Fantasy Girl!

Of course, girls like horseback riding!

Of course, girls like horseback riding, silly!

A fantasy girl, that’s me, according to a lot of guys.  I’m “that girl with something extra!”  — the description alone can make those same guys drool.

But what about me?  Can’t I have fantasies, too!  Sex objects are people, too, aren’t we?  So here goes:

I want to be fucked by a stallion.  That’s not to say that I haven’t already been fucked by lots of guys who consider themselves human stallions.  (Some were, some weren’t…but that’s a discussion for another time.)

I’m talking about a real stallion.  Yes, a horse!   A horse, of course!

Isn’t that what they say Catherine the Great did?  And some people would call me a queen (of the queer kind), right?

But to be honest and practical, I’m sure I’m simply not big enough to actually take the cock of a horse.  I would probably be split in half and painfully killed.

Still, it’s fun to imagine — to fantasize about….

And the fantasy wouldn’t be complete without a lot of horny guys standing around watching me and the horse go at it.  Their eyes popping out — marveling at the size of the horse and my ability to take it — as the ever hardening bulges in their pants pop out, too.

I’m resigned that my fantasy will never actually happen.  So I must content myself with traditional horseback riding.  That feels good, too (any girl must admit!), so good, with my legs tightly wrapped around the leather saddle.  And, in case you didn’t know, the pommel of the saddle works just like a high-powered vibrator!

Horny guys can still watch (and drool) as I post and canter, with my crotch sliding hard against the pommel and my hips going up and down, up and down, up and down, clad in the skin-tightest of jodhpurs cum scrumptious boots.  Up and down….

The First Time

Most men are so clueless....thinking I'm really a GG (genetic girl)!

Men are so clueless….they think I’m really a GG (genetic girl)!

This post isn’t about giving head for the first time, or otherwise losing my virginity. It’s about my very first time in an all-girl aerobics class, making me feel as if I were being asked to pledge in the hottest, coolest sorority on campus. This most memorable event occurred relatively early in my m-t-f transition, so a lot of would-be Tgirls wonder (quite rightly): “How in the world did you pull that off?”

Please pardon the unfortunate metaphor, but it took balls. Yes, it takes balls to become a woman!

It helped that the local health club was actively and aggressively recruiting new members and that the salesman who eagerly greeted me at the door was a horny, greedy, and clueless guy in his early twenties. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the seat of my skin-tight Guess jeans accentuated with a thick leather belt cinched so tight I could hardly breathe. (If I remember right, I was encased in a foam-rubber hip and bottom padded girdle from Frederick’s of Hollywood!)

Anyway, my wiggling butt kept his eyes off my too broad shoulders and still masculine (though expertly made up) face. Like lust, greed surely played a part as well — he no doubt would get a commision on every trial membership he could sell.

It happened that an aerobics class was getting underway just as he was finishing up the tour and his sales pitch, so he said: “Why don’t you join the other girls, and I’ll have your membership application ready for your signature after the class.”

Ushering me to the door of the women’s locker room, he could hardly keep his hand off my butt. When the door closed behind me and I was thus admitted into the inner sanctum, I almost fainted. I didn’t dare look at the “other” girls in various stages of undress, but headed for the nearest unoccupied locker. Luckily, I didn’t really have to change, but just shed my jeans and sweater. Underneath were at least two layers of tights (to conceal the lines of my girdle) and a long-sleeve, black leotard.

secretsAnd the rest, as they say, is history!

Championship Training

Getting Ready for the World Championship

I find the whole idea of a world championship for cock sucking incredibly, gloriously erotic. Why not? The world, at least the Western world, is full of infinite possibilities, and there’s equal opportunity for all women, even me.

Whenever I’m on my knees now (and it’s often), I make believe I’m Claudia. Not Lady Gaga or Britney — my new heroine and latest role model is Claudia. Her fame is not due to mere beauty or luck, but is justly based on merit and perseverance. I believe if I practice a lot and work hard, just as I’m doing now while kneeling before a brand new cock, working on my basic bob and slide, I can become just like her.

Claudia, according to a dispatch from a Romanian newspaper widely reported on the Web, is the winner of the first Oral Sex World Championships. Competitors from all over the globe attended the event at a Black Sea spa. An all-male jury awarded Claudia the $1,000 first-place crown. Their decision was based on “speed” and “artistic merit” in two rounds titled “technical” and “freestyle.”

At first, when I read this, I chuckled, as most readers did, I’m sure. But, ever since, I haven’t been able to get it out of my pretty, come-sucking head — a head no longer chuckling, but giggling and giddy. I’m jealous! Like Claudia, I want to be internationally recognized for my abilities (at least all the guys tell me I’m able)!

The purity of it all excites me: cock sucking for the sake of cock sucking, in and of itself, having absolutely nothing to do with love or any other emotion that might get in the way of technique and performance. But think about the bonding going on between the cock sucking performer, the anonymous owner of the succulent cock, and the observing audience! It’s one of those once-in-a-lifetime, life-altering experiences when minds, not just bodies, truly connect. It makes my mouth water just thinking about it. The idea of it alone is enough. I can’t think of a better expression of eroticism.

I want to be Claudia! The epiphany pops into my head at the exact moment when I’m licking the underside shaft of my latest prize of a penis. Or if not Claudia, at least second-place finisher, shedding genuine tears of happiness for the winning girl. Instead of a crown, I could then wear a tight T-shirt, with my hard nipples poking the fabric, flaunting the fact: “Miss Fellatio World. First Runner-up.” The mind boggles with all the fresh cock I would attract.

My lover has no idea what’s going through my head as I’m giving head. That’s part of the fun of it; I remain a mystery to him. He, on the other hand, is totally exposed, vulnerable to my every tongue-flickering whim. I know exactly what he’s thinking; he tells me so. Even taciturn men feel compelled to talk to me when my mouth is full. While I’m sucking like a vacuum cleaner, they are spitting out appreciative, flattering words:

“Look up at me while you’re sucking, bitch. I want to see your gorgeous, fluttering lashes and grateful, smiling eyes while your sexy lips are around my cock.”

They ask questions: “You like to suck cock, don’t you? You’re just a cock-sucking cunt, aren’t you? Tell me, cunt, isn’t this the best cock you’ve ever tasted? You can’t get enough of my fat, juicy cock, can you? You don’t want to ever stop sucking, do you, bitch?”

Of course, I can only answer with my head — a vigorous nod or a swaying shake. Those well-executed head motions just add to the cock owner’s pleasure. And it is his pleasure, after all, that brings me mine.

Actually, what I want him to tell me is how I’m doing — a real critical review. Vague praise is meaningless: “This is the best blow job ever…Slut, you suck so fine…” Blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it all before. What I crave — besides cock, of course — is brutal honesty. And the more detailed the critique, the better.

Unfortunately, most suckees are hopeless in this regard. All they care about is “shooting me a pearl necklace” or whether or not I’ll “swallow.” They’re so ecstatic just to get a blow job, they don’t really notice, much less appreciate, my truly expert level of keenly honed presentation.

Do they consider the pronounced, feminine arc of my back and butt while kneeling (evolutionary biologists call this “the fertility curve”)? Can they award points for the dexterous way my hand moves at the base of the shaft, so it’s synchronized with all my various mouth actions at the most sensitive tip? Are they connoisseurs of how even the eloquent (dainty, yet firm) grip of my hand ensures that my finely French-manicured nails are showing? Are they closely observing the vigorous, quick tempo of my acrobatic tongue, lip, and neck movements, as calorie-burning as my aerobics class — without my face working up even one tiny bead of perspiration, much less ruining my makeup (except my lipstick, of course)?