Ginger and Cinnamon

Studying my reflection in the full-length mirror, I like what I see, mostly.

For me, the appearance of a woman's face falls into one of six possible categories: ugly, plain, ordinary, cute, pretty, and beautiful.

At one time, I put a celebrity's face with each category, but I've removed the faces, deciding that including them with such labels was tacky at best. In my mind, though, I remember which faces matched which classifications.

I'm not a celebrity, but, if I were, I'd place my face in either the "pretty" or the "beautiful" category. Either one is fine with me (although, deep down, I admit, I prefer the "beautiful" label.) My face, framed by my curly ginger locks, is more than okay, and that's okay with me.

My breasts are nice, too. They could be better, but they could be worse, too. A lot worse. Overall, I'm satisfied with them, and, certainly, I've heard no complaints from guys.

Who cares what other women think on that score? I sure as hell don't. Other chicks aren't more objective than dudes; they're just jealous and envious. That's why their criticisms are often catty, rather than impersonal, not that I myself have heard any such thinly disguised insults.

I like the flare of my hips, too. They aren't grotesque like—well, I won't name names. My hips are sexy, without being preposterously wide. I'll leave it at that.

My legs—wow! Some have called them my best feature, and they're glam, all right—no doubt about it. Tapering, shapely, smooth, they could have been turned on a lathe.

I turn, eyeing my derriere with detached scrutiny. Tight, firm, bouncy, and buoyant, my sleek cheeks are totally to die for!

My body, overall, is titillating, too. I have good features, good genes, a dazzling smile, and nearly perfect symmetry.

Hell, I have it all.

Or almost all.

There are just a couple of things, mere "details," as Dil calls them—well, three, actually—or four, if I count my scrotum: my nut sack, my cock, and my balls.

I've been trying, now, for six weeks to decide whether to keep them or sacrifice them.

I'd look more feminine without them.

I wouldn't have to tuck.

I wouldn't have to worry about a crotch bulge.

I wouldn't be embarrassed by an errant erection.

On the other hand, I like my cock. I like my balls. I like my scrotum. They've given me a lot of pleasure, and I know them intimately. They're more like friends than genitals.

Of course, if I go all the way with my gender-reassignment surgery, I'd not only get rid of—that sounds so harsh!—part with—my male sex organs, but I'd acquire a pussy, complete with labia and clit. I'd be a complete woman.

The thought that I could trade cock, balls, and scrotum for pussy lips, pussy, and clit should make me feel ecstatic. But it doesn't. Just thinking of gender-reassignment surgery makes me experience a sense of loss, makes me mourn, in advance.

My male genitals not only give me pleasure, but they're beautiful, like ornaments. I love the shape of them, the weight of them, and the unpredictability of my penis, an organ with a "mind" of its own, if ever there was such a thing. I love them, as much as I love my feminized face, my breasts, my flaring hips, and my round, firm bottom.

It's not that I don't love female genitals, I finally decide, as I study my male package; it's that I love my manly parts more. If that makes me transphobic or misogynistic or whatever, well—I don' want to be that way, but I just can't help it. Having some surgeon transform my masculine parts into feminine naughty bits isn't for me.

* * *

At first, my decision to retain my male parts made me doubt my own gender dysphoria. Maybe I experience autogynephilia, instead. Maybe I suffer from gynemimetophilia. I almost went insane trying to decide what, if anything, is wrong with me.

Finally, I realized that nothing is wrong with me. I might be transgender. I might be autogynephilic. I might be gynemimetophilic. I might be none of these. At last count, there were somewhere around sixty-four genders. Maybe I'm one of them; maybe my own gender, whatever it is, hasn't even been identified yet. Maybe it can never be identified.

I don't need a label to accept myself for who and what I am, whatever that might be. The only label I need is my own name: Ginger.

If I want to keep my cock and balls and scrotum, that's up to me; it's my decision, and it doesn't mean that I'm transphobic or misogynistic; it doesn't mean anything at all, except that I'm taking Polonius's advice to be true to myself.

Of course, if I had a pussy, I wouldn't have to take it up the ass every time I bottom. I smile. Truth is, I like it in the ass—a lot.

* * *

I went through a lot of boyfriends—and a few girlfriends—of lots of genders, before I finally found The One, my True Love.

I don't know what his gender, and I don't care. Or, rather, I do know: his gender is Cinnamon.

Some would call him African American. Maybe he is; maybe he isn't. There are way more ethnic groups than the six listed on the US Government's asinine census form.

Some believe there are more than five-thousand of them. Although Uncle Sam might insist that I am "white" and Cinnamon is "African American," we themselves prefer, once again, Ginger and Cinnamon.

The only thing that matters to me is that Cinnamon accepts and loves me for who I am, whatever that might be. Well, that, and the facts that he's handsome as hell and has a lovely, long, thick, cut cock.

* * *

Cinnamon makes movies—videos. He himself is a pro—he used to work as a director of cinematography at a major Hollywood studio. Now, he makes his own films—or videos. The actors are talented amateurs. He brings out the best in them. After appearing in a few of his videos, some have gone on to stardom. Not in "legitimate" films, but in "adult" movies.

He's hired a cameraman to film us while we make love. I'm okay with it, as long as the video remains private. Cinnamon assures me it will.

Just as I'm a submissive bottom, he's a dominant top—strictly alpha male, all the way. I guess you could say we're a perfect match, since I'm as sissy as you can get.

He prefers doing me doggy style, and I prefer to please him, so doggy style it is.

I climb into bed, facing away from him, positioning myself on my elbows and knees, legs spread.

Behind me, the mattress dips and sways as Cinnamon, on his knees "walks" toward me. I feel his hands on my ass, as he spreads my cheeks. Then, the tip of his glans, feeling like hard rubber, pushes against my asshole. I feel pressure build and build.

With a forceful shove, his big prick penetrates me; I feel his thick, hard shaft plunge through the ring of muscle leading into my rectum.

It feels great!

Then, Cinnamon begins to fuck me, withdrawing and lunging, retreating and plunging, back and forth, his hips rocking, his dick cramming me again and again and again. Each time he rams his cock home, it's as if he's just entered me.

His pubes shove against my buttocks, flattening my cheeks with each thrust and sending ripples through my bottom. Suspended beneath me, my breasts swing back and forth. As his fucking becomes more intense, I raise my arms, hold the top of the headboard, and grimace, taking it, taking it, taking it, again and again and again.

Behind and above me, Cinnamon probably watches his cinnamon stick—that's what we call his cock, sometimes—vanish between my creamy white ass cheeks and then reappear, emerging from the depths of my skewered bottom.

He enjoys the contrast between my lily-white backside and the flesh of his medium-brown prick. He enjoys me on my elbows and knees, naked, before him. He enjoys being dominant; he enjoys my submissiveness. He enjoys defining me, by the occupation of my bowels, as his bitch.

I enjoy immensely being defined as such.

Cinnamon's tempo increases, the fluid strokes of his mighty, thick, hard prick reaming me. I close my eyes, focusing my attention on the slamming of his pubes into my buttocks, feeling every inch of him plunge through the circle of my fluttering anus. Fuck me! I think. Fuck me! But, of course, he is already doing that.

Occasionally, a shadow or a sound makes me remember the presence of the cameraman. It is exciting to perform for the camera—and for the cameraman.

Now, Cinnamon is fucking me full-on, driving his hips into me with force, rapidly, sending his beautiful cock into me to its very hilt. His hands seize the cheeks of my ass, his thumbs making deep indentations on either side of the cleavage of my bottom, as he parts my buttocks more fully, even as he continues to pound me.

His cock slides free. He replaces it. I release the headboard, placing my elbows on the mattress again, and Cinnamon slips his dick back into my hole and resumes fucking me. My tits swing in time to the rhythm of his lunges.

He pauses, draws back his hips, and slams his cock home, repeating this maneuver several times. He is brutal, almost violent, and, of course, I love it.

Bam! Cram! Jam! Ram! Slam!

Damn!

If I did have a pussy, instead of a prick, I'd have wet the bed; my cunt would be a river by now. But I have made up my mind. I will keep my cock and balls and scrotum.

My girly dick is hard, my balls high inside the risen pouch of my taut, smooth scrotum. I feel as if I am gathered there, in my genitals, as if they, not my heart or my mind, are the center of my being. For the moment, they are, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Bam! Cram! Jam! Ram! Slam!

Cinnamon is still showing me who's boss, taking me forcefully, almost violently. I love the brutality of his claim on me. I grit my teeth and close my eyes, frowning, and grunt and groan and take it, take it, take it.

He slows.

Now, he delivers long, leisurely strokes. I feel him, every inch of him, as his enormous cock slides through my anus, past my sphincter, and into the depths of my bowels. Over and over and over, slow and steady, he shows me, in a different way, that I am his, that he owns me.

Now, his hands cup the tops of my thighs, and he pulls me back. Still on my knees, I must rest the weight of my upper body upon my palms, rather than my elbows.

Cinnamon fucks me, steadily, rapidly, fluidly, as if he were a machine, rather than a man, his cock working back and forth inside me like a horizontal piston.

I shove my impaled bottom backward to receive his every advance, moving my hips forward as his virile member retreats.

A couple, we work, now, as a team. Not equal—never equal—but in tandem, with Cinnamon in charge.

After a moment, he is frantic again, hammering me, pounding me, his cock filling and cramming and stuffing me. His motion is so fast and so hard now that I cannot tell whether he advances or withdraws; I feel simply stuffed.

The mattress bounces. My hands ball into fists, and the sheets wrinkle in my grip. As Cinnamon fucks me, I make twerking motions, and he stops, his cock inside me, to let me do the work, while he enjoys the sensations.

My own cock swings beneath me like a pendulum, and my balls feel as if they might explode.

Cinnamon pushes me down, his hand flat against the small of my back, as he re-positions himself so that he can obtain greater depth, and he fucks me hard again. I am amazed by his stamina. How can he go like this? He's like a robot, like an android, like The Terminator on steroids.

My mouth forms an "O," as he rocks me. I breathe hard, through my nose. His cock has become increasingly more erect, stiffer and longer and thicker, and it is colossal now, as big around as my wrist—no, bigger—and feels like steel, rather than flesh engorged with blood. I cannot take him, I think; he's too big, too hard; too forceful. And, yet, somehow, I manage.

My cock swings faster, harder, and I grasp it, pumping it in my fist as Cinnamon fucks me. My dick is tiny, compared to his—a mere handful, whereas both of my hands, one atop the other, cannot contain all of his length. But my little girly dick feels wonderful in my grip; it is contradictory, like me—soft and hard, sleek and veiny, stiff and bouncy. As Cinnamon works his cock inside my bowels, I work my prick inside my hand.

A shadow. The cameraman, kneeling, leaning forward, filming up close and personal.

His presence is extremely sexy; it moves me, as much as my hand, as much as Cinnamon's cock up my ass, toward orgasm.

Cinnamon pulls out, leaving my asshole gaping. Warmth spurts over my backside. His cum, splattering over my buttocks, over the deep cleavage between my cheeks, upon my back, against my perineum and scrotum and thighs, tickles as it trickles.

He cums again and again, thick, viscid streamers of his warm spunk spilling over my flesh. He spanks me with his erection, and drops of his fecundating fluid shower my bottom. He brands me with his masculinity, with the seed of his manhood, claiming me with his semen and his sperm.

* * *

"But, Cinnamon," I protest, "you said—"

"I've changed my mind."

"Don't I get a say?"

"No."

I sulk.

"Stop sulking," he says.

"I can't just stop like that," I say, pouting.

"Do you want a spanking?" He grins. "Damn! Maybe I'll film that!"

"I'm sorry," I say, not relishing the idea of a spanking, although there is a pleasurable aspect to the pain and, of course, the humiliation.

"Suck my dick," he commands.

I am on my knees in an instant.

I bow down, before him, taking his wonderful, warm cock into my mouth.

He's not hard yet, but he will be soon. I will make sure of that.

I lower my head, and his penis, already stiffening, slides through the circle of my parted lips.

I lift my head, slowly, letting his cock—oh, yes, it's harder now, and thicker!—glide through the tightness of my warm, soft, wet oral embrace.

"I'm going to release the video, with our actual names in the credits."

I plunge my lips down upon the stiff, swollen shaft of his magnificent manhood.

"You have a problem with that?"

His prick in my mouth, I shake my head.

"Thought not. Now, Ginger, suck my cock until my balls explode and I fill your mouth with my cum."

I do exactly what he commanded.

"Now, swallow."

I swallow.

He pulls his dick free of my mouth, trailing the last remnants of his seed over my tongue, my teeth, my lips, and my chin. "I'm going to make you a star," he promises, "and myself a fortune—on your back."

"Or backside," I suggest.

"What do you think of that, Ginger?" he asks.

"I only wish the cameraman had been here just now to catch us in the act, Cinnamon."

"Don't worry; from now on, I'll make sure he has plenty of opportunities to do just that."

I scrape his cum from my inner thigh and lick it with my tongue. It is thick and salty. Smiling, I say, "I'm looking forward to it."