My experiences with men, dear reader, often seem straight out of a well-orchestrated fantasy. And yes, I admit I have my moments. What I am recounting here does not happen every day, but I won't deny that I have the occasional lover who visits me, or whom I visit, in a fascinating game of seduction and power. One of them, whom I have already mentioned in other posts, decided that I should be a sort of Sugar Baby for him, a proposal that, of course, I gladly accepted. The main condition was that he would have control over what I wore for our dates, an arrangement I have enjoyed exploring. The image accompanying this piece is a testament to that, perfectly capturing the style he adores. Men, generally speaking, like me to be very sexy, delicate, and utterly feminine—something that, frankly, I don't find difficult at all, given that I am a transgender woman who adores her femininity. I love the lace on the white top that leaves my shoulders bare and the tiny, distressed denim shorts that, right from the start of my date with my casual lover, made the ending of that adventure crystal clear. And I, of course, served up on a silver platter what he wanted to see and feel. As soon as I am picked up from my apartment, biology does its work; his trousers cannot hide the reaction of a mature man well over sixty, and then the erotic game begins. With his special touch, he starts to flatter me, letting me know I am the center of his attention. I know his focus is on my legs and the shape of my breasts, as every now and then his hands slide over my legs and chest, or he takes my hand and intertwines his fingers with mine while driving—a gesture of control and desire that turns me on. Sometimes we go for a brief drive, knowing full well we will end up at his flat or mine, enjoying our bodies and our lips, but this man takes his time.
He loves playing the game of sitting me on his lap like a little girl, while visually savoring my youthful and deeply sensual outfit, which he always requests for our dates. That white lace off-the-shoulder top with puffed sleeves, paired with the distressed denim shorts, is his absolute fetish. I loved how he would take my hand and pull me in for kisses, a dynamic of submission and power that we both thoroughly enjoyed. When we reached the flat, he would sit on his throne—which was my sofa—take my hand gently, and seat me on his lap while we chatted. I would play with his white hair and feel his well-groomed, three-day beard with my fingers, a contrast that fascinated me. Moreover, I loved it when he wore a suit and tie, because that feeling of submission heightened my excitement. Then, the game with my breasts would begin, lowering my blouses or undoing the buttons; as I have already mentioned, this photo is from one of our dates. That particular time, he simply put his finger between my breasts, pulled down the neckline of my top, and began tracing them with his tongue, a ritual that melted me. Meanwhile, my hand would slide down the fly of his trousers, slipping inside, or I would play with his tie, pulling him toward me to kiss him as our tongues and lips melted into an endless kiss.
After that moment of intensity, that tall, robust man—my lover of over sixty—would lift me up and lay me on the bed, only to lie down beside me fully dressed. I knew what I had to do: sit astride him with my legs wrapped around him so that my chest was close to his mouth, then take off my blouse, unbutton my shorts, and let his hand slip inside to play with my body, exploring every single corner. Afterwards, he would ask me to slowly take off my shorts, fascinated by my thong, which I loved letting him remove so I could remain completely naked and vulnerable before him. These were our games, and I adored them. I would kiss him while drawing him close to me, gripping his tie firmly. Then I would undo his trousers and do what I love doing most with a man, before settling onto his body to make love—an act of surrender and power all at once. Afterwards, I would slowly undress him as if he were my king, my submission skyrocketing. I had already learned how to love and please an older man, having had a great teacher who taught me the art of seduction and pleasure. I knew I loved his large, strong hands on my waist and legs, and how he would turn me to his pleasure and penetrate me until I moaned and screamed.
After the passion, we would kiss endlessly while dozing off for a while. Then he would get dressed, and I would help him tidy up, adjusting his tie with care—a final touch of tenderness before he left. I would fall asleep as he walked out of my apartment, knowing we had shared a truly unique experience. That was one of the great rituals of my life, a ritual that reminded me of my power as a woman and my capacity to ignite the flame of passion in a man who, despite his age, still knew how to appreciate beauty and pleasure.
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