Responding to their call, I release his head and cup each mound, first squeezing the flesh before tweaking my hard nipples. Lust-filled messages consume my neural cortex and I can no longer contain my voice, panting and groaning his name as fire rages within me. His fingers dig into my ample bottom, the ramrod that pierces my soft folds takes on a ferocious pace and I start to lose control. I sense Her welling from the pit of my stomach, the ethereal need unfurling like a pirate's flag, poisoning me with inky desire. I fight back, desperate to retain power as the thirst threatens to devour me from the inside. Although I know the result will be electrifying, it's the last thing I want when I'm this close to coming. Losing grip every second signifies failure on some level, my conscience tumbling away despite the mental gymnastics as She emerges. I want this to celebrate love, not cloaked lust. The blurred distinction between the two may be semantics, but to my inner bitch it's all. Growing up in the 1960's gender roles were massively enforced andstifling; the fear of being outed was palpable. Men's clothing was, andis, purpose driven, rough, confining and restrictive in all aspects; theform and function of it was strictly enforced as though it was auniform. Women's clothing on the other hand was about freedom andbeauty. Men's clothing is boring; women's clothing exciting. Womenexpressed themselves through their clothing, men weren't supposed toexpress themselves at all.All through my teenaged years my crossdressing experimentation continuedand expanded but was limited to what of my mother's clothing I couldactually fit into. I had to be careful to fold and place the clothingback exactly as I found it but I took the risk of being found out for Ihad to satisfy what was to become a lifelong crossdressing compulsion.At one point my mother figured it out and discreetly asked me to stayout of her dresser but didn't press the issue any further. I think shethought it.
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