The Cause

Often I've wondered why the only thought to stir my sissy cock, some 40 years into life, is the vision of a hard, throbbing, blue veined cock arched just before my eager lips. Was it the spiked heels I pranced around the house in younger years or perhaps the love for the pale yellow slip I stole from my sister and wore secretly under my jeans and shirt while fishing?

Perhaps it is due to the exposure of a black cock when I slid into his T-bird by the bus station, once he gleamed my stocking clad legs while I pretended to wait for a bus.

Nonetheless, to this day, my cock twitches and produces a dabble of sweet pre-cum when I remember my earliest years of perversion. As I finger the tasty, sticky, yet smooth, clear juice emitted from my sissy clit and remember the reflections stored in memory of how sexily I looked when all dolled up.

That first blue silk dress with the cowl neck, the Farrah Fawcett blonde wig, the high heels. My first dance with a man, the caresses on my silk covered bottom, arched so sexily due to the spiked heels. The tug on the arm to the men's room, the quickness he removed my panty girdle, the hardness of my cock as he wet it feverishly. All these thoughts stir the often lifeless flesh that resides between my thighs. My regret for not engulfing his throbbing member once he finished with mine, keeps me yearning for another. I can vividly see all 10 inches staring me in the face, twenty years past.

I do recall the first to touch my lips, that tall black player in the long Thunderbird. The man who talked so sweet to such an innocent girl. The gentleness he displayed while he delved into my young psychic.

"Had I ever sucked a cock?" he asked, as he unleashed a nice soft black cock from his trouser's crotch.

Confidently, I lied and said, "Of course." Not even knowing what should come next, I lightly kissed it's head and rose to stare my first man in the eye.

Who says men don't have a heart? For it was my admirer that zipped up what I was destined to love, left me with a sweet kiss and a goodbye, only to promise to find me when I was a little more experienced.

Whispers amongst town, sly innuendos, harsh cuts soon told me the secret was about town of a transvestite that went down. That eve whence I dared to be the whore I longed to be, with so much bravado, did it unknowingly share my secret with all town? Or was it the bright Saturday afternoon that I boldly walked into the wig shop and got the Fawcett wig from the window? Or the very mini-dress I wore the night of my hooker strut, stolen from my girlfriend, that came up missing? Perhaps someone saw me enter the rest area bathroom a man and leave a woman. Eventually truth would escape and the motel strut in a tight mini, the highest of heels would prove to be my coming out debut. As I watched my mirrored self be so ever feminine in the reflections of the windows, I knew not that two best friends were spying me be the woman in red.

If knowledge sets you free, the learning of my being a queen tv, led me to my knees. For care I threw out the window, the dome light shone all over my feminine essence. For via the highway, I'd lose my virginity. Cruising the interstates, dome light on, I teased the truckers until my nerve gave into the urge. This would be avenue to my true first. Completion, the taste of cum. The convincing of my female self.

In a tight tan silken dress, cutest matching high heels, a bolo overcoat, the restrictive girdle held me flat. My march with a sluttish air right into the arms of a horny trucker. His quick forceful grab of crotch left his manly hands empty.

"On the rag, Honey?" came his reply.

A whimper of "Yes," was my reply with the offer for a blowjob for five.

The belt unleashed, the cock released, I'd stepped into what my physic desired, the helplessness of being a slut. He forced my blonde Farrah head down the entire length of a modest 7 inches of sweaty cock. Feverishly, I worked his tool and sooner than expected was manhandled to the very base while the bone I desire, released it's wealth. Cum streamed from my mouth, I knew not to swallow and showed my virginity by spitting what I've come to savor.

A declaration that my man wouldn't be good for a week and the reward of a five, I kissed him goodbye and strutted myself into my future.

A future of many more truckers, glory holes, paid stallions, gay bars. A hundred wigs, a thousand pairs of hose, heels galore. Tight skirts, silicone tits, many trips to the wig parlor, the makeup counters, thousands of untold dollars spent to attract what I dearly desired. Attention from men, snickers from women, whispers behind my back.

Unwillingly, my straight raising would rear it's head from time to time. Purging would be next, the dating of women, normalcy. Perhaps a year would pass, maybe two. What would trigger it, I haven't a clue. A shopping trip to the mall, the site of a well dressed woman, the touch of a silk dress, the glance at the makeup counter, the fluff of a new blonde wig, a new perfume, or more than likely, the find of the highest of heels. Whatever the cause, the longing would return. A new quest for a feminine wardrobe would begin. As if taking turns, one adventure would be in the finest of silk, the classiest of women would be my desire. Others, a slut would be my goal. The shortest of leather skirts, the see through blouse, the whorish makeup. Whichever class of woman I chose, a cock between my painted lips was my desire.

Each episode brought experience, my eyes spoke female while my voice deepened. My legs and hips swished femdom, while my beard thickened. Which direction would I take, which sex would end up with my soul?

While my lips had caressed many a man, my pussy had yet been stretched. A cool winter's eve while dressed as a slut, I cruised the peep shows. The size and meanness of a black man's spirit, once I'd failed to produce cum orally, transformed me from virgin to raped slut that night. In a sticky peep show booth, I was forced to bend for a good fucking.

Told to grab my ankles, I submissively did just that and felt the pressure upon what I'd only fantasized entry upon. No lubrication, no gentleness, no prelude, only pounding and the slap of thigh against my white upright ass moistened my virgin lips of love. The cum stains on my dress told me he'd achieved relief. Yet my inner self was only wet with blood. I yet yearned for the sweet warmth of cum.

Disheveled and clearly a freshly fucked queen, I declined a train from some admiring white men upon my hasty departure. I should have stayed, for a train is yet an unfilled fantasy.

My soreness kept me from seeking more of the same. On my knees was my favorite place to be. Time passed, cocks came and I swallowed. Soon though, surely inevitable, another rape was destined for Desiree, the now hot to trot transvestite.

Much the same, a tight booth, a forceful white redneck, a long arched bent cock nearly brought my first orgasm as a woman might experience. Yet his abrupt stop, squelched the process.

Funny, of all the cocks, his arched and perfectly bent tool for submissive sluts stand out in my feminine memories as one I'd like to taste again. Not so comfortable thrust against the back of the throat but it was pure heaven in the tight ass I longed to be a ever ready love canal for men.

Cocks to remember, I wonder if real girls do the same? How many were memorable? How many were worthy of a repeat visit?

These I have permanently etched into my mind.

My first, the begging long cock in the gay bar men's room. How it throbbed up and down as he urged me to suck it. I never looked so good as I did that night. Constantly surrounded by horny men, all the night. Oh, what I'd give to be young again. Yet, I still long for his cum.

The perfectly shaped foot long cock on an equally handsome man, that picked me up at the adult book store, as I teased the passerby's with my see through chiffon boy shorts . His fat 12 inches so hard, so delectable, yet too fat for a smooth action blowjob. His admission wives had paid him to capture husbands sucking cock often has me in fantasy.

Had mine done the same? How I'd love to see a photo of my lips caressing that massive head.

Was it his wife that often called asking for Desiree? His meat impressed me so much that it was the only man I shared my home phone number. I wish he would call and ask for Desiree tonight.

Yes, I'd married, to a knowing girl. During one of the purge periods I'd fell in love, mostly due to a courtship I instigated due to me overhearing she loved female impersonators. Little did I know, her love for the professional did not translate to transvestites and cock sucking drag queens.

Confession to my cross dressing desires led to an evening of dress just for her. Criticism that my style was too drab deepened the desire to become sexier. All was well, however, all she did was giggle and tease.

Even a gift with a subtle hint of truth of my true sexuality, a large lifelike dildo prior to the I dos, did not tell me of her future prudish ways. A clear display of gay ways, I eagerly knelt, dressed as male and swallowed a good five inches of the rubbery cock with begs to be fucked by her, she still married me.

Her quote was, "Well, there could be worse."

Participation was few and far between, once married. She did go out one Halloween with me all dolled up and offered the opportunity to get a man, but I chickened out. Too much truth in one evening, I suppose. As far as she has delved into my perversion was a good butt fucking with the end of a hairbrush, even though the lifelike dong was ready in the dresser drawer.

My begs for deeper and faster seemed to intrigue her curiosity, as she teased me telling me to beg for more. Fearing discovery of my true longings for the male sex, I abruptly faked reluctance.

I suppose it is my passion for clothes, jewelry, perfume, makeup and those ever sexy spiked high heels that make her jealous. I catch nothing but sarcasm and taunts of my desire for cock. The rack of spiked heels, the long blonde wigs, the jewelry, my skill at transforming from male to female is a bit much, I suppose. Yet, we remain wife and transvestite whore.

Late nights working offered opportunities for dressing and my never ceasing search to kneel. Quick transformations weren't enough, thus weekends in motels. A woman 24/7, shopping, makeup, dancing, strutting, became my only outlet. Work changed and the opportunity to work from home came to be. Day in, day out, least until the wife came home, were spent as Desiree.

Soon as she departed, my ritual would begin. A clean shower, freshly shaved legs, an hour at the makeup table, the tuck of cock and balls followed by sheer snug pantyhose. A corset strung tight, silicone tits in a sheer bra, then the selection of a dress. Usually silk and classy, however, the slut would come to play and it would be a barely there mini skirts and those to die for angora sweaters. The crème de la crème is always the freshly painted two inch dragon lady nails.

A wonderful day would be spent as the woman I desired to be. Nails clicking on the keyboard, earrings dangling as I talked on the phone. Often times sex would overcome my mind and out would come the dildo replica's of porn's favorites. Sean Michaels being my particular weakness, but there were so many. All fat and long, with veins so lifelike, heads so pronounced. I always saved the squirting model for last, previously filled with my own sweet cum. Carefully placed on the table I would watch my blowjob and judge my skills of swallowing via the mirrors of truth on every side. From cock to cock I would suck until my pussy ached for action, then down would slide the hose and a careful squat upon the cock of the day would remind me of my vulnerability, my sissy dom.

Only once did I get caught in the act. Cocks painted with hot pink lipstick imprints clearly spoke of my wishes and wants. Huge, ass splitting instruments of manhood poised on the edge of my desk, clearly said I sat on each and every one. Shock and awe would put it mildly as she thrust Sean's big black cock in my face and called me a queer and a sissy. My cock tingled at the verbal abuse.

Humiliation has always played a strong role in my desires. Readily made as a man, too big I suppose to pass in my later years, I found myself always in search of the perfect place filled with real women to strut my stuff. I love the giggles, the shouts of go girl or love those heels. I never shy from the truth when buying clothes or hose. They are for me, I am one of those helpless men that wishes to be a woman. I love the sly knowing smiles I get from the salesladies.

Verbal and physical humiliation from a man is always good too. To be told how much I love that black cock between my lips or to be face slapped by a hard sword of love always makes me feel the helpless slut I long to be.

More memorable cocks. A tall blonde gay stud with an 11 inch boner, a young black man with a 10 inched sword, another paid for black man with a coke bottle thick cock.

Fantasy exploits came to life. The most memorable being the role of a blonde girlfriend giving head as we cruised the highways. Anticipation of passing truckers or model like women would heighten the feverish pitch. Side mirrors purposely poised for all passerby's to gleam at the hot blonde sliding her pink painted lips up and down on the black rod. Ah, what an experience to retire on, you think? True, 'twas my last but will it forever be?

Age and size has come into play and my dressing dwindled. My love for the silk still remains, my desire to swallow still sulks in the corner of my mind, yet I refrain. As my dragon lady nails stroke my sissy clit, it is only the memories of all the dresses, all the men that stir my soul.

The occasional six inch heels still arrive at the door, the temptation for cock remains prevalent. Will I ever return to full glory? Will I ever learn the cause?

I think not, the days for glory are past, yet the desire remains. All it will take is a dangling cock bobbed my way and I will again kneel as a good slut would.