Nightingale
- 1 year ago
- 22
- 0
Escapism: Nightingale free porn video
ESCAPISM: NIGHTINGALE
I slobber on the thick, veiny cock in front of me. I slurp away like it's
an ice-pop on the hottest day of summer.
I'm dressed in a red plaid skirt, a white shirt with a matching plaid
badge that reads "head girl', the neckline just low enough to reveal my
leopard print bra. The skirt is riding high enough to reveal the matching
thong and floral patterned holdup-stocking tops. The schoolgirl tie
unravelled, limp and loosened under the collar. A silver shining ring
sticks through my nose, and the heavy makeup gives me that slightly
punkish appearance I so adore.
My dark eyes flicker.
Long fake-eyelashes flutter.
My lover towers above me, my sheer stockinged knees slip across the
hardwood floor. He looks at me in utter fixation. I know this, and I
exaggerate my motions even more. I tease and caress with my tongue, I
look back open-eyed, my mouth open wide. I show him the darkness of my
throat before I lap at his tight ball sack. They bulge against their
smooth, silky casing. That manly, fusty, heady scent. Nothing in the
world smells like fresh young balls. I lick it up, taste their aroma.
I smile for the camera. I giggle. I pout innocently.
"Fuck, I love your dick." I shiver.
Breathing heavy, saliva dripping down my chin forming a frothing puddle
at the base of my lover's feet. Splashing against my stockings as it
plops downwards.
It's definitely for the camera. A spur of the moment decision to film a
few of my sexual adventures.
Voyeurism.
Exhibitionism.
It makes my sissy dick that little bit harder.
I mean it though - I do love his dick. Tyler isn't my usual type. He's
young, slender and slim - twink-like. He has what someone older than me
might refer to as "boyish-good-looks'. A mop of blonde locks flickers
across his face as he sweeps back his fringe. He doesn't suit the "Daddy"
tag that I love to moan when I'm being fucked. But he's got a massive
dick and it tastes like salted-caramel.
He worships the ground I walk on.
In return, I worship his swollen member in my ritual of blowjob
adoration.
Young twentysomething girls swoon after him. He's got that Bieber thing
going on. But he choses me. He wants me.
I'm not stupid enough to kid myself that it is because I am more
beautiful, sexy or prettier than any of his available options. But he
knows that I give fucking-amazing-head. He knows I put on a show. He also
loves to suck my sissy clit in return. Which probably helps a lot. He's
open about his preference for girlcock. He's seen the light. I don't
blame him.
A Daddy will sometimes suck my dick, and I'll let them do their thing,
usually amateur, unskilled, bit too grizzly, too much teeth. But I go for
it, let them wind up their sexual tension that little bit tighter,
ultimately resulting in a better fuck for me.
Tyler can a suck a dick though: he's a skilled cocksucker. It's usually
not long before he has me sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide,
skirt rising up, pinching my own nipples and running my painted nails
through his blonde locks. Heels clicking on the floor as I buck and
writhe in ecstasy. Screaming "yes, baby!" - he's more of a "baby" than a
"Daddy" kind of fuck - as he slurps away frantically.
It's become a bit of a competition between us. Sportsmanship, if you
will. Who can give the best head. Whoever gives in and lets the other
cum, ultimately loses the game. But at that point, in the heady post-
climatic haze, the defeat is definitely softened.
I take the whole of the shaft down my throat, my gag reflex softened now,
but still triggered when it comes to swallowing a monster of this
proportion. I gulp as my eyes water and redden. The camera recording,
spurring me on. Massacre runs and seeps the wet ink around my eyes. My
red lipstick smudged and smeared.
I won't lose the game tonight - it's my big moment.
My time to shine.
A sissy is nothing if not determination personified.
"Fuck Lex... I'm close... You want... to swap... for... a bit..." he
tries to fight the urge. He runs his hands across the shoulders of my
shirt. Tweaks at my puffed out pigtails.
"Ah-Ah-Alexa!" he moans, unsure whether he's trying to get my attention
to stop or beckon me forward. Lust has overcome his senses, his eyes
begin to roll back on their inevitable journey towards oblivion. The
French refer to it as "La petite mort" - literally translated to "a
little death', that moment of a brief loss or weakening of consciousness
at the point of climax.
He erupts. I win the match, and I'm rewarded with his caramel-latte-spunk
erupting straight down the back of my willing throat. He squirts with the
force of a Supersoaker at the height of summer. Coating my tongue, almost
sweet tasting.
But then again, life is sweet being a sissy.
Escapism is a wonderful thing.
-
"Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
....Away! away! for I will fly to thee."
(John Keats - Ode to a Nightingale')
There's one thing about those Romantic Poets, they definitely understood
the mundane. When I first read this poem I didn't understand it. I mean
sure, I got it - enough to write a ball-braking essay on the subject in
the halcyon days of University. Eating toast or takeaways for every meal,
staying awake until 4:30 in the morning. But I never truly understood it.
For the uneducated out there, in "Ode To Nightingale" Romantic poet John
Keats reflects on the "weariness" and "fret" he feels as he is unable to
escape the hustle-and-bustle of mid-industrial revolution London. As he
ponders all the shit in life he hears this beautiful song in the
distance, a nightingale, whatever the fuck one of those look like, and he
realises that this delicate, beautiful creature is able to transcend all
of that.
It is able to escape and fly away.
Bringing only beauty and pleasure to those that hear its song.
What is significant is that Keats, unlike his contemporary Wordsworth,
choses the image of the female bird. Wordsworth instead goes for the
masculine, the hope of mankind. A firm emphasis on the man. In contrast
Keats" revelation is personified in the feminine, a beauty that is able
to escape the darkness and sadness of the world for the purer realm. Am I
saying that Keats was a sissy? No - who knows?
What I am saying, is that I think I realised I'd always been chasing
something. Another girl, another date, another pursuit. It was fine for a
while, but the itch became something I could no longer reach. I'd drifted
in and out of relationships for the past few years. Nothing meaningful,
nothing serious.
It wasn't them, it was me.
That old chestnut.
But it was true, I, like Keats, just wanted to hear that song, that
feminine moment of pureness and bliss. That all changes in a
relationship, it ebbs away when you realise there's an actual person
underneath that beauty. One with hopes, shattered-dreams and fears. They
are normal. You're back in the world of "weariness" and "fret'. So, like
Keats, I'm left unable to harness what the nightingale represents,
because, shit, that's the whole point: you can't. It is free.
In becoming a sissy I began to transcend the everyday. I no longer had to
exploit it, because I was it. Even if only for those brief moments when I
dress up in panties, heels and massacre, posing, pouting, flicking my
limp wrists. Delicate. Soft. Beautiful.
So, I know what you're thinking, you think that what I'm saying is that
by becoming a sissy, I became a nightingale. Fuck - I don't know what I'm
talking about. It's just an idea. And you're reading this thinking "what
the fuck, I came here to jerk off, get on with the more racy parts of
story'.
You're probably right.
I still like the theory though.
Escapism can be a wonderful thing.
-
It was one week after I shaved my legs, my bank balance had taken a major
hit. Clothes had been purchased. A wig ordered. Makeup bought. The
postman became a regular face at my door, requesting my signature every
day as I returned from work. I wondered what he thought I'd been ordering
all of a sudden.
Everyone commented that I looked different. The lack of facial hair
obviously helped. "Have you been working out?" one of the girls in the
office teased, "you look so different'. Usually I would have taken this
as a definite welcome to pursue a possible date. Jessica was new in
December - I think she temped and landed a fulltime role - and we had not
really spoken that much, she had the troubled goth-come-Kardashian look
going on that seemed to be very much in vogue these days. Her hair
frosted silver at the tips, a thick black choker around her slim neck.
She was definitely good looking, and had this have been even a few months
earlier, I would have definitely gone down my usual tried and tested
route: cinema date, restaurant date, hang out at mine, try my luck. But,
like I said, something had changed. "Thanks..." was all I could muster,
a stupid grin formed on my lips.
My mind was elsewhere: it was back in my apartment, the sissy waiting to
emerge and come out to play.
Makeup was a nightmare at first. My first attempts looked clownish and
horrific. I persevered. I watched tutorials on YouTube. I began to hone
my craft. There's a lot more to it than one might think. Skin tones,
contouring, blending, colour combination, less is definitely more. I
didn't want to go for the drag queen look that some crossdressers end up
chasing.
I sat at my office desk, half glancing over my shoulder, half making
mental notes on another makeup tutorial I had in a windowed tab on my
screen. My finger poised on the mouse to return to the Word Document
underneath, in the inevitable case of someone walking by.
Work had changed.
I was less stressed.
I didn't seem to care as much anymore. I spewed out a stream of nonsense
articles that seemed to appease my weekly targets and actually made me
look more focused. Competent even. Charley even gave me a metaphorical
pat on the back with her reluctant "good work" response as I handed in my
completed "culture" column.
I left work each night without a single anchor of worry keeping my mind
attached to the office.
My evenings were spent in front of mirrors, makeup strewn across my desk.
The laptop firmly closed.
Alex became Alexa.
The nightingale flew free.
-
January melted away into February, bringing with it more rain and dismal
grey skies. But it felt different. An optimism began to devour me, like
the hint of a distant spring was enough to change everything completely.
I fumbled for my phone, my arms nervous and tense, as I glanced around
cautiously, eying strangers in the crowded coffee shop, somehow feeling
self-conscious and on show. I met Jonathan, or Raven his female alter-
ego, through an online transgender community. We struck up a chat that
lasted long into the night, bonding in a way that should be impossible
through the medium of online text messages.
We just seemed to hit it off immediately.
Shared interests, common passions.
We were both the same age and had both tumbled head first into
crossdressing exploration. Our teenage experiences ran in tandem with the
same dressing up experiences. She had never really beat the bug though,
and while I meandered through a wasteland of empty, meaningless years
without crossdressing, she kept coming back to it, eventually delving
into it with a commitment and determination I now knew so well.
Our lives overlapped in places, and yet by pure chance we had found each
other. It seemed meant to be. And it affirmed everything I now believed
to be true: crossdressers and sissies are out there, they just don't
shout about it. Social stigma and embarrassment keep us silent.
Raven and I lived in the same town, had mutual friends on Facebook, we
worked out that we went to the same college at the same time, and yet
never spoke or knew each other until now.
Obviously, I was wary. It seemed too coincidental.
But when he - pronouns become complicated when crossdressing is involved,
but at that moment in time he wasn't enfemme - arrived, standing
awkwardly in the entrance, scanning the seated coffee drinkers, I knew it
was Raven. He clutched apprehensively at his phone.
I tried to catch his eye.
"Umm, Alex?" He nervously asked reaching my table.
After the initial clumsiness of our greetings, we chatted away just like
we had online.
It felt natural.
And once we got over the initial meeting, the formalities, the safe
place, the check-it's-not-a-serial-killer-ready-to-slash-your-body-to-
pieces prerequisites, it opened up a world of massive sissy possibilities
for both of us.
Our wings began unfold and stretch out, ready for one hell of a flight.
Escapism is a wonderful thing.
-
We lay folded up amongst the crumpled bed sheets. Pillows scattered and
strewn across the bed. I breathe heavily and satisfied as I nuzzle into
his warm neck, planting soft kisses on his tight skin.
He lays with his sturdy arms outstretched. His chest bare. My stockinged
legs wrapped around his waist and thighs.
To anyone looking in we might look like a young couple in love, at the
finishing line of a kinky night of lovemaking. My schoolgirl outfit -
Tyler's favourite - lays in a creased pile at the foot of the bed. My
skin touches his, naked but for the stockings, leopard print panties and
bra. My dick hangs limply from the side of the knickers.
The smell of sex is beginning to waft across the room, only now becoming
noticeable. Our senses returning to normal.
We lay in silence. A deep meaningful, content-ness.
He looks at me with that wry smile of his, like he's in on a joke I
haven't quite understood.
"What?" I nervously giggle. Breaking the silence, my voice suddenly
sounding loud and clumsy.
I perch on his chest, rub my fingers against his firmness, our eyes
locked on each other in deep contemplation.
"Nothing... it's just... nothing," he smirks.
"Go on," I usher him on.
"You're beautiful. And you don't even know it."
More nervous giggling. I awkwardly beam.
And with that I fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget, the weariness,
the fever, and the fret. The nightingale in full-flight.
Escapism is a wonderful thing.
Jeannie
- 05.09.2021
- 32
- 0
Douglas Nightingale
- 2 years ago
- 29
- 0
The last song of the nightingale
- 2 years ago
- 36
- 0
