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03 Şubat 2023, 22:36
It all started in the Navy after watching a video in the early 80s, "Inside Jennifer Welles" (1977). The late Jennifer Welles was a talented adult film actress, flexible and enticing beyond my wildest imagination. Although I cannot claim to have followed the plot very well, my recollections of the last 25 minutes of action have remained quite vivid--Welles attending a party during which she blows all of the guests as well as the waiters. Her interaction with the waiters was a bit of a let down, and frankly detracted from her earlier couplings with a line of men in tuxedos.
Coincidentally, Welles physique reminded me of my wife who also had large, soft breasts, and my wife could move enticingly well (though she always denied it). In my little fantasies, my wife was fulfilling Welles' role with the guests during that party, with the guests ejaculating all over my wife. I masturbated to these fantasies, cumming in my pants, on my stomach and hands, and on letters that I wrote home. Ultimately, I traced outlines of my erect penis in letters to my wife, and began to share some of my fantasies with her in my letters. Abruptly my fantasies evolved beyond what I shared with her--I dreamed of being on my knees, sometimes beside her, sometimes without her, and I was the one sucking those luscious cocks, one after another, and they were exploding all over me, as well as in my mouth.
Later, as my ship was approaching istanbul travesti (https://www.istanbullife.info) the equator, I was entered in the "Wog Queen" contest, and while I steadfastly protested this indignity, there was no denying that I was all butterflies inside. I couldn't wait to shave my entire body and wear dainty lingerie. After the festivities (I did not win) some of the men called me princess, which made me blush, but also gave me a hardon. In spite of all this, fantasies were all that happened on that ship, and when I returned home I made no more of it except for giving my wife a photo of myself wearing the dainty lingerie.
Thereafter, I also expanded my video library which included a mix tape of blowjobs--women blowing men, a few crossdressers blowing men, and still more men blowing men as well as giving up their ass pussies (although it was decades before I referred to them as ass pussies, or my penis as a man clitty). My wife didn't particularly care for this video, but she did indulge my curiosity a bit, liberally coating a finger in vaseline and inserting it in my ass. Unfortunately, that was not as enjoyable as I imagined, rather brutal as a matter of fact because she literally just shoved it in to the hilt, and since she wasn't really into it we never experimented further.
My wife had encouraged me to pleasure myself for her, almost from the time we started dating because watching guys masturbate really turned istanbul travestileri (https://www.istanbullife.info) her on. Once, she asked me to lick some of the semen off my fingers, and that led to throwing my legs back over my head and masturbating over my face. She quickly lost interest in this activity because I "talked too much," she said. I was really into it though, asking things like, "What if this was someone else's penis?" or "Would she help me blow him?" She told me that she was only a voyeur; not at all interested in participating.
She once had a coworker who was a real Adonis, and I fantasized about her having sex with him. I confided in her that I wanted to taste her on another man's cock, but honestly, I believe I just desperately wanted to suck him off. He was the first guy I put a face on in my blowjob fantasies, and he was THE face for years after she left that job.
When we sold our last house, I invested a great deal of sweat in preparing the property for sale. I worked shirtless most of the time, and when I needed a break, I would tan naked in our secluded back yard because it was enclosed by a tall privacy fence. Sometimes when I came in afterward, I would beat off, telling my wife that we should invite some guys over to fuck us. That was the first time she asked me directly whether or not I was gay, and of course, like an idiot, I denied it and suggested that I might be bisexual. Deeper discussions did not travesti istanbul (https://www.istanbullife.info) follow, but she began asking me to keep my thoughts to myself.
This past spring, I found men's bikini briefs--I had always worn boxers since my early teens, and bought a six-pack at Walmart, and then hid them. On the rare occasions that she would go shopping alone, I broke them out and practiced taking selfies in them, which I reviewed and saved or deleted afterward. We were taking daily walks for exercise, and she loved to photograph the local flora for her blog audience. So, one day she's taking photos with my phone, and accidentally deleted a couple that she meant to send, then went to a file I never noticed, "Recently Deleted."
By her own admission, she was shaken: why was I taking photos of myself in thongs; who was I taking them for? For myself I said, which was the absolute truth, if not the whole truth--I want to be the girl. When we got home, she had me break out the rest of my "thongs"--skanky pants as she called them--which I showed her were actually men's bikini briefs, not thongs, and I've been wearing them everyday since. She told me that she wasn't going anywhere, she had married me for better or worse, and that this was the worst part as she saw it, that she had known for years that I was gay or bisexual.
That weekend I thanked her profusely for allowing me to be me, and conceded that the bisexual phase had passed some time ago, and that now all I dream of is sucking cocks, pleasuring men by making them cum. For now, she indulges my dreamy little dreams, though admits she doesn't want to hear about it unless I'm actually doing it. We have come this far.
Coincidentally, Welles physique reminded me of my wife who also had large, soft breasts, and my wife could move enticingly well (though she always denied it). In my little fantasies, my wife was fulfilling Welles' role with the guests during that party, with the guests ejaculating all over my wife. I masturbated to these fantasies, cumming in my pants, on my stomach and hands, and on letters that I wrote home. Ultimately, I traced outlines of my erect penis in letters to my wife, and began to share some of my fantasies with her in my letters. Abruptly my fantasies evolved beyond what I shared with her--I dreamed of being on my knees, sometimes beside her, sometimes without her, and I was the one sucking those luscious cocks, one after another, and they were exploding all over me, as well as in my mouth.
Later, as my ship was approaching istanbul travesti (https://www.istanbullife.info) the equator, I was entered in the "Wog Queen" contest, and while I steadfastly protested this indignity, there was no denying that I was all butterflies inside. I couldn't wait to shave my entire body and wear dainty lingerie. After the festivities (I did not win) some of the men called me princess, which made me blush, but also gave me a hardon. In spite of all this, fantasies were all that happened on that ship, and when I returned home I made no more of it except for giving my wife a photo of myself wearing the dainty lingerie.
Thereafter, I also expanded my video library which included a mix tape of blowjobs--women blowing men, a few crossdressers blowing men, and still more men blowing men as well as giving up their ass pussies (although it was decades before I referred to them as ass pussies, or my penis as a man clitty). My wife didn't particularly care for this video, but she did indulge my curiosity a bit, liberally coating a finger in vaseline and inserting it in my ass. Unfortunately, that was not as enjoyable as I imagined, rather brutal as a matter of fact because she literally just shoved it in to the hilt, and since she wasn't really into it we never experimented further.
My wife had encouraged me to pleasure myself for her, almost from the time we started dating because watching guys masturbate really turned istanbul travestileri (https://www.istanbullife.info) her on. Once, she asked me to lick some of the semen off my fingers, and that led to throwing my legs back over my head and masturbating over my face. She quickly lost interest in this activity because I "talked too much," she said. I was really into it though, asking things like, "What if this was someone else's penis?" or "Would she help me blow him?" She told me that she was only a voyeur; not at all interested in participating.
She once had a coworker who was a real Adonis, and I fantasized about her having sex with him. I confided in her that I wanted to taste her on another man's cock, but honestly, I believe I just desperately wanted to suck him off. He was the first guy I put a face on in my blowjob fantasies, and he was THE face for years after she left that job.
When we sold our last house, I invested a great deal of sweat in preparing the property for sale. I worked shirtless most of the time, and when I needed a break, I would tan naked in our secluded back yard because it was enclosed by a tall privacy fence. Sometimes when I came in afterward, I would beat off, telling my wife that we should invite some guys over to fuck us. That was the first time she asked me directly whether or not I was gay, and of course, like an idiot, I denied it and suggested that I might be bisexual. Deeper discussions did not travesti istanbul (https://www.istanbullife.info) follow, but she began asking me to keep my thoughts to myself.
This past spring, I found men's bikini briefs--I had always worn boxers since my early teens, and bought a six-pack at Walmart, and then hid them. On the rare occasions that she would go shopping alone, I broke them out and practiced taking selfies in them, which I reviewed and saved or deleted afterward. We were taking daily walks for exercise, and she loved to photograph the local flora for her blog audience. So, one day she's taking photos with my phone, and accidentally deleted a couple that she meant to send, then went to a file I never noticed, "Recently Deleted."
By her own admission, she was shaken: why was I taking photos of myself in thongs; who was I taking them for? For myself I said, which was the absolute truth, if not the whole truth--I want to be the girl. When we got home, she had me break out the rest of my "thongs"--skanky pants as she called them--which I showed her were actually men's bikini briefs, not thongs, and I've been wearing them everyday since. She told me that she wasn't going anywhere, she had married me for better or worse, and that this was the worst part as she saw it, that she had known for years that I was gay or bisexual.
That weekend I thanked her profusely for allowing me to be me, and conceded that the bisexual phase had passed some time ago, and that now all I dream of is sucking cocks, pleasuring men by making them cum. For now, she indulges my dreamy little dreams, though admits she doesn't want to hear about it unless I'm actually doing it. We have come this far.