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I Am Finally A Woman Episode 7 free porn video
Growing up in Iraq, Mustapha had acquired the prevailing culture in the
Arab world that a man is to be a man, always in control, respected, adored
and served by his woman (or women). With his bursting sexuality, he had
started having sex as early as 13. He would go with prostitutes, or ladies
who wanted to enjoy a man's company discreetly before (or outside of)
marriage. At 19, however, already looking like a stud, with a bald head, a
well-trimmed beard and bulging muscles, he had found himself attracted to
chubby, hairless, effeminate men. He had even fucked one in his home town.
Amil (that was his name) had confessed to him that he had always felt he
was a woman, and hoped that a miracle could happen that would make him one
day wake up with breasts, a vagina and feminine curves. At his words,
Mustapha had felt a surge of love for Amil, but the social and political
situation in Iraq at the time was not ideal for gay and trans folk. So he
had decided to move abroad, to a country where he could live his sexuality
more freely. But somehow, he would always keep a tender memory of his
first chubby and their night of passion.
In the two months after I got my transition clitoris, Mustapha played his
role as my master with great conviction, but also with a lot of tenderness
and affection. His power was not to be questioned. I had to submit, serve
and obey. As a woman, I had felt a strong drive and obligation to
surrender to this force. Mustapha was the one and only focus of my
attention. He was the centre of my life as a woman. Every morning, I would
wake up first, go to the kitchen, fix breakfast and then wait for him to
join me, in a pure, anticipating state of mind. When I would finally be in
his presence, I would kneel, keeping my eyes to the floor in respect, wish
him a good morning and then wait for a word of his. He would normally wait
a few seconds, during which I could feel his piercing, loving look brush
my head, then give me permission to stand and direct my eyes to him. A
tender kiss would then reward my propriety and compliance. He would then
sit, take me in his arms and kiss my belly all over. While he was quite
liberal at the swimming pool, allowing me to take my top off and show my
bust, at home Mustapha asked me to keep more reserved, and always wear at
least a two-piece bathing suit (the climate here at Macaon is tropical and
warm for most of the year). In a show-off of femininity, I had bought a
range of very colourful, funky suits, one with the American flag, one with
the Brazilian, some solid-coloured ones in very feminine hues (yellow,
blue, pink, white, black). Sometimes, for further discretion and
fascination, I would cover my legs just above my G-string with a Tahitian
sarong. But I always made sure my belly was in full display, for Mustapha
to kiss and adore. He particularly liked to insist on my centre of
femininity, my belly button. His supple, delicate lips on my navel were a
cosmic force opening up a completely new dimension of womanhood. Every
kiss he gave me infused in me a new awareness and conscience, lifting me
up to the Heaven of Transsexual Women.
We also had sex every night. As a woman, I worshipped his monster cock (23
cm, 9 in, thick as a soda can) and always pleased him first, as per his
rule, always making sure to look him in the eyes. My cock hunger made me
do a fantastic job at swallowing every drop of my man's sweet nectar and
licking his head and shaft spotlessly dry. Then Mustapha would direct his
attention to my clitoris, first caressing it, then licking it and sucking
it like a man does to his woman. I would just lie back and wait anxiously
for an atomic orgasm that would start from my sex, then move through my
bosom, my breasts, my legs and my arms, all the way to my female brain.
Fawn
- 04.04.2021
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