I can't stop

I really can't. I want to be this precious little bitch so bad! I want to get on my knees and suck big honkin' cocks and have them spooze cum all over my adorable face. And I hate it.

What the fuck is wrong me? I was happily having the hetero time of my life. This faggy cross-dressing dick sucking fantasy was absolutely no part of it, but since Friday I can't get it out of my head.

I'm beating off constantly staring at beautiful women painting their faces with the cream from huge rods. There's just nothing else. I make excuses to my girls. I'm screwing up at work not getting a lick done because it's not the licking I want.

I couldn't wait to leave Amanda's Saturday morning. I swung by storage and picked up my finery, raced home, shaved from ears to toes and jerked away the weekend with outrageous impossible fantasies.

Pathetically propped before the computer in my favorite juniors sequined bustier, sheer stockings, lace ruffled ankle socks and Mudd Mary-Janes I was an ugly dude wasting hours tugging away. Why couldn't I be a cute 19-year-old mall slut passed from boy to boy, expressly hated but secretly envied by the "good" girls?

I played Slut Julie's latest video post over and over again--craving just one chance to be so natural, happy and eager before a monster cock. (Julie's gone but most of the video is here. It doesn't include the "kitten" bit I describe or the money shot. Sorry!) I love the way that big swingin' dick bumps her head and she sits back just for a moment like a kitten that falls in play before pouncing back. Watch her. She's every bit as cute and just as innocent with ten inches of meat in her mouth. My mind is blown. Then I wondered, would I really rather be the one on the left so I could be WITH the little sweetie? I finally decided it would definitely be better to BE her. I'm not sure when it dawned on me that being the guy was never considered.

My head tried asserting control. Stop this. Burn this shit. Call Tanya. Get laid! Be a man. But it won't stick. I want her for sure--to tell me no! No more pussy for my worthless cock. I want her fucking other men and making sure they know I'm not. I want them making the conquest I'm denied.

Worse, there was Tara. I promised to suck her husband's cock! I couldn't get over that excitement. I'd turned down a beautiful, sexy, horny woman. Beat off for her and volunteered to suck her husband. In return she hadn't just hurled the fag label as an insult. She BELIEVED it.

She'd never think of me the same way ever again. Somehow that made it more than a fantasy. My name passing at work would conjure images of a cock stiffening under hand, fullness in my mouth, strong hands holding my head for throat choking plunges and lips covered with the bitter taste of a satisfied lover.

I couldn't wait for Monday morning--for Tara to call me fag again! Would I deny it or admit it? That's why I'd tried holding out. I wanted to be horny so she could more easily lead me as far as she wanted to go. Soon the whole office would know. If they knew, then there'd be no reason for me to hide the swish that I was. Tara and I could shop together. She'd complain of her husband's too frequent demands and seek relief by enforcing my promise.

I didn't want to lose these feelings, but I gave in. I had to have some cum. Even my own. As I licked up my mess it was effortless. There was no disgust. No forcing. No rush to strip off clothes in remorseful regret. I needed more. The thrill of exposure. Crazy thoughts of visiting a nearby college town, clopping down the street in my heels, window shopping at the ladies stores filled my head. Fortunately horniness kept me at home beating off. My poor, sore little cock unable to satisfy my lust with it's diminishing dribbles.

Monday came and went of course with nothing happening. How could it? Tara's not a sick twisted little fuck like me. She didn't go to that room to meet a fairy. She doesn't need someone to suck her husband's cock. I'm sure she handles that with perfect aplomb and expertise. She can't even tell everyone what a queer I am. How can she? How's she going to explain what she saw and heard without incriminating herself?

That's my rational mind, but it's losing. I have this incessant image of walking over to Tara's desk and whispering in her ear, "have you thought about my promise?" It's scaring me to death. Getting fired for sexual harassment would be bad enough, but in this economy it's damn near suicidal.

Help me! Fuck!


Or maybe I should be honest and say, "so help me, fuck. I wanna be Lindsey Lohan's 'ho." I want her to flash me that hot wet pussy between her legs and make me beg for some. Tell me I'll never have it, nor will any man ever again, but it still attracts dicks and guess who'll be satisfying them?