DudeThrill.com
How does an old adage go?
I think it says: "He who goes to the mill, sooner or later gets soiled with flour".
Let's say that, for similarity, this site is the mill and that real erotic encounters are the flour; I would be the one who after a long attendance gets dirty with flour.
I've been on this site for quite a few years, at least three more than what appears on my announcement page since I was previously registered under another nickname.
I was absent for a short time, two or at most three months. I was out because, in my life had happened some facts that I intend to keep confidential, which induced me not to look for further meetings despite, unlike those who often complain of the contrary, I had done: not many but all interesting.
After deleting myself I realized that the site also offers much more and, out of nostalgia for this "other" I returned to register, with the current pseudonym different from the previous one and declaring in the ad not to seek meetings.
In fact I am mainly interested in reading stories and, secondarily, to write some myself.
When I like the stories I read I leave comments; when I write stories some readers leave comments on mine.
Some authors of those I comment positively also send me messages of thanks, as I sometimes do with some readers who honor me with special comments (positive or negative, it doesn't matter, if I read "heartfelt" comments I thank them, sometimes even private messages).
In the many years I've been here, with the many stories I've written and the many more I've commented, there have been several cases in which an initial exchange of messages has started real "conversations", sometimes expanded by e-mail (after exchanging e-mail addresses) or by phone (after exchanging phone numbers), thus giving life to "virtual" friendships at a distance. Life is also made of movements, both mine and others and if sometimes someone of these people has passed by my side and let me know I met him very willingly and we have also known concretely. The same has happened when I have moved in the areas of residence of some people "known" here above.
When you get to these levels (meeting in person for the pleasure of really knowing each other) you can say that the friendship is now real and then to all these people I also said for what reasons I no longer do purely erotic meetings. Everyone understood my reasons and no one commented on my choice. Except for one person, but I will talk about this in a moment.
Not conditioning real encounters to sexual performance but limiting them to the level of "friendship", also brings me to the full freedom to meet, if it happens, whoever I think is "a nice person", regardless of sexual orientation, skin color, age, territory of origin, as long as they have an open mind and free. If we have come to want to know each other, this affinity we have certainly already discovered.
Now let's go to the story between me and the "one person" who has shown by his actions that he did not understand my reasons, which is the same person who made me "flour".
I will call this person with a different name than his, let's say Mario (it seems to be the most common name in Italy).
Mario, obviously using the pseudonym with which he was present on Annunci69, made several positive comments to my stories before sending me a friend request, to which I adhered very willingly. We exchanged a few messages of those made available by Annunci69, then we had a correspondence via e-mail, exchange of messages on whatsapp and, recently, even a couple of phone calls. Strangely enough, both telephone communications have been very disturbed, perhaps because of interference.
With Mario, more than with others, a good understanding was born.
Then Mario proposed me to really meet him. He had already told me he was gay and because he didn't think I would refuse because of homophobia, I confided to him the real reason that led me to live a stable relationship, even if unsatisfactory, and not to look for "meetings with erotic-sexual purposes".
He told me that it was not a problem for him, after all he just wanted to meet me, not to have sex (but he added: "not the first time at least, in case we will talk about it later"). (He added: "not the first time at least, in case we'll talk about it later"). After the first proposal he insisted, he pulled, as they say, far and wide to the point that, despite some residual perplexity of mine, when he told me that he had to go to my side for other reasons, proposing for the umpteenth time to meet even if only for a coffee and to really shake hands at least once, I did not want to behave differently from the others and I accepted to meet him. Exactly as I had already done with others as well.
I agreed to meet him at a very specific time, in a very specific place, with some agreements to recognize each other as we had never seen each other before because he (who on A69 had only put photos of intimate anatomical details, perhaps not even his) had told me that he had broken the smartphone and temporarily use an old generation cell phone, those with the keys, so he could not send me photos. According to the agreement he would have worn a "Prince of Wales" suit, with a pink shirt, I would have had to wear a specific newspaper, and wear jeans and a leather jacket.
My outfit was too banal, his was timelessly elegant: it's been years since I've seen men wearing "Prince of Wales" suits.
The fateful day had arrived, set for the meeting.
Shortly before the agreed time, I am in the appointed place, with my newspaper in full view and the agreed clothing. The place is a square. I have chosen it, almost as if the non-secluded place were an additional protection for me.
Today, however, the square is much more crowded than usual and despite my careful scrutiny of all the people, I don't see any men dressed in "Prince of Wales" suits.
I sit down at a table in a bar, outside, and order a coffee, continuing to watch the people wandering around the square, to no avail. After more than ten minutes after the appointed time I decide to dial Mario's cell phone number. I let it ring but he doesn't answer.
He also rang the cell phone of a lady sitting at the table behind me. I notice it only now, when that phone doesn't ring anymore: it stopped ringing when I ended the call. I'd be suspicious if the lady wasn't very suspicious: quite old, in fact very, aristocratic bearing, grappling with tea and pastries, which she consumes with refined manners.
I try a second call. The lady's cell phone rings again.
I hang up. The lady's phone does not ring anymore.
I have the impression that she is looking at me and hints at an amused smile.
Now the doubt becomes strong suspicion. I want certainty. I get up, I approach the lady, I say:
- Excuse me, have you seen Mario?
The lady smiles and says: "I haven't, have you?"
Her voice is hoarse, it could be either a low female voice due to hoarseness, or a male voice...not very masculine...it could also be Mario's voice for what little I heard in the two phone calls with interference.
-Who are they? -I ask her.
She smiles and says: "Of course. The clothing is as agreed, the newspaper as well, and then that intriguing beard is really good for you.
-Are you Mario?
We were on a first-name basis, or am I wrong?
Respect for women? For old people? But where is it written that it is due? My instinct is to grab that old woman, pardon that mature lady, by the blouse and lift her by weight, give her four sound slaps. They wouldn't be directed at her anyway, but at the non-existent Mario who made fun of me, who made me break the rule I had imposed on myself (no real encounters).
Of course I don't really do that, I'm neither an enforcer nor uncivilized, but the instinct was so strong, it still is.
-My name is Marion,‖ says the woman, -if you sit down we'll talk. After all, it was in the pacts that we would only shake hands initially, then we'll see...never say never in life....
Now I can only see that under the huge perforated lace shawl she is wearing a "Prince of Wales" suit and a pink blouse. That's actually an "outfit" too. I hate her (or "him" hate? Because I look at her, but I still think of Mario).
- Why did you do this to me? I ask her
- Because as I told you I wanted to see your face at least once, shake your hand, check if you really exist. I have always believed that you are a bullshitter who makes up stories because he cannot accept his real story. I did not believe, before now, the reason that drives you not to have meetings with advertisers of Annunci69, now yes, now I believe you and I feel sorry for you: you would have deserved the Mario you imagined to meet instead....eccomi here. I am your Mario who calls himself Marion because many years ago I refused the male sex with which risultao anagrafe to live as a female which I felt and I feel, but at my age now, male or female does not matter much, sexual practices are also memories a little faded, but the heart always needs affection, love and ... you have warmed my heart in recent months, with your stories, your emails, your messages. Here I needed to verify that you really exist, that you are not a dream.... Shall we have lunch together as we agreed or have you reconsidered?
I have a headache, I am bewildered. She, on the other hand, is quiet. She observes me and is silent, silent and smiling, but in a special way, her smile does not taste of mockery, but almost of understanding and solidarity, as if she (or he) was not responsible for my state. Afterwards, without my asking him any questions, he gives me an explanation. I don't know how true.
He says that when he was sexting he had a past as a nightclub artist, as a stripper with a "final surprise", more booed than applauded at the end of performances, but that after each show invariably there had been people knocking on his dressing room to spend the rest of the evening together. She boasts of having blown off male flowers to beautiful women and of having been shrewd in those years, enticing every suitor to give her well-deserved gifts. She denies to have ever made paid performances, but -she says- "I have always encouraged and shown to like the gifts, of jewels more than of roses".
She says to have made, in this way, a small patrimony later invested in real estate so as to have, when age had cut short her career, a mini-apartment to live in and two other mini-apartments to rent, with whose proceeds she can live. "E- she adds- of course I also had many generous and prestigious friends who gave me the superfluous and allowed me to stay and remain in the upper middle class of society. And I also did real work. I still do: I translate from and into English and German.:"
Giggling after a deep sigh she says again, "Um...too bad my suitors and generous suitors were all more mature than me and,...if I am old...they are already gone...just gone ..we are not eternal..heh, heh, heh ".
She also says:- "Someone like me doesn't go to say vespers in church in the evening, but rather surfs the internet and maybe ends up on that site where we met. Look at the photos, read the stories, look for virtual contacts with nice people like you, dream and so. a little you live and a little you survive. With you I had a doubt, the only one I've ever had: that is that I, after making fun of everyone in my life, I had run into someone who could have made fun of me, so I wanted to meet you, see you, know that you are real and as you told me to be, but also to be finally honest with you. I don't think you would have believed me if I had told you the truth via email and I don't want to deceive you anymore."
"Excuse me- I ask her- but why did you pass yourself off as a man on annunci69 if you feel like a woman and could have said you are trans?"
She replies:- " Because I'm Marion and that's it, I'm not man, I'm not woman, I'm not trans, I'm not labelable, it's me, an original and unique piece, it's me, Marion. Besides, it's not the only non-truth I've hidden: I've also passed myself off as sexting and I'm old. Someone like me is used to living in ambiguity and doesn't enjoy it unless she cheats a little. Now answer me: shall we have lunch together?"
I leave out the thoughts I harbor, the phrases I say, the ones she says. Let's get down to business: let's have lunch together, for starters.
She wins me over with her sympathy, telling me a lot about herself. Frankly I don't know how much is true and how much is imagined, there is in the many things she tells me, certainly some are lies, but something true underneath, underneath she says, I am sure.
However, I am getting to know a witty, humorous and intelligent person.
The not squeaky voice is justifiable by the respectable age and does not arouse any suspicion about his being an aged transvestite, appearing instead a lively, nice, I dare say almost "still pleasing" lady. Obviously "pleasing" to the eye, as a matter of good taste, not "pleasing" to the other senses, for erotic purposes, yet, when we get to the coffee shop she dares to ask me, "Would it make you so repulsed to have me give you a hand job or a blow job?"
I am stunned. I find the answer in:- "We agreed that no sex would be had," I remind her and add, "and then...you know why...I can't, I don't want to, I don't have to."
- "Bullshit,- she says- I disgust you. Say it straight. Yet, um, I could make you feel things you've never felt. Look I know I'm an old carcass and you'd faint if I took off my clothes and showed you what I look like, I know I'm not the person I used to be, the nightclub star, but...a simple hand job? A pacifier? Not for your pleasure but just to make me feel again the thrill of my best years? Huh? Come on..."
You should see her pleading look, her pleading expression, hear her voice.
I'm honest: I feel compassion, I almost think I would be doing her an affront if I denied her the pleasure she's almost begging for. I don't have the courage to deny her, but indulging her requires recklessness and courage on my part.
Don't ask me for details. You would read something sleazy that would not reflect reality. All I can say is that after leaving the restaurant, we drove out of town, into the countryside, and there, on a big road that runs through the vineyards, I was more resigned than willing to let her do it.
It's not an exciting thing for me, maybe it's just a good, charitable work...come on...I'm sincere: I disgust myself for having agreed to her request.
Now I'm here, I let her do it, I close my eyes so as not to see, I open my fly to let her do it: I hope my cock shares my choice and doesn't misfire, although I have the right to, given the partner I'm offering her.
But what happens?
I have to change my mind already now, as soon as Mario(n) starts to blow me.
I stay with my eyes closed so as not to see her.
I know, I disgust you; do you think I don't do it to myself? But that's how it is: I'm ashamed, but I let her do it.
My penis thinks differently from me: he likes it. He likes the touch of the hand that squeezes it, the touch of the tongue that swirls around the glans and lingers on the frenulum and then hammers on the foreskin, he likes the lips that open, welcome him, make him slide between them and enter up to the uvula. Even my ears enjoy as if it were music the sounds that come "from below": the sighs and grunts of Mario(n), the "cic-ciocchìo" emitted by the chapel that goes in and out of the mouth. Even my testicles like the touch of hands.
Who am I to disassociate myself from such important parts of myself?
In fact, I end up liking the whole thing myself, no longer ashamed, no longer thinking that the blowjob is being given to me by..., by..., by.... or, the misery but - I take note now- it's my first time with a tranny!
It's not one of those trannies that I've sometimes liked to imagine: sexting, effeminate all over his body but with an appreciable flapper between his legs. No, this is something else entirely: feminine but like an old lady, not like a vamp, anything but beautiful, in fact just the opposite. It's a good thing he's still dressed, I don't think he can be attractive without that "Prince of Wales" outfit. I go back to closing my eyes so as not to see her features but I'm no longer ashamed of myself, I no longer feel like I'm doing a work of mercy, I feel like I'm having sex with transport and I don't give a damn if it's with a man or a woman or a transsexual, I'm in full harmony with a person who is giving me the best of herself and is trying to take the best of what I can give her right now.
For a moment I think of the many, too many times I have had sex with that great hottie and great bitch of my wife, just for "conjugal duty", because between me and her now everything is duty and what is not, is habit, and at this point I am ashamed of those relationships, not of this one: here at least the souls, the senses, are meeting.
Now yes, I accept to get dirty with flour, for once I let it happen what it wants to happen and I am happy, I am alive, I explode with vitality....as my cock explodes in lush splashes on the face of Mario (n) who does not stop to re-lick all the chapel, not caring about all the precautions recommended today, as a greedy, greedy lust.
At the end she tells me: "Thank you".
Before we part she also tells me:- "If you only knew how many lies I told you today."
I tell her "Not only you. I have also told lies today, but not to you."
Many months have passed:
Since that day Mario(n) has not responded to my emails or phone calls. She also deleted herself from Annunci 69.
Who knows where Mario (or Marion?) is now.
Believe me, I will not easily forget her. I was shocked.
She (or he?) is one more reason to reiterate that I am not looking for more real encounters.
I think it says: "He who goes to the mill, sooner or later gets soiled with flour".
Let's say that, for similarity, this site is the mill and that real erotic encounters are the flour; I would be the one who after a long attendance gets dirty with flour.
I've been on this site for quite a few years, at least three more than what appears on my announcement page since I was previously registered under another nickname.
I was absent for a short time, two or at most three months. I was out because, in my life had happened some facts that I intend to keep confidential, which induced me not to look for further meetings despite, unlike those who often complain of the contrary, I had done: not many but all interesting.
After deleting myself I realized that the site also offers much more and, out of nostalgia for this "other" I returned to register, with the current pseudonym different from the previous one and declaring in the ad not to seek meetings.
In fact I am mainly interested in reading stories and, secondarily, to write some myself.
When I like the stories I read I leave comments; when I write stories some readers leave comments on mine.
Some authors of those I comment positively also send me messages of thanks, as I sometimes do with some readers who honor me with special comments (positive or negative, it doesn't matter, if I read "heartfelt" comments I thank them, sometimes even private messages).
In the many years I've been here, with the many stories I've written and the many more I've commented, there have been several cases in which an initial exchange of messages has started real "conversations", sometimes expanded by e-mail (after exchanging e-mail addresses) or by phone (after exchanging phone numbers), thus giving life to "virtual" friendships at a distance. Life is also made of movements, both mine and others and if sometimes someone of these people has passed by my side and let me know I met him very willingly and we have also known concretely. The same has happened when I have moved in the areas of residence of some people "known" here above.
When you get to these levels (meeting in person for the pleasure of really knowing each other) you can say that the friendship is now real and then to all these people I also said for what reasons I no longer do purely erotic meetings. Everyone understood my reasons and no one commented on my choice. Except for one person, but I will talk about this in a moment.
Not conditioning real encounters to sexual performance but limiting them to the level of "friendship", also brings me to the full freedom to meet, if it happens, whoever I think is "a nice person", regardless of sexual orientation, skin color, age, territory of origin, as long as they have an open mind and free. If we have come to want to know each other, this affinity we have certainly already discovered.
Now let's go to the story between me and the "one person" who has shown by his actions that he did not understand my reasons, which is the same person who made me "flour".
I will call this person with a different name than his, let's say Mario (it seems to be the most common name in Italy).
Mario, obviously using the pseudonym with which he was present on Annunci69, made several positive comments to my stories before sending me a friend request, to which I adhered very willingly. We exchanged a few messages of those made available by Annunci69, then we had a correspondence via e-mail, exchange of messages on whatsapp and, recently, even a couple of phone calls. Strangely enough, both telephone communications have been very disturbed, perhaps because of interference.
With Mario, more than with others, a good understanding was born.
Then Mario proposed me to really meet him. He had already told me he was gay and because he didn't think I would refuse because of homophobia, I confided to him the real reason that led me to live a stable relationship, even if unsatisfactory, and not to look for "meetings with erotic-sexual purposes".
He told me that it was not a problem for him, after all he just wanted to meet me, not to have sex (but he added: "not the first time at least, in case we will talk about it later"). (He added: "not the first time at least, in case we'll talk about it later"). After the first proposal he insisted, he pulled, as they say, far and wide to the point that, despite some residual perplexity of mine, when he told me that he had to go to my side for other reasons, proposing for the umpteenth time to meet even if only for a coffee and to really shake hands at least once, I did not want to behave differently from the others and I accepted to meet him. Exactly as I had already done with others as well.
I agreed to meet him at a very specific time, in a very specific place, with some agreements to recognize each other as we had never seen each other before because he (who on A69 had only put photos of intimate anatomical details, perhaps not even his) had told me that he had broken the smartphone and temporarily use an old generation cell phone, those with the keys, so he could not send me photos. According to the agreement he would have worn a "Prince of Wales" suit, with a pink shirt, I would have had to wear a specific newspaper, and wear jeans and a leather jacket.
My outfit was too banal, his was timelessly elegant: it's been years since I've seen men wearing "Prince of Wales" suits.
The fateful day had arrived, set for the meeting.
Shortly before the agreed time, I am in the appointed place, with my newspaper in full view and the agreed clothing. The place is a square. I have chosen it, almost as if the non-secluded place were an additional protection for me.
Today, however, the square is much more crowded than usual and despite my careful scrutiny of all the people, I don't see any men dressed in "Prince of Wales" suits.
I sit down at a table in a bar, outside, and order a coffee, continuing to watch the people wandering around the square, to no avail. After more than ten minutes after the appointed time I decide to dial Mario's cell phone number. I let it ring but he doesn't answer.
He also rang the cell phone of a lady sitting at the table behind me. I notice it only now, when that phone doesn't ring anymore: it stopped ringing when I ended the call. I'd be suspicious if the lady wasn't very suspicious: quite old, in fact very, aristocratic bearing, grappling with tea and pastries, which she consumes with refined manners.
I try a second call. The lady's cell phone rings again.
I hang up. The lady's phone does not ring anymore.
I have the impression that she is looking at me and hints at an amused smile.
Now the doubt becomes strong suspicion. I want certainty. I get up, I approach the lady, I say:
- Excuse me, have you seen Mario?
The lady smiles and says: "I haven't, have you?"
Her voice is hoarse, it could be either a low female voice due to hoarseness, or a male voice...not very masculine...it could also be Mario's voice for what little I heard in the two phone calls with interference.
-Who are they? -I ask her.
She smiles and says: "Of course. The clothing is as agreed, the newspaper as well, and then that intriguing beard is really good for you.
-Are you Mario?
We were on a first-name basis, or am I wrong?
Respect for women? For old people? But where is it written that it is due? My instinct is to grab that old woman, pardon that mature lady, by the blouse and lift her by weight, give her four sound slaps. They wouldn't be directed at her anyway, but at the non-existent Mario who made fun of me, who made me break the rule I had imposed on myself (no real encounters).
Of course I don't really do that, I'm neither an enforcer nor uncivilized, but the instinct was so strong, it still is.
-My name is Marion,‖ says the woman, -if you sit down we'll talk. After all, it was in the pacts that we would only shake hands initially, then we'll see...never say never in life....
Now I can only see that under the huge perforated lace shawl she is wearing a "Prince of Wales" suit and a pink blouse. That's actually an "outfit" too. I hate her (or "him" hate? Because I look at her, but I still think of Mario).
- Why did you do this to me? I ask her
- Because as I told you I wanted to see your face at least once, shake your hand, check if you really exist. I have always believed that you are a bullshitter who makes up stories because he cannot accept his real story. I did not believe, before now, the reason that drives you not to have meetings with advertisers of Annunci69, now yes, now I believe you and I feel sorry for you: you would have deserved the Mario you imagined to meet instead....eccomi here. I am your Mario who calls himself Marion because many years ago I refused the male sex with which risultao anagrafe to live as a female which I felt and I feel, but at my age now, male or female does not matter much, sexual practices are also memories a little faded, but the heart always needs affection, love and ... you have warmed my heart in recent months, with your stories, your emails, your messages. Here I needed to verify that you really exist, that you are not a dream.... Shall we have lunch together as we agreed or have you reconsidered?
I have a headache, I am bewildered. She, on the other hand, is quiet. She observes me and is silent, silent and smiling, but in a special way, her smile does not taste of mockery, but almost of understanding and solidarity, as if she (or he) was not responsible for my state. Afterwards, without my asking him any questions, he gives me an explanation. I don't know how true.
He says that when he was sexting he had a past as a nightclub artist, as a stripper with a "final surprise", more booed than applauded at the end of performances, but that after each show invariably there had been people knocking on his dressing room to spend the rest of the evening together. She boasts of having blown off male flowers to beautiful women and of having been shrewd in those years, enticing every suitor to give her well-deserved gifts. She denies to have ever made paid performances, but -she says- "I have always encouraged and shown to like the gifts, of jewels more than of roses".
She says to have made, in this way, a small patrimony later invested in real estate so as to have, when age had cut short her career, a mini-apartment to live in and two other mini-apartments to rent, with whose proceeds she can live. "E- she adds- of course I also had many generous and prestigious friends who gave me the superfluous and allowed me to stay and remain in the upper middle class of society. And I also did real work. I still do: I translate from and into English and German.:"
Giggling after a deep sigh she says again, "Um...too bad my suitors and generous suitors were all more mature than me and,...if I am old...they are already gone...just gone ..we are not eternal..heh, heh, heh ".
She also says:- "Someone like me doesn't go to say vespers in church in the evening, but rather surfs the internet and maybe ends up on that site where we met. Look at the photos, read the stories, look for virtual contacts with nice people like you, dream and so. a little you live and a little you survive. With you I had a doubt, the only one I've ever had: that is that I, after making fun of everyone in my life, I had run into someone who could have made fun of me, so I wanted to meet you, see you, know that you are real and as you told me to be, but also to be finally honest with you. I don't think you would have believed me if I had told you the truth via email and I don't want to deceive you anymore."
"Excuse me- I ask her- but why did you pass yourself off as a man on annunci69 if you feel like a woman and could have said you are trans?"
She replies:- " Because I'm Marion and that's it, I'm not man, I'm not woman, I'm not trans, I'm not labelable, it's me, an original and unique piece, it's me, Marion. Besides, it's not the only non-truth I've hidden: I've also passed myself off as sexting and I'm old. Someone like me is used to living in ambiguity and doesn't enjoy it unless she cheats a little. Now answer me: shall we have lunch together?"
I leave out the thoughts I harbor, the phrases I say, the ones she says. Let's get down to business: let's have lunch together, for starters.
She wins me over with her sympathy, telling me a lot about herself. Frankly I don't know how much is true and how much is imagined, there is in the many things she tells me, certainly some are lies, but something true underneath, underneath she says, I am sure.
However, I am getting to know a witty, humorous and intelligent person.
The not squeaky voice is justifiable by the respectable age and does not arouse any suspicion about his being an aged transvestite, appearing instead a lively, nice, I dare say almost "still pleasing" lady. Obviously "pleasing" to the eye, as a matter of good taste, not "pleasing" to the other senses, for erotic purposes, yet, when we get to the coffee shop she dares to ask me, "Would it make you so repulsed to have me give you a hand job or a blow job?"
I am stunned. I find the answer in:- "We agreed that no sex would be had," I remind her and add, "and then...you know why...I can't, I don't want to, I don't have to."
- "Bullshit,- she says- I disgust you. Say it straight. Yet, um, I could make you feel things you've never felt. Look I know I'm an old carcass and you'd faint if I took off my clothes and showed you what I look like, I know I'm not the person I used to be, the nightclub star, but...a simple hand job? A pacifier? Not for your pleasure but just to make me feel again the thrill of my best years? Huh? Come on..."
You should see her pleading look, her pleading expression, hear her voice.
I'm honest: I feel compassion, I almost think I would be doing her an affront if I denied her the pleasure she's almost begging for. I don't have the courage to deny her, but indulging her requires recklessness and courage on my part.
Don't ask me for details. You would read something sleazy that would not reflect reality. All I can say is that after leaving the restaurant, we drove out of town, into the countryside, and there, on a big road that runs through the vineyards, I was more resigned than willing to let her do it.
It's not an exciting thing for me, maybe it's just a good, charitable work...come on...I'm sincere: I disgust myself for having agreed to her request.
Now I'm here, I let her do it, I close my eyes so as not to see, I open my fly to let her do it: I hope my cock shares my choice and doesn't misfire, although I have the right to, given the partner I'm offering her.
But what happens?
I have to change my mind already now, as soon as Mario(n) starts to blow me.
I stay with my eyes closed so as not to see her.
I know, I disgust you; do you think I don't do it to myself? But that's how it is: I'm ashamed, but I let her do it.
My penis thinks differently from me: he likes it. He likes the touch of the hand that squeezes it, the touch of the tongue that swirls around the glans and lingers on the frenulum and then hammers on the foreskin, he likes the lips that open, welcome him, make him slide between them and enter up to the uvula. Even my ears enjoy as if it were music the sounds that come "from below": the sighs and grunts of Mario(n), the "cic-ciocchìo" emitted by the chapel that goes in and out of the mouth. Even my testicles like the touch of hands.
Who am I to disassociate myself from such important parts of myself?
In fact, I end up liking the whole thing myself, no longer ashamed, no longer thinking that the blowjob is being given to me by..., by..., by.... or, the misery but - I take note now- it's my first time with a tranny!
It's not one of those trannies that I've sometimes liked to imagine: sexting, effeminate all over his body but with an appreciable flapper between his legs. No, this is something else entirely: feminine but like an old lady, not like a vamp, anything but beautiful, in fact just the opposite. It's a good thing he's still dressed, I don't think he can be attractive without that "Prince of Wales" outfit. I go back to closing my eyes so as not to see her features but I'm no longer ashamed of myself, I no longer feel like I'm doing a work of mercy, I feel like I'm having sex with transport and I don't give a damn if it's with a man or a woman or a transsexual, I'm in full harmony with a person who is giving me the best of herself and is trying to take the best of what I can give her right now.
For a moment I think of the many, too many times I have had sex with that great hottie and great bitch of my wife, just for "conjugal duty", because between me and her now everything is duty and what is not, is habit, and at this point I am ashamed of those relationships, not of this one: here at least the souls, the senses, are meeting.
Now yes, I accept to get dirty with flour, for once I let it happen what it wants to happen and I am happy, I am alive, I explode with vitality....as my cock explodes in lush splashes on the face of Mario (n) who does not stop to re-lick all the chapel, not caring about all the precautions recommended today, as a greedy, greedy lust.
At the end she tells me: "Thank you".
Before we part she also tells me:- "If you only knew how many lies I told you today."
I tell her "Not only you. I have also told lies today, but not to you."
Many months have passed:
Since that day Mario(n) has not responded to my emails or phone calls. She also deleted herself from Annunci 69.
Who knows where Mario (or Marion?) is now.
Believe me, I will not easily forget her. I was shocked.
She (or he?) is one more reason to reiterate that I am not looking for more real encounters.
