Ladyboys Moving to Thailand and my first Ladyboy
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Leading Lady - The Weekend Away free porn video
‘Horizontal time I think,’ was all she said.
Emily Tibbett led me by the hand, up the long staircase and into her bedroom. The sheets were silk and cold as she gently guided me to lie, then she lay beside me and her mouth covered mine in a long, deep kiss. The kiss became more and more intense and her finger entered me slowly almost painfully. After a long while of kissing and gentle fingering she moved her hand around my back and allowed her leg to slide between mine and, like before, she urged me to rub myself on her thigh. The difference was that this time it was skin not leather that I rubbed against.
As I worked, her finger slid between my cheeks and circled my rear entrance gently. She buried her face against my neck and bit me softly. My own hand caressed her shoulder blades and the nape of her neck. I had, however, another target in mind and no matter how much she liked me riding her leg I was determined to have another taste of her. I rolled so that she was beneath me. Her eyes looked up at me with a slightly surprised air. I touched my finger to her lips then slowly licked my way down her body. My intentions were clearly not unacceptable as her legs first spread then coiled around my back when I reached the intended spot. I started slowly, sucking her trimmed hair and nuzzling against her. Little mewing noises came from somewhere North of me which, along with her slight arching of her back, encouraged me.
Emily’s hands were in my hair. They did not grip but caressed my scalp; further encouragement if any were needed. For some reason a thought, unbidden came to me and I nearly giggled. The words my Dad often quoted, words from Winston Churchill.
‘Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties.’
Brace myself I did indeed and went to my duties with renewed vigour. Perhaps the Prime Minister’s words were as inspiring now as in 1940. The sole inspiration I needed though was the delicious prize of Emily Tibbett’s orgasm. With fingers curled into her and my tongue roaming freely and purposefully around her lips, her clitoris and her darker parts I worked; I worked with enthusiasm and total focus. I knew I had achieved my aim when everything about her went tight: her legs around my back, her fingers in my hair and her tunnel around my fingers.
I was not sure if she had climaxed when I had ridden her leg downstairs. If she had it had been muted and controlled but this, this was something different. She lifted me bodily as her body rose off the bed, supported only by her head and buttocks. She squeezed me to her with her thighs and hands. She was silent momentarily then emitted a huge groan of pleasure. It was long and drawn out, beginning as a murmur and growing into a growl then a scream, low-pitched and deep in her chest. It seemed to go on forever and all through I continued to lavish attention on her. Her body didn’t slump, it slowly descended as if her orgasm was diminishing rather than ending, then she bucked again and I knew a second had erupted. It was less violent but her shuddering explained all to me.
I eased off and gently licked her clean. Her breathing calmed and her body relaxed. I didn’t stop though because now I was enjoying her simply for myself: the smell, the taste, the moistness.
Emily’s hands gently guided me back up her body to her mouth and she languidly kissed mine. Her eyes were half shut, her body totally relaxed.
‘Good job,’ she said, smiling contentedly.
I slept the sleep of the innocent, wrapped in her.
When I woke up I heard the shower running and lazily eased myself of the bed.
Disappointingly Emily had started to dry herself off but had left the shower for me. She kissed me and I stepped into the cubicle and washed. When I came out, she held a towel for me and dried me tenderly her mouth occasionally touching a part of me that was momentarily exposed.
‘Breakfast?’
‘I am ravenous.’
She smiled. ‘Hungry little thing aren’t you?’
We dressed together, she in a pair of cream coloured jeans that somehow made her arse look even better than the leather had. A pale blue denim shirt, sleeves rolled, collar buttoned down and pair of soft tan ankle boots completed her. I put my dress of yesterday back on but had no idea where my knickers were. And so it was that, naked but for my dress and shoes, I went with Emily to a small café which you would never find if you didn’t know it. There was no sign outside but inside was a warm and welcoming atmosphere of check tablecloths, light wood floors and bent back chairs.
I drank tea, ate bacon and mushrooms and tomato with scrambled eggs on toast, an exact copy of Emily’s. It would have been of course because Emily had ordered without reference to.
‘Two of the usual,’ she had said to the coltish brunette who served us.
Emily had watched as the waitress, called Jo and aged about twenty apparently, walked purposefully away with a wistful eye.
‘Youth is so often wasted on the young.’
‘Don’t perve,’ I laughed.
‘I was not, as you so indecorously put it, “perving.” I was merely appreciating a thing of beauty and exercising my constitutional right to free speech.’ Her indignant air was rendered mock by the way her hand covered mine and squeezed it.
It was with a great deal of reluctance that I set off for home after breakfast. Emily had work to do before Monday’s trials and tribulations and she needed to get it done. I went home and did some perfunctory housework before taking a glass of wine into the garden and sitting in the warm sun, dress hitched up over my legs and contemplating the events of the night and early morning.
I remembered myself brazenly dropping my dress, taking off my knickers for her. I re-felt the thrill I had taken in dressing for her before we’d left or the party. My hand was hers when I remembered the soft leather and slowly stroked myself where I had so vigorously and wantonly ‘humped’ her leg. I came then and again later in bed, thinking of her, reliving the glorious orgasm that had lifted both of us off her sheets.
Monday
For me, the week after a play is usually something of an anti-climax. On this occasion, however, I felt no such thing. Rather I was alive and energetic and went to work with a light heart, which must have manifested itself to my colleagues.
Mike Love was the blind colleague who had made me hoot with laughter when I had first met him because he described himself as “the Love that dare not read its name.” Oscar Wilde would have been delighted by that.
‘You seem somewhat perky this morning. Not your usual Monday self at all. Did the play go well on Saturday?’
Visual impairment not withstanding, he’d come to the play on the Friday night as had all my immediate colleagues in the advertising agency where I was a copy-writer.
‘It went exceptionally well, thank you.’
Praise came from my colleagues and I glowed but the glow was still in part because of Emily.
My best friend in the office, Marjory, looked at me with a quizzical eye and later whispered as she bent to my ear, ‘I sense Trish has just got laid?’
‘You have witch’s powers,’ I replied, smiling broadly.
Marjory smiled. ‘I was the third daughter of the third daughter. Well done you.’
The sole disappointment that day was that I received no call from Emily. Do not ask why I didn’t call her. I can only explain by saying that it would not have been the right thing to do. It was instinctive and, as I later discovered, quite correct.
Thursday
There had been no call on Tuesday or Wednesday and by the time I got home on Thursday I was close to calling her myself. I stayed my hand and was rewarded by the chirrup of my ‘phone at around 9 in the evening as I was settling down with a pad and some graphics of a new campaign in front of me.
‘Hi, Trish.’ Emily sounded tired. ‘I have just finished the divorce from hell and I need a drink. Care to meet me at “Lionel’s” bar?’
It was 9 pm for God’s sake. I had eaten and was set to work.
‘Love to. Give me half an hour?’
‘You have twenty minutes or I’ll be as pissed as a rat when you get there.’
I was forty minutes and she was half way down a huge glass of what turned out to be Chablis; crisp and dry.
‘What time do you call this?’
‘Christ, you sound like my mother.’
Emily poured me a glass and it was only when her face caught the light that I saw the dark circles under her eyes and appreciated the stress of her week to date.
I took her hand. ‘You look knackered.’
‘I am and I apologise for not calling but I haven’t seen my bed before 1am this week.’
I nodded and said she should have taken an early one this evening but she shook her head and explained she was too wired to sleep now. A glass and a friendly voice would sort it though and then, she said, she’d sleep until Saturday.
‘Saturday,’ she said, is when we are going to Winchester.’ Oh, were we? ‘I know this gorgeous little village pub just outside and my PA has booked us a room with dinner. You’ll adore it. We can be tourists in Winchester which is lovely and boff ourselves senseless under oak beams and the influence of drink. If you refuse me I shall take rat poison.’
I had plans for the weekend, which were eminently cancellable so I agreed.
‘Tell me about the pub.’
She did and made it sound idyllic.
We kissed goodnight outside the bar. She hugged me, still in her heels from work; my face was barely above her breasts. I nuzzled and frankly didn’t give a flying if we were seen.
I walked slowly home after we had separated and wondered what to pack for a weekend in Hampshire.
Saturday
I woke early on Saturday. I had some toast with my tea and then showered and, in my dressing gown, went through my wardrobe searched for inspiration. It was warm and the prospect was of a sultry weekend’s weather. I laid a few things out on the bed.
I decided, in the end, that it would be a summer dress in pale blue for the journey. Tiny straps over the shoulders, gathered at the waist and full in the skirt. A white transparent cotton blouse open over the top if need be and white, strappy sandals to finish off.
‘Now,’ I asked myself, ‘what lies beneath?’
Having years ago, almost totally stopped wearing a bra there was no way I was going to this weekend but that still left the choice of knickers. Today would begin with silk French knickers of course, loose, cool and pale blue.
‘Sod it. Shove a load in and make your mind up when you’re there,’ I told myself.
I’d have been quicker but I stopped for a while and lay on the bed, hand between my legs and felt her enter me, caress me and when I came it was quiet but that was because her mouth was clamped over mine.
I chose a dress I could wear for the evening if it was that sort of place and a few other bits and pieces for walking round the city. I packed and then dressed.
She’d said she would collect me at 11.
My phone rang.
It was not going to happen. Work had intruded yet again. Did I understand?
Of course, I didn’t bloody understand. I said I did but I didn’t. I put the phone down and sat. Silent tears ran down my face.
Emily Tibbett led me by the hand, up the long staircase and into her bedroom. The sheets were silk and cold as she gently guided me to lie, then she lay beside me and her mouth covered mine in a long, deep kiss. The kiss became more and more intense and her finger entered me slowly almost painfully. After a long while of kissing and gentle fingering she moved her hand around my back and allowed her leg to slide between mine and, like before, she urged me to rub myself on her thigh. The difference was that this time it was skin not leather that I rubbed against.
As I worked, her finger slid between my cheeks and circled my rear entrance gently. She buried her face against my neck and bit me softly. My own hand caressed her shoulder blades and the nape of her neck. I had, however, another target in mind and no matter how much she liked me riding her leg I was determined to have another taste of her. I rolled so that she was beneath me. Her eyes looked up at me with a slightly surprised air. I touched my finger to her lips then slowly licked my way down her body. My intentions were clearly not unacceptable as her legs first spread then coiled around my back when I reached the intended spot. I started slowly, sucking her trimmed hair and nuzzling against her. Little mewing noises came from somewhere North of me which, along with her slight arching of her back, encouraged me.
Emily’s hands were in my hair. They did not grip but caressed my scalp; further encouragement if any were needed. For some reason a thought, unbidden came to me and I nearly giggled. The words my Dad often quoted, words from Winston Churchill.
‘Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties.’
Brace myself I did indeed and went to my duties with renewed vigour. Perhaps the Prime Minister’s words were as inspiring now as in 1940. The sole inspiration I needed though was the delicious prize of Emily Tibbett’s orgasm. With fingers curled into her and my tongue roaming freely and purposefully around her lips, her clitoris and her darker parts I worked; I worked with enthusiasm and total focus. I knew I had achieved my aim when everything about her went tight: her legs around my back, her fingers in my hair and her tunnel around my fingers.
I was not sure if she had climaxed when I had ridden her leg downstairs. If she had it had been muted and controlled but this, this was something different. She lifted me bodily as her body rose off the bed, supported only by her head and buttocks. She squeezed me to her with her thighs and hands. She was silent momentarily then emitted a huge groan of pleasure. It was long and drawn out, beginning as a murmur and growing into a growl then a scream, low-pitched and deep in her chest. It seemed to go on forever and all through I continued to lavish attention on her. Her body didn’t slump, it slowly descended as if her orgasm was diminishing rather than ending, then she bucked again and I knew a second had erupted. It was less violent but her shuddering explained all to me.
I eased off and gently licked her clean. Her breathing calmed and her body relaxed. I didn’t stop though because now I was enjoying her simply for myself: the smell, the taste, the moistness.
Emily’s hands gently guided me back up her body to her mouth and she languidly kissed mine. Her eyes were half shut, her body totally relaxed.
‘Good job,’ she said, smiling contentedly.
I slept the sleep of the innocent, wrapped in her.
When I woke up I heard the shower running and lazily eased myself of the bed.
Disappointingly Emily had started to dry herself off but had left the shower for me. She kissed me and I stepped into the cubicle and washed. When I came out, she held a towel for me and dried me tenderly her mouth occasionally touching a part of me that was momentarily exposed.
‘Breakfast?’
‘I am ravenous.’
She smiled. ‘Hungry little thing aren’t you?’
We dressed together, she in a pair of cream coloured jeans that somehow made her arse look even better than the leather had. A pale blue denim shirt, sleeves rolled, collar buttoned down and pair of soft tan ankle boots completed her. I put my dress of yesterday back on but had no idea where my knickers were. And so it was that, naked but for my dress and shoes, I went with Emily to a small café which you would never find if you didn’t know it. There was no sign outside but inside was a warm and welcoming atmosphere of check tablecloths, light wood floors and bent back chairs.
I drank tea, ate bacon and mushrooms and tomato with scrambled eggs on toast, an exact copy of Emily’s. It would have been of course because Emily had ordered without reference to.
‘Two of the usual,’ she had said to the coltish brunette who served us.
Emily had watched as the waitress, called Jo and aged about twenty apparently, walked purposefully away with a wistful eye.
‘Youth is so often wasted on the young.’
‘Don’t perve,’ I laughed.
‘I was not, as you so indecorously put it, “perving.” I was merely appreciating a thing of beauty and exercising my constitutional right to free speech.’ Her indignant air was rendered mock by the way her hand covered mine and squeezed it.
It was with a great deal of reluctance that I set off for home after breakfast. Emily had work to do before Monday’s trials and tribulations and she needed to get it done. I went home and did some perfunctory housework before taking a glass of wine into the garden and sitting in the warm sun, dress hitched up over my legs and contemplating the events of the night and early morning.
I remembered myself brazenly dropping my dress, taking off my knickers for her. I re-felt the thrill I had taken in dressing for her before we’d left or the party. My hand was hers when I remembered the soft leather and slowly stroked myself where I had so vigorously and wantonly ‘humped’ her leg. I came then and again later in bed, thinking of her, reliving the glorious orgasm that had lifted both of us off her sheets.
Monday
For me, the week after a play is usually something of an anti-climax. On this occasion, however, I felt no such thing. Rather I was alive and energetic and went to work with a light heart, which must have manifested itself to my colleagues.
Mike Love was the blind colleague who had made me hoot with laughter when I had first met him because he described himself as “the Love that dare not read its name.” Oscar Wilde would have been delighted by that.
‘You seem somewhat perky this morning. Not your usual Monday self at all. Did the play go well on Saturday?’
Visual impairment not withstanding, he’d come to the play on the Friday night as had all my immediate colleagues in the advertising agency where I was a copy-writer.
‘It went exceptionally well, thank you.’
Praise came from my colleagues and I glowed but the glow was still in part because of Emily.
My best friend in the office, Marjory, looked at me with a quizzical eye and later whispered as she bent to my ear, ‘I sense Trish has just got laid?’
‘You have witch’s powers,’ I replied, smiling broadly.
Marjory smiled. ‘I was the third daughter of the third daughter. Well done you.’
The sole disappointment that day was that I received no call from Emily. Do not ask why I didn’t call her. I can only explain by saying that it would not have been the right thing to do. It was instinctive and, as I later discovered, quite correct.
Thursday
There had been no call on Tuesday or Wednesday and by the time I got home on Thursday I was close to calling her myself. I stayed my hand and was rewarded by the chirrup of my ‘phone at around 9 in the evening as I was settling down with a pad and some graphics of a new campaign in front of me.
‘Hi, Trish.’ Emily sounded tired. ‘I have just finished the divorce from hell and I need a drink. Care to meet me at “Lionel’s” bar?’
It was 9 pm for God’s sake. I had eaten and was set to work.
‘Love to. Give me half an hour?’
‘You have twenty minutes or I’ll be as pissed as a rat when you get there.’
I was forty minutes and she was half way down a huge glass of what turned out to be Chablis; crisp and dry.
‘What time do you call this?’
‘Christ, you sound like my mother.’
Emily poured me a glass and it was only when her face caught the light that I saw the dark circles under her eyes and appreciated the stress of her week to date.
I took her hand. ‘You look knackered.’
‘I am and I apologise for not calling but I haven’t seen my bed before 1am this week.’
I nodded and said she should have taken an early one this evening but she shook her head and explained she was too wired to sleep now. A glass and a friendly voice would sort it though and then, she said, she’d sleep until Saturday.
‘Saturday,’ she said, is when we are going to Winchester.’ Oh, were we? ‘I know this gorgeous little village pub just outside and my PA has booked us a room with dinner. You’ll adore it. We can be tourists in Winchester which is lovely and boff ourselves senseless under oak beams and the influence of drink. If you refuse me I shall take rat poison.’
I had plans for the weekend, which were eminently cancellable so I agreed.
‘Tell me about the pub.’
She did and made it sound idyllic.
We kissed goodnight outside the bar. She hugged me, still in her heels from work; my face was barely above her breasts. I nuzzled and frankly didn’t give a flying if we were seen.
I walked slowly home after we had separated and wondered what to pack for a weekend in Hampshire.
Saturday
I woke early on Saturday. I had some toast with my tea and then showered and, in my dressing gown, went through my wardrobe searched for inspiration. It was warm and the prospect was of a sultry weekend’s weather. I laid a few things out on the bed.
I decided, in the end, that it would be a summer dress in pale blue for the journey. Tiny straps over the shoulders, gathered at the waist and full in the skirt. A white transparent cotton blouse open over the top if need be and white, strappy sandals to finish off.
‘Now,’ I asked myself, ‘what lies beneath?’
Having years ago, almost totally stopped wearing a bra there was no way I was going to this weekend but that still left the choice of knickers. Today would begin with silk French knickers of course, loose, cool and pale blue.
‘Sod it. Shove a load in and make your mind up when you’re there,’ I told myself.
I’d have been quicker but I stopped for a while and lay on the bed, hand between my legs and felt her enter me, caress me and when I came it was quiet but that was because her mouth was clamped over mine.
I chose a dress I could wear for the evening if it was that sort of place and a few other bits and pieces for walking round the city. I packed and then dressed.
She’d said she would collect me at 11.
My phone rang.
It was not going to happen. Work had intruded yet again. Did I understand?
Of course, I didn’t bloody understand. I said I did but I didn’t. I put the phone down and sat. Silent tears ran down my face.
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