I have always loved women. I've envied how their hips gyrate when they walk and how wearing a simple pair of heels accentuates their butt. I love how they've been crafted; their hourglass body coming as close to perfection as anything can and their ample breasts so beautifully alluring. Their flowing hair and their sensual lips and how they make any guy's heart fly in joy. I love how lace panties and bodycon dresses have been especially designed to highlight their voluptuous structure. Women are a metaphor for beauty and sensuality.
Having traveled to countries across the globe, I've come across some breath-taking women, each more beautiful than the previous. They have always inspired me. They have guided me to be better and do better.
Most men spend their entire lives wondering what it would be like to be between the legs of one; to have their hard tool pumping into one.
In my case though, I've always wondered what being one would be like; how it would be like to have breasts to offer and kiss men and watch them melt in my embrace. I've always wanted to be the eye candy for men; every movement of the body watched with unabashed eyes. I desired to have such beautiful dresses adorning my body; to be able to reveal my legs and torso catching the interest of willing men.
Ever since I was 18, I've had a penchant for being a woman. I've wanted to have supple breasts to feed men and legs to part. I've always covered myself in colourful, flowing attires; cherry red lipstick and thongs made out by cutting old underwear up to feed my sinful fancies. My cock is and has always remained tiny, and so easily hidable under the layers. I'd wear my pretty dresses up, put on my lipstick and watch to hear the click of my heels on the hard wooden floor. I would stand in front of the mirror to be everything I've wanted to be, a Princess.
As time rolled by, it never was quite enough. I knew that I could dress myself up all that I can and parade the streets pretending to be one, but I wanted more. I knew deep down that I I'm not one yet.
I wanted to be loved by a man. I wanted to be touched and held and kissed by men. I wanted to be fucked. I wanted to see the passion in a man's eyes as he plunges into me. I wanted to hear his animalistic grunt as he ravages me. I wanted him to fill me with his seed; make me his bitch; tell the rest of the world that I'm a woman. I'm his woman.
I got to live my dream only months after dreaming them up. I felt my fingers tremble in anticipation as I unbuttoned my dad's driver's pants. My numb hands fidgeted with his zipper before pulling them down. The summer light hit my chest squarely through the car's windscreen as I heaved in triumph at what I had achieved. I held my man's semi hard manhood in my right-hand staring at it in pure lust.
It was his first time and he was nervous. So was I. He had never been with another man, neither I. His hands held the steering wheel firmly while mine held his pulsing tool. Without another word, I dove down onto his fast-hardening member. I had never seen a cock before, let alone hold one. As my lips felt the warmth of his pink head, I could feel it grow in my mouth. I could feel it fill my mouth up, stretching it wide. He didn't know what to do. Neither did I.
15 minutes later, I pulled up on my seat with his cum in my mouth. I found the saltiness tasteful. I didn't realise then that I had just given him a blowjob, the French way of loving. I could feel him heave next to me like he had just completed a race. I swallowed his cum after playing around with it in my mouth for a while, watching him cover his nudity up in haste and shame. I sat back, still nude with the evening glow dying in the horizon. We never spoke another word that day, or for a week. I felt peaceful.
He had just fucked his boss' son's mouth. He was guilt ridden. Weeks passed me by in a daze. I still couldn't believe what I had done. I have had an intercourse with an actual guy. The next time we met in the car, it felt eerily silent. He had his hands on the wheel, his eyes were staring into the road, only they were filled with thoughts of what we did the last time we had met. My hands were impatient in getting his cock out but were unsure how. I put my right hand on his left thigh and caressed him gently. His left hand left the wheel and touched the side of my body, rubbing my back; tracing my neck. Once he had a good hold, he pulled me down, willingly, to his member. This time, there was no guilt. No shame. We knew what we wanted. 15 minutes later I found myself swallowing his cum down my throat. This time he felt bold enough to peck me on my lips, nothing sensual, he came close and brushed his lips on mine, sort of like wanting to kiss but didn't know how. I covered the placing my lips firmly on his, my hands chaffing at his erect nipples. We held each other under the moon that night, unwilling to let go and unsure of what to do next.
We broke off, returning to our seats when we saw a car turning into the road. But it was enough. I was smiling this time, and I had come all over my underwear.
A month after that, I found myself in a hotel room on all fours; his cock deep inside me. It was my idea of course. I wanted to be his lover. We had drunk beer a few hours before coming back to the hotel to numb our inhibitions away. Once in bed, I removed my shirt and peeled away at my pants almost mechanically. He was already in his underwear when I got naked.
