As Andrea’s adventures become more intense she finds herself increasingly at the mercy of her own passion.
“In some prehistoric world would they have forced me down on the ground, and pulled away whatever primitive coverings I had, only to force themselves into me as they bit hard on my neck, while thrusting deeply till they were satisfied? Was I just meat to be used for their satisfaction? I felt myself quiver at the thought. How wonderful that might have been.”
There are stories which we choose not to share, for one reason or another. Perhaps it is related to shame or embarrassment. Or maybe we just hold them so dear, that in sharing them they would become devalued.
A friend of mine recently acquired a rather unusual collection of note books which I feel sure you will be delighted to read. He was an elderly man, I will not give very many details, as I would not wish to identify him in any way.
Wrapped in brown paper, of the sort people used for parcels many years ago, these note books were dusty hand written relics. I can well imagine them being tossed out with the trash when someone moved house, or recycled along with old copies of magazines when clearing out a loft or basement.
My friend explained that they had been among some personal papers found in a house that was being sold. The contents of these papers were at first a mystery, then quite surprising – and ultimately quite shocking.
I am thrilled to release these notes in their original sordid and salacious form. They are available to all my Seahorse members – through my Patreon Pages. Be sure to sign up to my Patrion and enjoy these extraordinary documents.
I have to say that I always try to be positive, and with the exception of when speaking about Amanda, I exercise my mother’s good advice. If you have nothing positive to say, then say nothing. Wise words.
You will understand how writing this piece has been a challenge, and yet one I feel I have to complete. However, after considerable deliberation and talking with both Sylvester and Auntie Kittie, I have put pen to paper. Auntie Kittie pointed out that sometimes you have to grasp the nettle and say that which needs to be said.
“It’s like that time in South Africa,” said Auntie Kittie, “when I had to tell a trans friend, who was staying at the school out there where I am a school governor, not to sun bathe naked. The grade 9 biology students a confused enough already!”
“No, Kittie,” I replied. “It’s not like that at all, but I still have to write it. There are some members that might need to hear it.”
The soft sensation of nylon against my skin is almost the perfect form of foreplay. Pulling on the nylon stockings, and smoothing them up my leg, unhurried and luxuriously before a date is always enough to make me wet.
Perhaps it’s a response to my desire for something to
happen, or maybe it’s just a learned response. After all, most times I do go
out dressed in this manner I get what I’m looking for, so it’s only a matter of
time before my body, hungry for the lecherous and desperate touch of a lover, is
served to my satisfaction. You’ll note that I said ‘my satisfaction’. I point
this out as I do like to play a little game.
It’s been about five years now that I’ve followed a rather particular dating practice. I usually use one of the more popular apps, Tinder or some such, and there I will select a – now what should I call them – a project. Yes. I select a project. You know if you go to some of the apps you can even find me. Of course, I’m not going to make that too easy for you, as I really don’t want to give away all my secrets.
Let’s do a little experiment. I want you to think of the soft fabric of panties. A simple enough task, and one you likely don’t find unpleasant.
Now let’s take it a little further. Rather than thinking of the soft qualities of the fabric, I’d like you to imagine those very same panties on someone. You can choose me, if you like. Think of the form of my hips, the curve of my body, even the few whisps of pubic hair vaguely visible, but most of all of the shape. In your mind you can almost imagine touching, stoking and enjoying those perfect shapes, warm beneath your hand. Soft. Moist.
You cannot help but think of the soft aroma of my scent, can you. And as you do so the thought almost transports you to some moment in which you’ve either wanted to touch, or indeed done so, and the rewarding feeling of a body responding.
It’s going to be a very long weekend. Before I get into the ‘why’ let me first wish you the happiest of Thanksgiving weekends, if you are in the US, and if not, you know my thoughts are with you anyway.
I would also ask you to share this as widely as you dare, as I am trying to build followers. I appreciate your help. Let me adjust my skirt and tell you what this is all about. Being a crossdressing advertising executive does give me something of a unique perspective on things.
Now, the weekend. It all started when I overheard Joe, at the advertising agency, saying very intensely into his phone, “when it comes to feminine hygiene products, I’m your man!”
I remember a hot morning in Johannesburg, at Jan Smut’s
Airport (now renamed to O. R. Tambo International Airport). A small group of reporters
and photographers were out on the apron, in front of one of the hangers.
The Highveldt air was still and heavy. Not a blade of the dry
grass stirred on that windless morning. The sky was so blue it would make you
almost sing just to look at it.
A new aircraft autopilot landing system was being
demonstrated by Airbus. This was a hands off landing system, and fully
automated the final approach prior to landing until it came to a halt on the
runway. It was a pretty advanced piece of technology for the time.
The press boys were all grumbling about the early hour and
sipping coffee. There was no smoking on the tarmac either. Some of the
engineers from Airbus were meeting with us to talk about their innovative system
and were chatting away in French in a small cluster a few yards off.
Sit down and enjoy the latest episode of Clothes Maketh The Man. Think of a nice warm fire on the beach, the waves, the soft sea breeze, and the gentle smell of the last of Andy’s self respect disappearing in a puff of smoke.