscles under pale skin on one arm and a riot of color on the other.

Her jeans are loose, baggy in the crotch and down the legs, though they pull a little across the curves of her hips and her ass. It'll do. Her belt is thick, flat black leather, unadorned, a plain silver buckle centered over her fly. She rests her hand on it, then downward, lying the flat of her palm over the curve of the soft pack at her groin. Another left-right turn, admiring that this time, the bulge in the fabric when she turns but hidden for modesty in the looseness of the cut when viewed head-on. Illusion. Transformation.

She walks out to the living room, rubbing her hands on her thighs. "Babe?"

Mikey looks up from where he's lying on the floor with a book, lips curving up in a careful smile when he sees her. She stops and lets him take his time, studying her all over, from boots to hair and back. He's wearing his glasses, thick black frames and reading lenses, but she can see his eyes just fine, how bright with pride and affection they are when he looks at her.

"Hey," he says, closing the book and propping himself up on his elbows. "Hot stuff."

"Why are you down there?" she asks, stepping toward him. He's wearing a faded, ancient tour t-shirt and one of his pairs of stage jeans, tight like they're painted on, tight enough that he tucks his dick back when he wears them just out of pure habit. She imagines kneeling between his thighs, or better, straddling his hips, leaning down over him and sliding her hand down into the vee of his thighs, feeling it smooth and flat. She lets the heel of her hand brush against her packer again, heat flashing through her.

"Pig had the couch," he says, grinning up at her. "I never fight her for couch space."

"You're a pushover."

"Yeah, kinda." He laughs and looks away, glancing toward the clock, and she can't help herself. She steps forward and sinks down, straddling him like she imagined. His hands come up to steady her and she smacks them away, then catches his wrists and holds them to the floor.

A warm flush spreads under his skin and she wants to taste it, bite it. She wants to play with him until he moans and sighs and arches. She wants him in her hands like a toy. He smiles at her, sweet and bright, and she shifts her weight back and forth, pinning his wrists under her knees so her hands are free.

"What're you gonna do to me?" he asks cheerfully, then laughs again as she plucks the bobby pins from his hair. He uses two at the crown of his head to hold the front section back, and with them gone the dark strands fall down over his face in an uneven veil. She looks at him like that and smiles, dropping her free hand back to rub along the seam of his jeans at the crotch, just like she wanted.

"Pretty," she tells him. His eyes flutter closed, his teeth pressing tight into his lower lip. She wants to move up his body, hold his head in her hands and press his face against her, watch him mouth at the bulge of her dick through her jeans. She wants to be stronger, wants him to defer, wants to work him over until his control breaks and he leaves a wet sticky mess in his underwear like she used to in the pits at shows, back when she was the flushed, horny girl she wants to turn him into.

He looks up as she takes his glasses off and slips them on herself. She's never seen anything like her boy's eyes.

"Anything you want," he says, "always," and she leans down to taste his promise.