Inside Ronnie's Head free porn video

Inside Ronnie's Head By Dawna Thompson April, 2002 Every time Ronnie saw a beautiful woman he lusted for her. He wanted to get into her panties... and her pantyhose, bra, blouse, shoes, and skirt. Ronnie was a normal guy. He never felt strange or different. He grew up in suburbia playing baseball, swimming and hanging out with his boyhood friends. He got along well with all of them. As a kid he liked building blocks, trains, toy trucks and playing army. He was a good student, a good son, and a good human being. People said that his head was screwed on right. As he grew into a teen he hung around with his buddies, just as all normal young men do. As far as he could tell, they thought he was a pretty regular guy. Mostly he enjoyed the same pleasures they did: cars, sports, drinking, carousing and looking at girls. He especially liked eyeing the pretty girls he encountered. As an adult Ronnie had a good self-image. He felt and looked normal. He had a successful career. He was straight. He liked women. He loved women. In fact, he loved them so much that he wanted to be one. Ronnie felt like a normal man most of the time. He didn't consider himself gay. In fact, he knew that he wasn't. He liked women after all. Every time he saw a beautiful woman he lusted for her. He wanted to get into her panties... And her pantyhose, bra, blouse, shoes, and skirt. He wanted to wear her clothes. He wanted to have her beautiful hair. He wanted to walk like her. He wanted her round soft hips. He wanted to feel the heft of her large breasts tucked away in a lacy low-cut bra. He wanted to experience the sensual, lustful side of femininity. Ronnie was unsure where this idea had come from. He had lived so long with the thought he could scarcely remember how it started. Somehow, in his mind, he had confused desire for a woman with desire to be a woman. His strongest arousal came at the thought of suddenly experiencing life from within the confines of a beautiful woman's body. No other thought had as much power. No other thought had such seductive qualities or held his interest as much. It was the powerhouse to his sexual self-identity. In many ways, the thought had shaped and defined who Ronnie was. It was a deep secret, shared with no one. It was part of his innermost self, only freely acknowledged by himself to himself. He was alone with this driving urge. That was okay though, he really never felt the desire to share it with anyone. No one else needed to know. He knew from the very first stirrings that he could never share this secret with anyone without changing himself. Confiding his desire would mean having to change his own way of thinking about himself. And he didn't want to do that. After all, he was just a regular guy with a very private set of thoughts. He could have his thoughts and the rest of the world could think he was a normal guy. After all, he was. Although the desire to become a woman had been with him a long time it didn't originally start out that way. It started with an isolated incident when he was six years old. He wanted to wear his sister's party dress. It was a little girl's party dress, with a soft white top, round buttons at the back, and stiff ruffles to spread the black checkered velveteen skirt wide over his bare legs. Later, when he reached puberty, he found women's clothes a convenient outlet for his newly discovered compulsions. In the middle of one of his first fumbling attempts at masturbation he recalled the incident with the party dress. Very soon he permanently connected women's clothes with his sexual desires. The party dress had long since disappeared but his sister did have many other clothes that Ronnie found delightful. One was a black slip made of Rayon or some synthetic smooth material. He lifted the folded article from her drawer and held it against his naked body. Compulsively, he slipped it over his head. The tight smoothness of that fabric against his skin was intoxicating. Driven by this satisfying experience he was soon repeating what had once been an innocent childhood fantasy. Now it had a new sense of urgency, a motive that was much more driving and compelling. Dressing in his sister's clothes was less innocent but much more exciting. Here was a lacy white bra; there was a pair of blue cotton panties. The smooth front built for a woman's form excited and thrilled him. Standing in her panties and rifling through her packed closet, he caressed each wonderful sexy piece of clothing. It was heaven to Ronnie. Ronnie loved dressing in his sister's clothes, but it was rare that he was alone in the house. More than once he had come close to being caught dressed in her clothes. It was too dangerous, and the thought of being caught would have simply destroyed his self-image. After all, he was a normal guy. He couldn't bear the thought of being discovered. People would laugh at him. They would call him a sissy when he wasn't. They would misunderstand everything about him. But how could he defend himself if he were caught? People simply could not be allowed to find out about his hidden desires. He didn't want to be caught showing off what he really wanted or perhaps what he really was. He could tell no one, he could share his secret with no one but himself. Ronnie split himself into two beings. His man-self attended school, worked part-time and acted like any young man his age. The other was Ronnie the girl image. The girl image lurked in the shadows, ready to spring out whenever there was a chance. Ronnie desperately needed to provide an outlet for her without jeopardizing Ronnie the man. He found a way to do it. He discovered that he could simply gaze at his sister's clothes and remember all of the details of their shape, color and texture. Alone in his mind he could feel the gentle caress of fabric against his skin as he pulled soft cotton pleats over his head. He could feel the tug of the zipper and hear the faint buzzing as the fastener sealed his sister's femininity around his aroused body. He could simply imagine himself in her bedroom frolicking in her semi-formal cocktail dress, trying on her high-heeled shoes and testing various shades of lipstick. This was a fantastic way to satisfy his needs. No chance of a messy unwanted discovery. He found it easy to play out his desires inside of his head. It never affected his "real" life, his waking life, his "normal" life as a man. What a great way to solve a perplexing problem. Simply imagine dressing in a sexy woman's clothes, whack off, and Voila! He was back to his normal self. His imagination was good, but he soon found himself wanting more than just dressing in carnal fabric. The thought of dressing in women's clothes didn't seem to be enough anymore. He tried variations: different clothes, jewelry, long skirts, short skirts, knit tops, and silky blouses. Prom dresses, short dresses, silky underwear, workout clothes, shorts, slacks, jeans. They all gave him a thrill but something in the back of his mind kept asking, no demanding, "More. More!" The demand began to transform his fantasies. He found the idea of passing as a woman more exciting than simply dressing as a woman. He started a long series of fantasies about being mistaken as a woman, or being dared to dress as a woman, or being accepted at an all girls' school through an administrative error. He entered a charity cross- dressing beauty pageant and then found himself alone, an unsuspecting stranger offering to give him a ride home. A friend in a theater make-up class needed a model for his class project and begged Ronnie to help him. Always he ended his sessions the same way, a throbbing load into a wad of tissue. And then back to his normal self, completely unaffected by what had just transpired. No one knew, and he felt fine. Like the stakes in a marathon poker game the ante seemed to grow. Passing as a woman was not enough anymore. He wanted to experience the physical charms of a woman. He wanted smooth, supple, clear, hairless skin. And Breasts. Large beautiful breasts, or soft small ones, and every size color and dimensional variation in between. He wanted long flowing hair down to his shoulders. Brown, curly, straight, blonde, bangs, teased; he tried each in turn. He wanted small feet with painted toes that could slip into a pair of summer sandals or man-stalking stilettos. He wanted a warm wet slit between his legs. But the individual parts of a woman were never really enough either. He wanted a complete woman. He wanted to have the same soft sensuous body of Suzy Resler, the heartthrob and Prom Queen at his college. Suzy never even knew that Ronnie existed, and yet she had a powerful effect on him. It was her body that he first lusted after. It was her round breasts and soft creamy thighs that had enthralled and hypnotized him with ravenous desire. It was her body that he first used as a template to fire his sexual needs. He carefully pictured Suzy getting ready for school in the morning. He marveled at how wonderful each seemingly mundane movement had a rhythm, a motion, a sensual state of being that drove his imagination into fits of thoughtless pleasure. He started in the shower, soaping and lathering his beautiful long brown hair with thick creamy shampoo. He could picture his wet hair balanced on top of his head as he massaged his scalp with jets of foam jostling through his petite fingers, then let the lathered mass drop over his soft white shoulders. He cleansed his body with a scented body wash, tracing soapy fingers around the curves of his torso. He rinsed in clear water, letting it drip along his flanks. He watched in wonder as tiny clear bubbles formed on the surface of his flesh. He reached for the thick white bath towel, its soft folds gently stroked his long straight thighs and passed smoothly over his rounded hips. He turned and stared into the silvered glass of a full-length mirror as the steam cleared from its surface. His fantasy girl image slowly emerged from the mist. Often, he would get no further. He would find himself pulling on his long shank and stroking until he worked himself up to a gripping spill of sticky seed. Then it was back to his normal male self. No mess, no fuss, no chance of discovery, no messy recriminations, no need to purge a stash of clothing; for his mind could easily clear out all of his fantasies, ready to call them back again or make room for more. All performed without guilt. And his secret stayed safely tucked away. No one would ever know about his private thoughts. With a determined mental shift he could return to his normal male self, without any stress, strain, fear or guilt. He could be a man most of the time and a beautiful woman when he wanted to be. Ronnie went on like this for several years. The only thing that seemed to change was his desire to be a woman. It was growing in frequency and magnitude. Ronnie couldn't stop it no matter how hard he tried. And he didn't try very hard since it felt so good. But now there was hardly ever a time when he didn't think about how wonderful it would be to live as a woman. He found that with very little effort he could turn to his sexual fantasies and let them roam freely. Often, the sight of a woman making a small feminine motion or the faint wisp of women's perfume was enough to start a long fantasy. He often turned them on during boring meetings at work. It was easy to close his eyes and dream a little dream between graphs of profit margins and slides on capital investments. Sometimes it seemed strange at how easy it was to drift away. He once fantasized throughout an entire hour-long briefing at work. He started, as he often did in the shower, and then onto makeup and dressing, driving to work, getting coffee and then sliding behind his desk as an oversexed, underdressed, flirtatious secretary. He arrived at work almost exactly one hour after he had stepped into the shower, the same elapsed time that the meeting took. He was jolted back into the meeting room just as he was straightening the hem of his skirt after his boss had placed a rough hand on his thigh and slid it nearly up to his warm wet crotch. "Are you alright Ron?" His co-worker had asked. "You looked like you were really out of it when the lights came on." But Ronnie was fine. He knew his fantasies took away some of his waking life energy. They would almost have to. He was sustaining a small world of sexual pleasures inside of his head. But other than a little fatigue now and then he felt fine. Besides, his friends were wearing themselves out staying up late, going to clubs and chasing women. Now he usually stayed home alone on Friday nights, content in his dream world. He was no worse off than they were. In fact, his life seemed more full and satisfying than theirs did. Ronnie didn't think his fantasies affected his male-self at all. They even seemed to improve some aspects of it. He read once that male hormones seemed to make men think one of only two thoughts: "Fuck it." Or "Kill it." There seemed to be some truth in that. Sex and aggression seemed to be a part of him and all of the men he knew. Of course, it was more complicated than that. In waking life his thoughts were often muddled and jumped from one subject to another without direction. Ronnie felt unclear and out of focus at times. His fantasies became a refuge from a world where testosterone ruled his thinking process. They provided a fresh perspective on his waking life. They allowed him to look with amused detachment as his friends slobbered over the short skirts of the women walking outside the office windows, or giggled at the sight of the new girl bending over the file cabinet in her low cut top. Ronnie's sex drive lay elsewhere, deep within him. The sense of realness in his fantasies began to grow. He concentrated on being within a woman's body. He made sure that he did not simply picture a beautiful woman and wish he were her. Instead he pictured exactly how she would perceive his fantasy world. He often built a minutely detailed three-dimensional sculpture of a beautiful woman in his mind. He tried to imagine exactly how she would look in as much detail as he could. Then he would alter his conscious point of view and open his eyes from within this feminine vessel. He practiced examining his new body. His love patch could only be viewed from a handheld mirror. His breasts could only be glanced from above, looking down with bent neck. He could feel the mass of soft tissue that made up his feminine breasts. His long thin fingers could grasp the dark erect nipples or stroke his wide areola. He could feel the round smooth firmness of his full butt when he sat, with legs crossed so demurely on a living room sofa. He rolled and curled his long beautiful dark hair and often brushed it 100 times or more. Ronnie worked hard at improving his imagination. And he did improve it. After years of experimenting and practicing he discovered he could set up a situation in his mind and let it play itself out. He could simply define the parameters of his fantasy and his inner mind sustained the entire scene without any conscious effort on his part. He could look around from within these fantasies and interact with the people who appeared without conscious intent. Ronnie shopped with his girlfriends at the mall, had his nails done at the beauty parlor, talked with his girlfriends on the phone and went to the prom. He served burgers and fries at Hooters and strolled on a Caribbean beach in a string bikini. He slowly undressed himself in front of an open bedroom window as the teenaged boy next door stood with eyes wide open in a window across the green yard. He curled his topless torso around a brass pole on stage as his friends looked on with open watering mouths and crisp dollar bills held motionless above their heads. He walked the red-light districts in stunning high heels and tight skirts, selling his wares to the men cruising by in expensive cars. Slowly he explored men. At first it was only organs devoid of a body, a tool to help him achieve his own internal pleasures. Then, he moved to faceless men. Slowly idealized men, men who he was certain didn't exist in real waking life. Gradually he started sustaining fantasies about real men that looked and acted like real men. These men had desirable qualities, both physical and emotional. And he started to feel and experience the sensation of being a woman needing a man. Ronnie went out on dates with imagined lovers that lasted for hours, sometimes as long as a "real" date would have. At times Ronnie marveled at how concrete it all seemed to be. He only laughed when his friends asked him if he was bored sitting home alone all weekend. "No, I was in good company." His fantasies had always been a prelude to a physical release. When he felt a physical urge he dropped into his fantasy and concluded with the familiar clamping throb and explosive release of manly fluid. With time and practice he discovered that his fantasies could provide a sexual peak even before he completed his physical ritual. He could imagine himself in the arms of a lover kissing him passionately and caressing his bare soft breasts, a muscled arm slipping below his waist, a long finger probing his wet crevice. His moist dark love hole throbbed and longed for the large pulsating organ that eventually drove inward, filling Ronnie to the brim and flooding his brain with satisfaction. Eventually he found he could actually fantasize a complete orgasm from a woman's perspective. These didn't demand the usual release that always ended his fantasy. Now he could fantasize multiple orgasms before attending to his male physical needs. A phantom driving piston inside of his moist canal could set off a rush of blood to his face, elevate his heartbeat and blood pressure, then spread waves of pleasure across his crotch and upwards into his abdomen and chest. He'd find a pleasurable throbbing in muscles between his legs that he never even knew that he had. Hell, sometimes he was good for three or four orgasms in a meeting or during long boring stints at his desk at work. He learned to produce these fantasies while sitting in front of his computer, his back to the office door. He could even move his fingers to some degree during these long interludes; movements that made it appear that he was hard at work typing away at his keyboard. He only hoped that his flush face and the gibberish on the screen wouldn't give him away if he were interrupted in the midst of this active mental workout. When he was at work or in public he had to settle for these mental orgasms. With practice he was able to improve and increase the pleasure of these succulent mental peaks. After a while Ronnie found something new: His orgasms as a woman were acting like a woman's orgasm. He felt satisfied and no longer felt the need for a man's physical climax. Afterward, he would feel tremendous softness and tenderness and a sense of femininity, which was often more thrilling, more satisfying, and more compelling than his sexual fantasies. Sometimes the feeling could last for several hours. It was during these moments that Ronnie could think most clearly. It was as if his male hormones threw up a cloud in his thinking, covering all of his thoughts with a dark filter and allowing only a twisted version of reality, filled with sexual desires, through into his consciousness. But his post-coital reverie seemed to clear the mist. In this frame of mind he could see through the filter. He could see directly without the surging tide of testosterone eroding his thinking process and corrupting his emotional being. He liked being able to think like a woman and feel like a woman. To the outside world, Ronnie still looked and acted like a normal man. In fact he was a normal man, except when he was fantasizing about being a normal woman. But now he could do that almost anytime and anywhere. Walking down the hall, driving to work, sitting at his desk, at business meetings, in bed before going to sleep. Often his fantasies lasted for hours. At times he could be nearly overwhelmed by his fantasies. One weekend he stayed in bed fantasizing for nearly 20 hours straight. He even took a nap as a woman, waking up fresh and ready for more sex with the partner he had created from the raw material in his mind. The images seemed to flow from somewhere deep within, like an alternate reality. Ronnie thought less and less about his waking life as a man. He simply did not worry about it. He was far too busy sustaining fantasies that went on for hours, driven by his own self-fulfilling enjoyment. Amidst this fantasy world Ronnie came to a growing realization. Like a thought in a dream this realization seemed to have a physical manifestation. He found himself standing at the edge of an abyss looking at an enormous sunken bowl carved into the ground. He moved inside this man-made caldera. As he walked along the sloped sides a wonderful thin wispy gold embossed fabric floated up from the ground, surrounded his curved hairless body, and encased him in feminine softness. A scent emanated from the crisp atmosphere surrounding him. It had the smell of lilies, roses and lilacs. The sky itself seemed thick and creamy. He drew a breath and filled his lungs with this smooth sensual air. It had the texture of whipped cream. His lungs felt caressed in the same way that his sister's slip had once felt against his naked teenage body. The feeling spread throughout him. Creamy softness surrounded him inside and out. Ronnie gazed about. Here was a world that he had created himself. It offered the promise of fulfilling his needs forever. He gazed downward into the heart of the volcano and saw the opening at the base for the first time. It was a large dark tunnel centered inside of a steep cone. The sides of the cone were covered with a white, soapy, slippery substance. It was like a massive white funnel and he was on the side of it, moving closer and closer toward the hole. The white substance encased him in smoothness. He felt that it was alive. It tickled his skin with gentle pools of softness, like tiny fingers stroking the length of his naked body. The cream around him seemed pulled toward his skin, the whipped cream inside expanded and pushed outward. Then it grew softer and slipperier. It encased him. Pulled by an unseen force, his insides pressed toward the bubbling substance that foamed and buzzed around him. He was being gently squeezed between the foam pressing inward and the expanding whipped cream inside pushing outward. It surrounded him and cuddled him in a vast wave of magnetic pleasure. He looked up and saw silhouettes on the rim. At first they seemed to be strangers. Slowly he realized that he knew these people. There was Miss Putner, his seventh grade teacher. Behind her stood Bill, his boss at his first job. There were others, people he'd known in high school, at work, neighbors. He turned and saw his mom and sister sitting on the edge of this wonderful crater. He saw them, yet felt no desire to move toward them. It would have been a hopeless task anyway. The foamy lather covered the ground he stood on, ground that was quickly changing into smooth pink marble. The stone beneath his feet tilted slightly, the white bubbles turned the hard smooth surface into a giant child's playground slide. Ronnie felt a glimmer of understanding. It was like a feather drawn across the back of his neck at first, but the feeling became stronger. He could see that he had been consumed for much of his life by this fantasy. It had drained him of a waking life of his own. His life as a man was now empty, a hollow shell compared to the inner world he had built. This life was full of pleasure and wonderful experiences. He twisted around in the foam and craned his neck upward. His mom and sister were far away now, waving slowly at him. Beside them stood a man. He seemed familiar. Ronnie thought it might be his dad and he realized that he wasn't sure what he looked like anymore. But this man seemed remarkably familiar. He'd seen that face, but it wasn't his dad's. An electric current ran down his spine. That was himself standing on the edge of the crater! His man-self waved a slow good-bye. He slid slowly at first, sliding backward as he looked at the vanishing figures on the rim. His feet pointed toward the darkness at the bottom of the funnel. Gradually, he picked up speed. He turned, shifting his weight from his knees and arms to a sitting position, riding like a child on waterslide. He was sliding toward a rush of liquid coolness on a hot summer's day. He could think clearly now, just like he could after his fantasy orgasms. He could see that his thoughts had built this giant funnel. It was immense, permanent, solid, and real. Each of his fantasies had built a part of this place. Each one had dipped him below the edge for a moment and then returned him to the rim. Within this cone were the individual parts of the integrated woman he longed to be; the physical, mental, and emotional pieces, interlocked like a giant puzzle. Each marble tile on the surface of this bowl was a piece of his female experience. The floor was seamless now, one continuous, smooth, slippery surface tilting downward toward the black tunnel below. His perception of the bowl inverted. It was a mind shift, like staring at a drawing of a cube and suddenly seeing the faces exchange positions front to back. Now he was rushing upward instead of down, toward a hole in the sky. Ronnie's man-self had turned into a dream. His female- image became real. He could think wisely and carefully now without a man's testosterone driven confusion getting in the way. He saw the need to bridge this tremendous obsession. He could visualize how to maneuver within this slippery funnel. He could transcend the very limits of reality; limits he had himself placed unknowingly at the edge his abyss. But the edge was no longer the edge of an abyss, it was the expanding horizon of his new universe. He flew gleefully toward the final manifestation of his fantasy world. A white light appeared from somewhere behind him, glittering off the waves of foam, pointing a long white finger at the path ahead, guiding the way toward his destiny. Ronnie pointed himself in the direction of the light. The light led directly to the hole at the top of this immense dome. He glanced into the hole. It was no longer dark inside. He could see it was a world, a feminine world, where his sexual fantasies came into being as a separate and distinct reality. In it Ronnie the man-image, if he existed at all, was nothing but a poorly remembered dream. He flew past the edge and into the widening hole. Ahead of him lay an open blue sky. He sensed rather than saw a dark opening behind him. It was a black void, shrinking quickly to a point and then disappearing. He flew at a tremendous speed, like a rocket into the soft pale-blue morning sky. *** "That's very good Ron, I think we are making progress. If you continue perhaps we'll be able to have a real conversation some day." Dr. Stroud glanced at the scribbled marks on the sheet of paper before him. They looked as if a small child had been playing with a pen. Just rough black strokes across the blue lined notebook paper. He looked back at his patient. Here was a once vigorous young man, now reduced to sitting strapped in a wheelchair, his head only half off his chest as he drooled onto his thin hospital gown. He had been a normal, successful man; struck down in his prime by this debilitating and nameless disease. It seemed so unfair. He played the images of his patient's MRI and EEG in his mind's eye. There was nothing medically wrong with him. His brain appeared to function normally. Only his amygdala, the brain's emotional center, seemed overly active. Ron was experiencing almost continuous powerful emotions. "Was it pain or pleasure?" "Pain." Stroud decided. Only severe emotional trauma could have done this to him. Yet there was nothing in his personal history to indicate a problem of this magnitude. Stroud's frustration grew. "If only there was some way to reach the person inside this shrunken body, perhaps I could coax out his secret. If only he would try, I could help him." "Please Ron. Try." He pleaded, "Reach out to me. Share your secret with me. I can help you." The body remained motionless in the wheelchair, unresponsive, unknowing, unfeeling. The only movement was in his fingers. They strummed or tapped, like a typist at a keyboard. Stroud shook his head slowly as he turned his patient back toward the ward. "So sad, so sad, it must be awful being trapped inside Ronnie's head."