The Dangerous Desires Of Simone Cutler (revised) free porn video

The Dangerous Desires of Simone Cutler by DKB LATE NEWS CHEMIST FOUND MURDERED Police have identified the mutilated body of a man discovered yesterday as that of David Cartwright, 27, a research chemist. He is reported to have been castrated and stabbed to death in the early hours of yesterday morning by an unknown assailant. Cartwright's detached penis has not been located and it has been suggested that it may have been retained by the killer as a trophy. Cartwright's partner, 25-year-old transsexual woman, Simone Cutler, has not been seen at the couple's dwelling house since before the assault and her whereabouts are currently unknown. Police have appealed to her to come forward to assist them with their enquiries. Some Days Earlier I'm lying on my front, my head on the pillow, eyes closed. I can almost sense Dave hovering behind me even though he hasn't touched me yet. "You ready, Simone?" he says. "Fuck yes," I say. "I want it now." I feel his big hands against my shoulder blades, then moving down my spine. He could be giving me a beautiful back-rub if only he didn't move so quickly to my buttocks. He kneads them firmly, rolling and pressing my flesh in his fingers. His thumbs take turns to stroke over my arsehole and I feel a warm tingle of anticipation. Under his touch all the tension leaves my body. I can feel my sphincter relax its hold, as if conditioned to open for him. I hear him spit on me, but he needn't bother because I've already thoroughly juiced myself up with lube. Now I can feel something nudging against me that isn't a thumb or a finger, but something much thicker. In a single movement he pushes all the way into me and I feel that sweet familiar panic that always comes over me when he impales me on his meaty cock. He starts thrusting vigorously and I start panting and I feel my heart racing. I feel lost in sexual ecstasy. The energy with which he drives into me, over and over, drowns me in sensation so intense that I can't tell what I'm really feeling. I only know that I want it. I yearn for it. I need it. And I feel lost without it. An exquisite fire sears through my innards and burns with lust, hotter and hotter until I can't take any more, then hotter still. Dave is bouncing me off the bed now, my arms are flailing, my tits are bouncing off the mattress, my head is banging against the bedstead, but all that matters to me is that I can feel his cock pounding into me like a piston, until... With a sudden, sucking squelch he pulls out of me, turns me over on my back, sits heavily on my chest (knocking the wind out of me), and wraps big handfuls of my titty-flesh round his cock, twitching and jerking madly until a great gush of his spunk pours out over my chest and throat and chin. With a desperate urgency I bend forward and stick my tongue out to reach him and he gets up on his knees to cram his shaft into my mouth so I can suck every last drop from him. I gag horribly. His cum is foul and sticky in my throat, but still I have to have it all. I feel a desperate need to kiss and lick and suck at Dave's cock until he has nothing left to give me and as he pulls out I can only moan, "More! More!" He laughs. "Honey, that's all I got. A guy got to take a break sometimes." Then he turns the light out, rolls over with his back to me and quickly falls asleep. I lie on my back in the dark with my eyes shut, hoping to drop off quickly so that when I wake up Dave will have an erection again for me to wrap my lips around. Instead, as happens increasingly often now, I lie wide awake, crazy thoughts racing round in my head. I stick my hand down between my legs to feel my wrinkled little penis. It is bone dry. I can't remember when I last had a proper orgasm of my own. Yet even so I feel daily an overpowering need for sex that only Dave can satisfy. I need him so badly it's almost painful. He wants me to get my cock cut off and turned into a pussy. It's the logical next step, but the idea horrifies me. It would mean losing the last miserable vestige of the man I once was. I would, finally, be utterly lost to myself. Yet there would surely be advantages. Dave would have another hole to fuck me in. Maybe my poor, abused arsehole could take a rest after all these years. And maybe Dave will fuck me from in front more often if he doesn't have to look at my penis. I do so love to watch as he plunges into me. But my opinion will make no difference. If Dave wants it, and I know he does, it will happen sometime, probably soon. I have no choice. There's nothing I can do. Now I am sitting in the living room the next day, waiting for Dave to come home. When I got back from work I got half way through preparing dinner before I remembered that Dave is having a night out with colleagues and so doesn't need feeding. Normally the only thing that gets me through the day is thinking about the blowjob I can give him when he gets back from his lab, but if that isn't till later then I face a bleak, empty evening by myself. I threw out all the cooking and made myself a green salad and a glass of tomato juice. I can never be bothered cooking just for myself and it's good for my figure to go hungry sometimes. So now I've eaten, done some vacuuming and watched a couple of soap operas and there's nothing else to do but sit and wait until Dave comes home to me. I think about the girls he must be drinking with and chatting up right now. He always says, "out with the boys", but I know there are girls as well, cute young graduate students that he has taking instrument readings, washing flasks and sweeping floors, just for the chance to work with the great chemical genius. He tells me all about them, how they laugh at his jokes, what clothes they wear, how big their tits are. He must know how insane it makes me feel when he talks like that, but he does it to make me jealous, make me work all the harder to keep him. I can't prove he actually fucks them, but I just know he does, at one-to-one seminars in his office, or when he goes off with them to conferences. And I drive myself up the wall thinking about it. Dave never tells me exactly what he does at his work; I only know that whatever it is he's one of only a dozen people in the world that know how to do it. Or so he tells me. I work as a clerk in a solicitor's office. They don't let me type the complicated legal documents because I make too many mistakes. But I usually manage not too badly with letters to clients, and I do all the basic, everyday things around the office, ordering stationery, opening the mail, filing, making tea, and so on. I make little mistakes all the time and people treat me as the office airhead. But the truth is I find it difficult to concentrate when I'm constantly obsessing about Dave's cock. My mind is forever filled with images of his erection, eight inches long and four inches in girth, his foreskin peeled back to reveal the tip, shining red and glistening with precum, then spurting his goo on my face. Sometimes I'm amazed I get anything done at all. It was the same when I dropped out of university. I couldn't focus on engineering for all the time I spent thinking about sex with Dave. So my days are spent stumbling through work as best I can and my nights in blissed out ecstasies of sucking and fucking. At least, they are when Dave's actually with me. When he isn't, I'm lonely. I don't have any friends, nobody else I like to be with. I've lost all interest in women and men repulse me. Except for Dave, obviously. Or rather, except for his penis. The rest of him, frankly, isn't that hot. I don't have any friends at work. I don't talk much because I'm not very good at sounding femme. The best I can manage is a sort of fey, embarrassed squeak. So I just keep my head down and try to look busy. Sometimes I think they only keep me on because I have the biggest tits in the office. I've had my implants for about two years now. Dave swore I'd get used to them, but I don't think I have. They feel horrible to me, floppy bags of meat and plastic. I hate having breasts. I hate how heavy they are and how they flop about, especially when Dave fucks me hard. When I first got them he was constantly feeling them up, sticking his hand down my top and rubbing and squeezing them, which I find annoying and humiliating, though I always suck him off afterwards, and in bed he'd spend ages playing with them and kissing them, which drove me mad with frustration because I only want him to fuck me. But then, thankfully, the novelty wore off and he doesn't fiddle with them quite all the time now. Actually I do like it when he rubs his cock on them and spunks over them. But the best thing about having tits is that Dave lets me sleep in his bed with him so all through the night his cock is just there, next to me. If I wake up feeling anxious I can just reach out and stroke it and that calms me down and helps me get back to sleep. I can remember when he suggested it. I was dressed for sex, as I always did in those days, in a pale-coloured basque with fake tits in the cups, stockings and suspenders and four-inch heels. I was kneeling in front of Dave with spunk on my lipstick where he'd just deposited his load on me. Normally at this stage he'd go back to his room and I'd clean up, strip off and get to my bed. But instead he just sat there, looking at me oddly. Then he said, "How would you like to sleep with me, in my bed?" I wasn't quite sure what he meant. "Just like a proper girlfriend," he explained. "So when we're together, at night, I'll just fuck you right there, whenever you want. No messing about." I said, "Do you mean I won't have to dress up like this every time?" He smiled. "Yes, that's it exactly. We can roll around together naked, flesh to flesh." I said, "In that case," I was smiling as well, "I'd love to Dave, I really would." Like a fool, I thought I saw it. I could just be gay for him without the ridiculous girl underwear, and the wig and make-up. I'd come to accept that I was gay for Dave, even if for no-one else, so if Dave accepted it as well we could be happy together. He said, "Great! That's settled then. I'll arrange for you to get hormones, then implants." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I said, "What?" "Tit-ties," he said, enunciating each syllable carefully, as if he thought I just hadn't heard. "Real boobies." (Yes, to him implants are the same as real.) There was so much wrong with this I didn't know where to start. I said, "I can't..." He stroked my wig and said, "Of course you can. Don't put yourself down like that. I think you'll be great." That wasn't quite what I meant. "Listen," he explained. "When I say I want you to be my girlfriend I mean it. Not just a quick fuck twice a week, but together all the time. But I am a normal guy, which means I like girls, which means you have to be a girl, I mean properly. Ok, I admit, you are a bit sexy in your corset thing, but hormones'll make you all cute and girly, you can grow your hair long, get electrolysis, the works. And I promise you, Simone, I will fuck you every day." I felt my will weakening. Something in my head was chanting, "Cock, cock, cock" and I felt I was losing focus. But I struggled to put another objection. "I do like pretending to be Simone for you, you know I do, but I'm Simon really, remember? I have a job, and stuff." (Even to my ears this was beginning sound weak.) He pouted. "Just tell them you're transitioning. No problem." I worked at Burger King then and the thought of swishing around in skirts in front of those neanderthals was like a horrendous nightmare suddenly opening up in front of me. No problem indeed! They'd laugh at me or molest me or sack me, or probably all three. He said, "When you're Simone I fuck you. Why wouldn't you want to be Simone all the time? Don't you want big, beautiful, bouncing boobs?" "Er, not really." He said, "I can give you titty fucks." And then I knew he had me. Suddenly I could see it in my mind's eye, his thick shaft gliding smoothly back and forth in my creamy cleavage. Once again he had put an image in my head that I knew would haunt me night and day until I could make it a reality. So I sighed and accepted the inevitable. But I wasn't going to stay at Burger King. I resigned over the phone without telling Dave and when he found out he was furious. It seemed that being a serving girl in a fast food joint had been part of his plan for me. But then he calmed down and everything seemed ok. The next morning he told me to dress up as Simone, in miniskirt, blouse and heels, and I thought I was getting an early morning screw, but then he dragged me to his car, drove me to the job centre, threw me out and drove off. I had to arrange to sign onto the dole and get a bus back home in full drag. Then I found out he was taking two weeks leave and every day he forced me to go out dressed as a girl. The first couple of days he came out with me, but he got angry about people looking at us, so then he just kicked me out and refused to let me back in again unless I had some shopping, preferably nice clothes, to prove I'd actually gone somewhere and done something as a woman. He threw out everything I had that could be worn by a man. So I was Simone from then on. Then a lawyer friend of Dave's told him they were looking for junior clerks, so I got my current job and they only know me as Simone the glammy tranny. So that's how it is now. I'm a glamour girl in the office, a dutiful housewife at the supermarket and a sex kitten in the bedroom. But I feel like a horrible fake and I hate it. If it weren't for the constant sex I couldn't take it. I hate wearing women's clothes. I hate bras. I hate how they squish me and how the straps rub me. I hate wearing skirts and I hate heels (of course). I hate wearing tights because they make my legs feel sweaty and uncomfortable and I hate going bare-legged because my legs look pale and blotchy and I hate when men look at them. I hate pretending to be a girl and I hate that I generally seem to be good at it. People tell me how pretty I am and guys come on to me all the time. But it's what Dave wants, so I have to do it. I have a rubbish therapist that Dave got for me who doesn't understand anything about me, but just keeps telling me how great I'm doing and increasing my hormone levels. And every time he does so I think my cock shrivels up a bit more. Dave sent me to a transgender support group once and I hated that most of all. They were so friendly and kind and eager to help and they told me that I didn't need to have any secrets from anyone any more. My secret, which I can't tell anyone, and especially not them, is that I'm not one of them. I don't feel like a woman and I never have done. They all seemed very elegant and gracious and feminine to me and I felt like a clumsy, awkward fool next to them. Even Cheryl the trucker, six foot five and built like a brick shithouse, has more natural femininity in each one of her immaculately painted nails than I have in every ounce of my plump, pink, 36Ds put together. I couldn't bear to stay. So I stopped complaining until Dave thought I was happy with my new life and let me stop going. So every day I feel trapped in an alien body, playing a part in somebody else's fantasy. But I have to admit the sex is fantastic. When I get to strip off my bra and knickers and just be me, even with my tits, and Dave is thrusting into me, I feel so good it makes up for everything. My greatest pleasure in life is that I get more and more of Dave's cock. At the beginning I sucked him off once a week when he came back from the pub. Then came the wig and the make-up and then he didn't have to be drunk to do me and I got to suck him more often. I still got erections myself then and I used to come by the bucket-load after every session, though I had to wait until Dave left the room to wank off because that really disgusted him. Then he had me get my body waxed and he started buying me lacy underwear, basques and camisoles and so on, and I knew he was getting ready to fuck me. The thought terrified me and appalled me and I could hardly wait. I can remember being on my knees, in a basque, and then there was the most indescribably horrible feeling of some large thing forcing its way up my back passage. The really awful thing was not to be able to see his dick, not to have it in front of me. When I shouted at him to stop he knew I meant it and pulled out. But the moment I laid eyes on his dick again was the moment I really, really wanted it in my arse. I pushed him down onto his back and squatted over him, but he wouldn't have that because he didn't want my willy waving around in front of him. So I turned my back to him, then lowered myself onto him. I could hold his shaft as it entered me and I could see it going in and I went into absolute ecstasy. I came spontaneously and spunked over my stockings, but fortunately I don't think Dave really noticed. He was too busy grabbing my arse and thrusting up into me. After that we got a big mirror so I could watch Dave fuck me. And now he fucks me daily and I can take him from any angle without any difficulty. I can close my eyes and feel him in my bowels. And it makes me feel like I'm in heaven. It gives me the greatest joy to take him inside my body, whichever orifice it is, and make him come into me. But oh God, where is he? I can't stand it when he's not with me. I don't think I can take much more. I feel like I'm pushed to the absolute limit. He can make me get a sex-change if he wants and I suppose I'll just have to put up with it. But what then? I've got no life left of my own. I can barely manage one day to the next without crying out in despair. I feel like I'm trapped in a living hell and I'm sinking ever deeper into the abyss. I really think I might go completely mad and just snap and then God knows what will happen. Oh my God, how can I carry on like this? And what's that? Oh, it's just the front door. He's come back to me! Thank God, he's come back to me again! I almost run to the door and launch myself at his groin. In a moment I've got his zip undone and I'm tugging his cock out. He lurches drunkenly against the door and says, "Christ, woman! Give me a minute. Haha! You just can't wait, can you? Hang on a sec and let me get my coat off." He makes it to the living room and sprawls on the couch and I bury my head between his legs. Because he's been drinking it takes a little while for him to get hard, but I savour every second. I roll his cock around in my mouth until it grows to full erection and it presses against my tongue, the roof of my mouth and the back of my throat. I swallow him down as deep as I can, then I start fucking him with my lips. After a terrible day, finally everything's all right again. What have I got to complain about? For as long as I can have this beautiful thing sliding between my lips I am in paradise. His hot spray gushes down my throat, sending me into rapturous bliss. I feel so good, so happy. If only I could stay in this single moment, with Dave's cock inside me, for ever and ever, then I could be truly happy. Four Years Earlier The weirdest thing in my life has happened and I don't know what to do. It's driving me crazy. I feel like I might explode if I don't do something about it, but I don't know what. I was up on Tuesday for an early lecture and I showered and breakfasted in good time to take my bike to the campus. My flatmate, Dave, was still asleep, but his door was slightly ajar and as I passed it I saw something and now I can't stop thinking about it. I saw his penis. He was lying sprawled out on his side with his duvet sort of scrunched over to one side so his dick was hanging out, almost erect, morning wood. And though I've never had any gay feelings before I suddenly felt like it was the most incredible, exciting, beautiful thing I've ever seen. Obviously I have seen other guys' cocks sometimes, in porn and so on, but they never had this effect on me. I couldn't help staring, though of course I was afraid he'd wake up and catch me there. He had a curly, black bush and then a smooth, thick, silky-looking shaft. I felt disappointed that he wasn't circumcised, but I could see that he had a big, meaty head under his foreskin. I felt a powerful urge to go over to his dick and touch it and stroke it and kiss it. Only with great difficulty could I tear myself away from the sight of it. That was three days ago and I've been in a permanent daze ever since. Every night I've had intensely vivid dreams about sucking Dave off. In the dream I'm always deep-throating him down to the root, with my nose buried in his pubes. And then I wake up before he comes, leaving me with a raging hard-on and a desperate sense of frustration. Every minute of the day I find myself obsessively thinking about that cock, wondering what it feels like, what it tastes like, what it smells like. I've tried looking at gay porn on the web and it disgusts me. I've tried tasting my own semen and it sickens me. But I just can't get Dave's cock out of my mind. And I can't think of anything else. I've come out of lectures with no notes and no memory of what they were about. In tutorials tutors have asked me questions and my mind has gone completely blank. I was out with my girlfriend at a restaurant last night and I don't think I heard a single word she said. I must have seemed totally out of it, or something, because she wondered if I was ill. I said I thought I was, so we finished the meal quickly and I went home on my own. How could I tell her I was thinking about my flatmate's cock all evening? And sharing a flat with Dave is a nightmare. I can't look at him without going red and stuttering and I'm getting raging erections just from being near him and thinking about what's in his trousers. He hasn't said anything, but he must think I'm going nuts. I've been trying to avoid him as much as I can, but I can't stay away for ever because I live with him for heaven's sake. And anyway, the longer I spend away from him the more I get obsessive, deranged thoughts about his penis. I just have to do something. It's been less than a week and I feel like I'm going completely out of my mind. I think that nothing less than actually getting my hands on Dave's dick will do anything to help deal with this desperate craving. But how do I do it? Can I just come straight out with it - "Hey, Dave, can I suck your cock?" Should I sneak into his room at night and feel him up when he's asleep? Maybe I should get him very drunk and then try coming on to him. Maybe I should get myself very drunk. He's been trying to get me out to the pub all week but I've resisted, out of embarrassment. He's out drinking tonight and maybe I should have gone too. If I go and buy a half bottle of vodka and try to get completely plastered before he comes back maybe I can throw off all inhibitions and just go for it. Maybe if Dave is drunk enough he'll let me. I don't know what else I can do. And what about after that? If I do suck Dave's cock, what then? Will I get it out of my system and then go on as before, or I will I never lose this terrible hunger? I don't think I care. All that matters to me now, all I can think about, is getting to feel his shaft on my lips and his spunk on my tongue. I can deal with the future later. For the present I just need cock. *** When David Cartwright made his greatest breakthrough he was afraid his work might go completely to waste. He couldn't, honestly, think of any ethical uses for it. Some mad shrink, or maybe an intelligence agency or two, might be interested, but otherwise his discovery seemed destined to go unrecognised except as a footnote somewhere, if that. For his doctorate he was supposed to be working on techniques for synthesising neurochemicals, but as a side project he was analysing a certain protein that was active when infant animals imprinted on their parents. He had produced a powerful derivative of this compound in a concentrated solution that, he believed, should have a much stronger effect than anything natural. The stuff had an official chemical name, but in his head he called it Cupiderol, after the love god, and it was, basically, a love potion. Ingesting it would make anyone powerfully attracted to the next living thing they saw. He had already fed it to mice, with startling results, but he knew he hadn't a hope in hell of getting permission for human trials. So he decided on a secret trial of his own. The Cupiderol had been slowly filtered over a weekend, so on the Monday he took a small quantity in a stoppered test-tube and discreetly removed it from his lab. He considered trying it out on some random girl in a pub, but was concerned she might turn into a stalker and start following him around. Then he realised he was living with the perfect test subject. He suddenly got an amusing image of his studious, straight-laced flatmate transformed into a sex-hungry maniac. If he could make straight-as-a-die Simon willing to, for instance, suck cock then he'd know how truly powerful Cupiderol was. After setting his alarm early he woke the next morning before his flatmate, then waited until he could hear Simon pottering about getting ready. While Simon was in the shower David sneaked into the kitchen with his test-tube to dose Simon's carton of orange juice. He was suddenly unsure what the correct dosage should be. Simon was, of course, a lot bigger than a mouse. Also he realised he had to take into account how diluted the solution would be in the orange juice. He put in five drops, then five more, then thought to hell with it and poured in the lot. Then he sneaked back to his bedroom. He left the door slightly open, wanked himself half-hard then hid under the duvet with only his cock showing and waited quietly to see what would happen. Author's note. I don't really expect people to read both versions of this story. But if anyone has they will realise that this is an experiment in structure. I have changed the text a bit in a few places, and produced a slightly spicier synopsis, but the main difference is simply that the news report of the murder has been moved from the end of the story to the beginning. What difference does this make? Is it more exciting to read about Simon/Simone's sexual submission and obsession when you already know the grisly ending? Or is it an anticlimax to put the best bit at the beginning and then track backwards? Does it make more logical sense the first way round? When I first thought of this story I thought I would have a series of scenes going backwards in time. I would set up a strange situation (Simon hates what's happened to him, but also can't get enough of it) and then there would be scenes showing the stages leading up to this, in reverse order, and at the end I would reveal the original cause of it all. That seemed a bit boring until I thought of the murder and stuck that at the end to finish the story off in a satisfying manner. When I wrote it, though, Simon started reminiscing, so in the end there was just one main scene where Simon thought about what had led up to his current situation. But I did somewhat retain the backwards structure in that Simon's reminiscences mostly go backwards in time. That is, he remembers progressively earlier and yet earlier events. But for the earliest scene with Simon I needed an actual flashback, because I wanted to capture his confusion and dread about the inexplicable thing that has only just happened and I didn't think I could really get that if he was merely remembering it from the future. The first version has a sort of lopsided U-shaped structure - a long bit in the present, then a little bit in the past and another even littler bit back in the present. Now it has a more straight-forward structure of End - Middle - Beginning. And now instead of finishing with Simone the murderer it finishes with Dave, the real villain. The story now ends with Dave under his duvet with a hard-on, "wait(ing) quietly to see what would happen," which surely gains a satisfyingly sharp irony when the reader can take a long view and knows what's going to happen in the end. The two people who were kind enough to review the first version both seemed to like the ending, which now makes me think that maybe it would have been better to stick that right up front. What do you think? Please let me know.