Purveyor of Pleasure

Pleasure is my business, my life, my joy, my purpose.

Tag: gender bending

Finding Harmony in My Gender Fluidity

There are so many ways to play with and express gender and gender deviance, from subtle to in-your-face and everywhere in between. What I’ve been trying to figure out in the last few weeks is how to reconcile my femme and fagette identities into a conceivable whole. I’m often not sure it’s even possible, but I’m trying at least.

I was asked not too long ago on FetLife “how do you find the harmony of being both without being confused or feel like you’re betraying one half of yourself at the expense of expressing the other?”

Part of my response:
“Unfortunately, I don’t have a good answer for that question. I do often feel confused or like I am betraying parts of myself, but I can only realize that there is almost no way to not feel that way and in realizing try not to feel that betrayal. It’s difficult to almost never have my own gender perceived or acknowledged by those around me. I think that is one of the worst things about being gender-fluid, or any sort of multigendered, that it’s difficult or nearly impossible to get validation from others on your gender because there’s not an easy way to express gender fluidity, if it can be expressed at all in all it’s vastness. Since people want to categorize everyone they meet and since we are conditioned to view gender as binary it’s difficult to exist outside of that binary in the gender galaxy at large.”

My issue with this moves beyond being multigendered into the fact that not only am I multigendered but that due to my appearance I’m easily read by the outside world as cisgendered. It’s similar to femme invisibility, though the issue is gender invisibility rather than queer invisibility. While femme is a large part of my gender identity it is not all of it.

Femme gender and queerness is what is invisible, what people have trouble seeing or what people gloss over. Because my primary gender presentation is femme I have the same issues but with the added fagette twist. This isn’t to say that my invisibility is more than that of femmes because it’s not, it’s just a slightly different kind of the same invisibility.

Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m involved with a cisgendered male. I’m used to people not seeing my queerness especially when we’re together, and I’m used to people not seeing my fagette side because it can also look very femme.

It’s human nature to look for recognition in others, and look for others like you. Even while I’m used to people not seeing these things in me that doesn’t mean I still don’t want them to. I am slowly coming to embrace the fact that it doesn’t matter as much what other people see as long as I know how I feel and am being me to the best of my ability. It’s difficult, but it’s something I’m trying to do.

A few butches on twitter were talking about cross-dressing a while ago, I know Kyle and Sinclair were among them and don’t remember who else, but they said that when asked if they cross-dress daily they would say no because cross-dressing to them would be wearing a skirt. I began to question my own cross-dressing, and part of me thinks I do cross-dress daily.

I think clothes for me are cross-dressing, clothes for me are drag. Sometimes I think I’ve just internalized pomo rhetoric to the extent that I really don’t feel like I have an inherent draw to some gender or another. I know that even though all gender is drag that doesn’t mean that people don’t have a pull to some sort of gender expression or another. I do have a pull to gender expression, but I don’t know what gender expression is pulling me to it.

I wear skirts. I don’t wear pants. Honestly, I don’t wear pants because they are confining and uncomfortable. Although I can’t say that has nothing to do with the meaning of pants in our society since that is so ingrained in us and I’m sure it’s still ingrained in me, but I can say that my conscious reasoning behind it doesn’t have to do with that.

My only issue with skirt wearing is that it’s difficult to be androgynous in a skirt. Or, let me rephrase: it’s difficult to be perceived as androgynous in a skirt. If I were male in a skirt that would be clear, but female in a skirt seems to be perceived as nothing but feminine. Since cutting my hair short I’ve gotten a few more double-takes, a few more curious looks, but I’m generally dismissed as a short-haired girl regardless of how much I try to play with my femme fagette expression.

There are nights I feel more like a femme and nights I feel more like a fagette, and nights where I’m not sure what the fuck I am. The only harmony I can find is by overanalyzing, exploring, and allowing myself and my gender to grow and evolve.

Recently I’ve been thinking about and exploring the idea of packing. Somehow packing has come up quite a bit in the last few weeks, both in the form of reviews (both Holden and Erin Leone have reviewed packies recently) and pictures (Kyle shared some with us for HNT). I’d been thinking about packing in a peripheral way before these all came out, but they definitely brought it to the forefront for me.

I just recently received Silky in the mail, just yesterday actually. A almost flesh-colored cock that has a bendable spine in the middle enabling the user to bend it to any shape the six inches of shaft can bend to. I enjoy making it S shaped and such just to see how well it bends. Because Silky is so bendable it’s also great for hard packing (as opposed to soft packing). One of the main reasons I got Silky is to see how it works for packing.

I packed with Silky for a while last night, though I did it just around the house. It was unusual, but I definitely liked it. The thing about packing isn’t about wanting to have a penis, at least not for me and not for the people I’ve talked about packing with, it’s more of a focal point for gendered energy. It was a reminder more than anything else, something to draw my attention and to bring my consciousness to my gender.

While I was packing I was wearing a dress. My Silky was not really noticeable under the dress at all, unless I sat cross-legged and the dress draped over Silky, but even when that happened it wouldn’t have been apparent unless one was looking for it. It isn’t meant to be obvious, though, and just the fact that I’m packing under a skirt is genderfucky enough for me. The glaring gender “contradiction” is where I thrive. It’s where I find my harmony, even if no one else knows about it.

A Guilty Pleasure: 50s and 60s (Sexist) Movies


Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face

I have a secret (or not so secret?) love of old 50s and 60s movies with Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Cary Grant, Fred Astaire, and so on. As much as I adore genderfucky practice there is something so lovely about watching Audrey Hepburn and Fred Astaire sing and dance in fabulous clothing (which happens to be what is on the television as I write this), or any of the various other very hetero very gender normative pairings that are mainstream movies from that era.

Why are some of my ‘comfort movies’ classics like Gentlemen Prefer Blondes? With winning exchanges like “I can be smart when I want to, but most men don’t like it, except Gus.” “No, that much of a fool he isn’t.”

Granted, there are a few gender bending movies like Some Like It Hot and strong female characters in other movies as well, though inevitably they always end up wrong somehow and the men end up right. In Some Like It Hot there are some wonderfully amusing and genderfucking moments, though they happen on the part of Daphne/Gerald who is willing to dress up as a woman from the beginning, unlike Joe/sephine who only agrees to it after they witness a mob mass-murder.

Though I didn’t used to when I was younger, I now recognize the inherent sexism within most of these films, and instead of being upset about it I shrug and think “that’s the way it was.” I think that is necessary in some ways, however, since there’s no use getting mad over something that happened 50 years ago, and if the same themes or lines were in movies today I would definitely be upset about it. However, my complacency about the sexism and stereotypes portrayed is a little disturbing to me all the same.

Is my recognizing the inherent sexism the most important part of the equation? I can’t help but love movies from that era, partially because they have been my comfort movies for over ten years. It’s always nice to watch a movie with a happy ending, and these usually have them. While as I mentioned above there are usually some strong characters in the movies they are often somehow wrong or proved wrong throughout the course of the movie or they are not seen as sexual or love objects, such as the magazine owner in Funny Face who is obsessed with her career and says that she has no room for love.

I think part of my love of these movies, aside from the happy endings, is the fabulous clothes, hair, and make-up all the female leads always have. Even when they are “broke” as in How to Marry a Millionare or Some Like It Hot they are still femmed up to the nines with elegant dresses, furs, sequens, gorgeous shoes, perfect hair, etc. The men, as well, are elegantly dressed: suits and ties, fedoras, sleek and gorgeous clothing. The femme in me revels in the wonderful hair and makeup.

I’ve always loved the style of these movies, the classicly glamorous look that the starlets represent, the pin-up look that never seems to go completely out of style. I love that the women in the films are actually women-sized, as opposed to the stick figures we mostly see today. Lately I have been wanting to cut my hair, get some rollers, and start wearing it like a redheaded Marilyn Monroe.

In the end, I think what is really important is that we recobnize the sexism in these films when we watch them now, since they were made in times that were trying to portray heterosexist and gender normative ideas as the norm (not to say we don’t still have that now). We all know that the 50s and 60s were trying to portray an image of perfection and normalcy that is basically unattainable, and wasn’t attained even then, although people strived for it. The movies of that era are equally unattainable, like fairy tales or romance novels (minus the smut), but they sure are fun to watch.


Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes


Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

NaNoWriMo Glimpse – Anticipation

I decided to participate in this year’s NaNoWriMo that is, National Novel Writing Month, which is November 1st-30th. I didn’t start right on the 1st, but this is part of what I had so far, not necessarily at the beginning, but it could be, we’ll see. I thought you all might like to read it, and I’d love any comments/critiques/criticism that you have, including telling me that it’s simply way too cliche (though it’s supposed to be a little cliche).

I need to read up on my noir fiction style, but I can always revise to add more noir-sounding phrases, but that’s the style I want to work within, partly Onyx’s idea, he’s been super into noir lately. Though, who knows, that aspect of it may end up being scrapped due to lack of ability. In any case, enjoy!

She walked into the room like she owned it, her deep red dress hugging her curves in all the right places, emphasizing her hips as she swayed toward me. She was the kind of dame you wouldn’t mind staying through the night, but she never would. I touched the cool glass of my drink to my lips, the ice clinking softly as the clear alcohol passed through my lips like water. She grinned once she saw me, sly as a cat having already caught the bird, and simply held out her hand for me to take.

She was the one who invited me here, to be part of a crowd and an atmosphere I didn’t usually partake in. I liked to stick to the shadows, preferring a fast tumble to a slow chase, but this girl was different. She had blown into my life like a brushfire, and seemed to like the chase. If she wanted a chase I’d be happy to oblige.

I tried to be cool as she led me to the dance floor, my half drunk glass abandoned on the counter I had been leaning on. Her arms were encased in black gloves up past her elbows, they looked elegant but were rubbery to the touch. A shiver ran up my spine as I touched the material. My arm slid around her waist as her head moved to rest on my shoulder, crimson lips grazing my cheek as her body molded against mine. Her hair fell down past her shoulder blades, and my hand ached to delve into the dark smooth mass of it, but I resisted for now. Each movement of her hips against me made me bite back moans that threatened to tumble from my lips, I couldn’t help but want her.

I could tell a lot of others in the room were watching us, and why wouldn’t they? Many who knew me were more surprised to see me in this setting and less so with the beautiful woman pressed against me. Those who knew her well, watched with a mixture of jealousy and smirking knowledge at what might later come to pass.

We did make a striking couple. Her in her red dress and gloves, elegant with a touch of fetish, her black heels tall, making her taller than me by a few inches. Me in a perfectly fitted three-piece suit I’d bought for this occasion: black with red pinstripes, black shirt, red tie, and a black fedora with a red band. I even had on red socks, though they were nearly impossible to see covered by my slacks and dress shoes. I knew she had a thing for suits, and for red, that much had been covered already. Though it had only been a few days since we met I could tell by the fire in her eyes that red was a color that suited her well.

Her arms were folded around my shoulders, my hands clutching her waist, knowing that if I slid them down just a few inches I would be able to feel the slope of her ass. I tried to keep my breathing steady, even as her arms wound tighter around me, her breasts crushing against my chest, inhaling the scent of her as she curled her fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck. I exhaled a heavy breath.

“Something wrong, darling?” She mused, her soft whisper against my ear sent another shiver. I growled low and she just chuckled as we danced to the soft jazz playing not far from us. She straightened in my grasp and shot me a knowing glance before taking my hand in hers and leading me out of the room.

We arrived in the bathroom before I realized where we were headed, she pushed me into the largest stall and pressed her hand against the bulge in my pants. I groaned. This was not the way I had imagined the evening would go. I was going to be smooth and charming, win her over through the night, invite her back to my place for a drink, and then make my move, instead she decided to lead me to the bathroom and unzip my pants.

I glanced down just quick enough to watch her red lips as they engulfed the length of my cock, making me throb with desire, the familiar clink of my belt buckle made me moan aloud, watching her as she watched me writhing in anticipation. I licked my lips and thrust my hips toward her, my pinstripe slacks falling around my red socks as she moved her hand under my cock to slowly insert a finger into my hot cunt, now I knew what the gloves were for, though I’d suspected all along.

The Butch in Me (HNT)


Click the image for a second image. Click here for the larger version.

So, the card reader for my camera is not able to be read on any of the computers in the house, meaning I need to get a new one but I have not done so yet. In lieu of a new HNT I am pulling from my stock of old photos. It took me a while to decide to actually post this, if I was brave enough to face the possible reactions or lack of reactions. It’s interesting that some aspects of myself are more vulnerable than others, and usually those I haven’t processed fully.

The second image (click the image to see) is one I added mostly for my own amusement. Looking back I’m not sure what I was going for, and I find it a laughable attempt at looking “cool” or “badass” or something like that. I was feeling rather hot at the time, I will admit.

These images I’m pulling from 2006, the pictures I took while getting ready for the Gender Bender Ball at Southern Oregon University, an event which I began during my term as President of the LGBTASU (now Gender/Sexuality Union) and which is still going on today. The shirt and tie are the same as in my Drag Quing HNT. The shirt is the one I wore to my High School’s Junior prom, accompanied by black bondage pants, the red tie I’ve had forever, as well as my terra firma harness and faithful Leo.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my boi/Syr side, and it’s something I’m going to work on developing further. Look for a post regarding that in the next few days. And, please, be gentle.

Semantics Sunday: Fagette

One of my new favorite words, one which I’m even considering adding to my long list of labels up on the masthead, I’ve already added it to my gender description. I first encountered the term in the Fagette video by Athens Boys Choir which is absolutely lovely, hilarious, wonderful, and perfect.

Doing a search on google for faggette brings up over 18,600 results which are a mixture of pages with the Athens Boys Choir video on them or linked, personal profiles like myspace or digg, information for people with the last name of Fagette, some is information about La Fagette, France, and random other things. Aside from the video I’m interested in the Urban Dictionary definition of fagette which reads:

A lesbian or a woman that displays either a masculine or feminine attitudes, mannerisms, and dress depending on their whim at the moment.
At the Lesbian Club, Cheri was such a fagette that she was receiving looks of interest from both the Butch and Femme crowd.

As opposed to the simple other definitions: 1. A gay frenchman. Derived from “faggot” and “baguette.” 2. A female homosexual/lesbian. I would say I prefer the first definition of fagette(s) from UD instead of the other for fagette.

Further, I would propose my own definition (as that’s what this post is all about, right?) which brings it slightly away from sexuality, though I would say queer is a necessity as I believe queerness and gender have some sort of link together but queer doesn’t always have to do with who one sleeps with. I really like the “depending on their whim at the moment” part of the definition, and I think that is key for my own feelings and adoption of this label.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my boi side, especially since reading The Leather Daddy and the Femme since it is so amazing and is a queer femme who also dresses as a boi, who has both aspects (genders) within her and plays with both and in between. I have been feeling more of my boi side lately, but also enjoying and analyzing my femme side, yet another “switch” label for me to inhabit, perhaps, switching from boi to femme and back again and everywhere in between.

It’s often difficult to not have a definite place in this gender galaxy, or to be circling around more than one sun. At the same time it’s very freeing, because through embracing these specific labels I am able to then open up my own gender expression to fit inside or outside of the gender lines as I see fit. Just like I feel it’s sometimes necessary to restrict something or go to one extreme in order to find where you really feel comfortable, and I’ve had to do that.

Back to my definition of fagette. Basically I think of it as a queer who mixes masculinity and fem(me)ininity and creates their own version of both, whether their biology is male or female. I know it’s a rather open-ended definition, but I think gender is open-ended in some ways, a lot more open-ended than society would like us to believe anyway. A fagette can look like Athens Boys Choir: a boy with a vagina, or a bio-female drag queen, or like Miranda/Randy of The Leather Daddy and the Femme, or all sorts of other configurations. There’s something about femme masculinity in it (not to be confused with female masculinity), which seems contradictory, in any way but I’m talking simply gender and not biological sex.

There’s a type of femme which can only be achieved by mixing a little masculinity in, I think, the drag queen is a drag queen because it’s putting a feminine gender on the socially “wrong” body, but a similar gender is difficult to achieve when you are putting a similar gender expression, drag queen, on the socially “correct” body. Fagette is recognizing that wrongness, that queerness, and embracing it.

It doesn’t come out as femme drag queen for everyone, that’s just my experience of fagette, having to map it onto my identity in order to have it fit. It’s similar to what I mean by “femme drag queen,” the purposeful combining of femmeininity and masculinity in order to create a new gender all my own, an androgyny that doesn’t come out looking primarily masculine as most androgyny does.

Fagette is not limited to the gender expression “drag queen” as some drag queens are not fagettes, but some fagettes are drag queens. Fagette can encompass any gender which is a mixture of femme and fag (I believe).

Genderqueer Drag Quing HNT


Click here for the larger version.

In honor of the Femme Conference which starts tomorrow (more info at the Femme Collective site or my post a while ago) I thought I would post something gender-related. It isn’t exactly naked skin, so half-nekkid might be a little bit of a stretch, but sometimes clothes can make me more naked than nakedness ever could.

The above images (yes, there is a second image if you click on the image above) are representations of me, really a mixture of my drag king and drag queen sides, hence the title, drag quing. All of the clothing I am wearing is mine, the shirt is actually the same shirt I wore to my Junior Prom, all those years ago, though I had a different black suit (not pinstriped) and a pink tie on (which matched my date’s dress–also pink hair and pink socks to match). I love suits, both on myself and on others.

Gender is something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately, specifically my gender but also gender in general. Sometimes I miss the butch side of me, the side which used to be most prominent, but has now taken a back seat to my femme-ininity. I sometimes wonder where that butch went, the baby butch I was in high school has morphed into this femme identity, and sometimes I want to bring my butch back.

Recently I shaved Master’s head, and ever since I have been missing my own short hair, my own shaved head. At the same time I love the long hair that I have now, it is the longest it’s been since 8th grade, approaching where it was then, even. I have these mixed emotions about it all. It’s not like I think I have to pick butch or femme, that I have to be one or the other. I know that I settle somewhere in the middle, and that I can decide what gender I feel like expressing at any given moment, on any given day. But it is still hard to reconcile the genders within me, as society makes it difficult to be in that middle-ground.

So, this is my blending of my identities. The long red hair, red lips, red fingernails, with the black pinstripe suit and tie. You can’t tell from the way I’ve cropped it, but I also had on a fedora, a short black skirt, fishnets, and my black doc martins. Perhaps someday, once I get my tripod and a remote for my camera, I’ll show you the whole package. This is my genderqueerness, and I thought you all might like to see it.

Queer Love, Het Love, Whatevah

By Athens Boys Choir, “a gender-deviant, multi-media, spoken word/hip-hop extravaganza.” Found via Ellie Lumpesse and Feministing. I absolutely love it, and so even though many of you will have seen this already, I’m still reposting it for those of you who may not be reading Ellie (though you should be).

Pansexual is one of the identities I embrace, usually pan or omnisexual when I don’t want to get into my definition of intellisexual or my use of the word queer. I’m all about multiple identities that mean the same thing with slight differences.

It also features Team Gina who I’ve posted a video by before, AND who I am going to go see tonight! I’m so super excited about that. Go watch ButchFemme and Rock The Like by Team Gina on YouTube, or go to their myspace page and listen to some of their other songs. I love them. So excited!

My Concept of Femmeinism

As you may have noticed, I’ve changed the title yet again, though this time a minor change from “feminist” to “femmeinist.” Now, the difference is subtle, but I believe there is a big difference. Traditionally feminism has tried to lead women to more androgynous looks, and has really frowned upon femininity as just something which the patriarchy has thought up, a male fantasy, and not something that we should buy into.

As Julia Serano said in Whipping Girl “Even many feminists buy into traditionally sexist notions about femininity–that it is artificial, contrived, and frivolous; that it is a ruse that only serves the purpose of attracting and appeasing the desires of men… After all, as a concept, feminism is much like the ideas of “democracy” or “Christianity.” Each has a major tenet at its core, yet there are a seemingly infinite number of ways in which those beliefs are practiced. And just as some forms of democracy and Christianity are corrupt and hypocritical while others are more just and righteous we… must… forge a new type of feminism, one that understands that the only way for us to achieve true gender equity is to abolish both oppositional sexism* and traditional sexism.**”

Femmeinist thought, however, embraces femininity and femmeininity, and is working toward that new type of feminism (or, femmeinism). While currently gender politics is still working on abolishing oppositional sexism*, traditional sexism** still abounds. It is in the fact that in order to be “gender neutral” one must look masculine, there is nearly no way to be gender neutral while really taking on feminine characteristics. Femininity must be strong, otherwise it wouldn’t be that if someone is wearing make up or a skirt that seems to automatically negate any other masculine gendered performance.

Something I came across here via The Femme Show was a definition of what femme is, or can be: “[the femme is] a betrayer of legibility itself. Seemingly “normal,” she responds to “normal” expectations with a sucker punch– she occupies normality abnormally.” – Lisa Duan and Kathleen McHugh from “A Fem(me)inist Manifesto” This is why part of my idea of who can be femme or not does not have to do only with sexuality. Femme is not about who you sleep with, though it can be, but there are plenty of feminine lesbians who are not femme. Femme is about consciousness: a conscious genderfuck in the rouse of traditional femininity. Anyone who consciously takes on the role of femininity as a deviant identity can be femme. Though, I believe it is easier for those who are already outside of social norms, such as lesbians and bisexual women, to come to a queer femininity and embrace it.

Femme is not something that sneaks up on you (though, it can sneak up on you in some ways, but there must be a conscious awareness to it as well), there is a definite change that happens from feminine to femme, or butch to femme or butch to genderqueer to femme (as was, in some ways, my transition). There is a transition, as with any trans identity: female to femme, perhaps. There is a wonderful movie which I am dying to see (I’ve only seen the trailer for it) which is called FtF: Female to Femme (you can view the trailer here). It seems like a step in the right direction.

I have so much more to say about femme, so many more ideas, and I will have more posts on it in the near future. This is kind of a rough-draft. Expect more and deeper investigation.

* oppositional sexism – “The belief that female and male are rigid, mutually exclusive categories, each posessing a unique and nonoverlapping set of attributes, aptitudes, abilities, and desires.”
** traditional sexism – “The belief that maleness and masculinity are superior to femaleness and femininity.”

Bender

Read in Episode #4 of The Sacred and Shameless Sexcast.

you had told me i was hot as a boy, and so i’ve decided to dress up for you this late saturday night. i grabbed clothing sneakily while you were in the bathroom and went downstairs to put it on. i put on my old bondage jeans which i hardly wear anymore, and a button-up shirt and tie. i wish i could find my find my fedora, but i think it’s probably on top of a box somewhere, waiting to be found, and not for tonight. instead i part my hair down the center, and slick it to the side to get rid of my girly bangs. though, i did put on a lacy bra, because i wanted enough of the boy to shine through as well as the woman underneath. i want to be neither one or the other but both at the same time, which was the same reason i stepped into my strap-on and adjusted it just before donning the jeans.

i smirk as i look in the mirror, reaching down to adjust my silicone-hard cock, the outline of which is visible against my denim-covered thigh. i lick my lips, try out looks at myself in the mirror, find one that is a suitable “i’m going to make you do me” look, a look that, even though it’s my reflection, makes me melt a little as i look at myself. all i can think of is “damn i’m hot” and “damn, -this- is going to be hot.”

i go, now impatient, upstairs, turn the corner, the other, see you sitting on our bed, reading a book. i paste on the look i practiced in the mirror and strut casually into the doorframe, leaning against it, waiting until you notice me. i see the look of shock and surprise, and that only causes me to lift my chin a little higher, cast a more hardened look at you, my lips threatening to curl into a smile. i can already feel my cunt getting wet between my legs, the feel of the cock already growing familiar instead of foreign.

instead of saying anything i move over towards you, standing next to the bed, and take your hand, with a tiny smile. i slide your fingers against the cock, and somehow the feeling is electric inside of me. i can feel the silicone attached to me, as if it were my own. i smirk at you, wiggle my eyebrows, just once, in an expectant silent command. i watch as your surprise turns into interest, and then excitement. I reach over and slide my fingers against your own cock through your jeans.

i move a leg up onto the bed, parting my thighs, the cock between my legs adjusts and i move my hands to my crotch, undoing my pyramid studded belt, unbuttoning and unzipping the pants slowly, and pulling out my hard black silicone cock. i bend over, my breasts pressing against the fabric of my shirt as i do, and i kiss you, hard, insistantly, tongue probing your mouth, almost reversing roles, though knowing they aren’t really changed. i break the kiss, look into your eyes and grin mischieviously, then tug your lips down, the book in your hands forgotten on the other side of the bed, your lips moving towards my hard cock, watching as your tongue slides against it. i can’t help but groan at the sight of it, and at the same moment your lips engulf the tip of my attached erection.

i lick my lips and watch as you play with my fake cock, wondering why i hadn’t done this sooner. you look so hot with my cock in your mouth. i slide my fingers into your hair and groan again, watching you as you start to slide your lips down the length, playing with it, teasing it as i often tease your cock. i can somehow feel your lips through the silicone, sending white hot shocks to my clit, feeling my cunt getting even wetter, and knowing that it’s delicious smell is seeping into the air.

you slide your fingers under my cock as you lick and suck at it, as i watch you. your fingers slip against the zipper of my jeans and find my hole even as you continue to lick at my length. i moan, loudly, as you slip a finger against my folds. the base of the cock and the leather of the harness rest against my mound, leaving my slit open, and my clit avaliable, and you realize this, sliding your finger up to find my aching clit, hot and burning with need. i buck my hips, causing the ever-hard shaft to jut into your mouth another inch, and i hear you groan.

your finger starts to rub, and i fight the urge to start fucking your face, jamming my cock down your throat, instead i just grip your head and buck against your mouth softly, shuddering as you easily bring me close to cumming, feeling the suction of your lips against the fake black cock. everything growing heightened, stiffened, aching, needy, and finally feeling the release i was craving, cumming hard against you.

you let me come down from my excitement, slipping your lips off my length, and i reach down to slide a finger against it, leaning down to kiss you sweetly, grinning against your lips, and knowing we’re not done yet.

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