What’s the time, Mister Wolf?

A queer drag king burlesque D/s love story.

The act was called What’s the time Mister Wolf?

I sat backstage and watched her transform. First she plaited her unruly curls and pinned them to her scalp in a neat little fauxhawk. Then she took off her aged converse and ripped jeans, but left the fishnet tights beneath. This was when I laced her into the corset – gold glitter to which she’d gluegunned tufts of brown fur. Watching her already defined waist grow smaller and smaller and her breasts rise higher and higher in her reflecton.

She sat on the edge of the makeshift dressing table and pulled on a pair of low-heeled brogues, then beckoned to me.

“Drop ’em.” She drawled, and I fished under my dress for the waistband of my knickers, pulling them off for her. She inhaled their scent before spreading her legs obscenely so I could watch her stuff her own boxers with them. The bulge made my legs shake a little, though she soon covered this with a pair of chocolate brown corduroys.

Through the loops of the trousers, she passed the strong leather belt of her tail – a fine, silky, bushy beast of a tail, in reds and browns to match her suit, her eyes, her hair. She watched herself in the glass and gave her hips a little wiggle. The weighted tail shook and curled around her calves and she smiled with satisfaction.

Her nipples she crowned with paw print pasties before shrugging on a sharp pinstripe shirt. With the collar buttons undone, she mascara’d her lashes, then took the black kohl eyeliner from her make up bag and drew on a pencil moustache. She made her black brows blacker, wilder. With surgical precision she drew on whiskers across her dimpled cheeks, and a black snub nose.

“Jacket.” She said, admiring herself in the full length glass in the corner of the room. I placed it around her shoulders, and as she left the room, she flipped the trilby from he hat stand onto her head.
“Thanks, Kid.”

From the wings I could only see parts of her. The stage was in darkness as the MC said his spiel and introduced her.

“Please give a warm welcome to Mister Wolf!”

The whoops and cheers faded away under as a crackling recitation of Little Red Riding Hood hissed into the audience.

“Why Grandma, what big teeth you have!” exclaimed a squeaky voice, and the lights came up on her as the thumping bass of her chosen track kicked in.

She owned that platform, that small corner of the bar. She luxuriated in her cockiness, thrusting her hips at the panting ladies in the audience and more. I curled a loop of hair around my finger and chewed at it, my body reacting to her every move as she fingered her tail and unbuttoned her flies to reveal the mound of my panties between her thighs. My own hand slipped between my own thighs almost involuntarily, sliding easily between the slippery folds of my cunt, my hips mimicking the jerks of her movements on stage, bringing my body to the brink but not succumbing. Not yet.

With a final triumphant toss of her head the song reached a crescendo and as she sauntered off the stage, she flung the hat behind her, into the audience.

Without missing a beat she took my hand and lead me back to the dressing room, clad only in her shorts, fishnets and pasties. Closing the door, she kept it at her back and looked me up and down.

I knew my cue.

“What big eyes you have.” I murmured, unbuttoning my dress.

“All the better to see you with, my dear.” She purred.

“And what smooth skin you have.” I let the dress fall from my shoulders and began to unhook my bra.

“All the better to hold you close, my dear.” She advanced on me.

“And oh, what sharp teeth you have.” She was towering over me in her bare feet.

She laughed.

“All the better to eat you with, my dear.”

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