How can it be? How can it be that the man who gave me the most intense orgasm I’ve ever experienced remains unknown to me? Ah, to be ravished by a total stranger, that’s exciting enough…but more…there’s so much more to the story. Or perhaps I should say “less.”
For he never even touched me! And only afterwards did I see him. I just had to see his face. Who was this “masked” man?
So I tapped him on the shoulder, as we were all standing up in the aisle, after the eight-hour transatlantic flight, to file out of the airplane. He turned his head. I smiled, and mouthed, “Thank you. Thank you very much.” He blushed. Only then, it seemed, did he realize the pleasure he had given me — my phantom pilot.
To fly, to soar, to spread my wings (and legs) — with my phantom pilot at the controls. That’s what had happened high above the dark ocean — maybe Iceland — as the sun would soon rise over the coast of France.
But, actually, my phantom pilot was only nominally in control. I had planned it all, down to the last detail. My pleasure had been premeditated. I knew exactly what I wanted: to make a long-anticipated fantasy come true.
It started with how I decided to dress that day, well before the taxi came to take me to JFK. I usually don’t wear flouncey skirts, but anything too tight might have revealed the bulge in my crotch. The bulge wouldn’t have been from my residual cock (we so-called shemales are well practiced in disguising that!). Rather, it was the sextoy called “The Scorpion,” strapped to the furtherest reaches of my upper thighs. (For a complete description of The Scorpion’s magicial properties, please see earlier blog post “My New Best Friend.”)
I was in control. I knew exactly what I wanted. He was totally unaware — just a tool, an extension (literally) of my sextoy. Man as sextoy: I like that!
TO BE CONTINUED….