Boy – Collection 2
Who was this grown-up boy, carefully concealed within her? Women steered clear of her. Men were intimidated by her. Little girls looked at her wonderingly, and little boys jeered in self-defense at the sight of her. She was aggressive, sure, and confident of herself. She moved differently than most women, with greater certitude. Her movements were less precise, not needing to cautiously negotiate her way through life, but simply sailing onward in whatever direction she chose, no matter what conditions prevailed, and fully expecting to reach her destination.
She wasn’t like other women, other girls. She felt herself capable beyond dispute of whatever she attempted. She wasn’t even like men or boys; she was continually reminded by them that she was not one of them, whenever she came into male company. She knew her body, trusted her body, and she had no fear of what life threw at her.
When she stepped from her home on the weekends, in loose, baggy jeans, with long underwear holding the pink cock snug to her groin, she had at her crotch a piece of the power that made the world go ’round. She carried with her the constant potential for the enduring, consummate fuck, the sole and hidden impetus for almost everything the human race had set in motion since the beginning of time. Be it conquest, be it creation, be it invention, be it revolution, whether on the giving or the receiving end, the pursuit of erection ruled. And with this constant hard-on snug against her left thigh, she was one of the rulers.
On the surface she didn’t look like much — just a youngish butch dyke in baggy clothes, with hair falling in her eyes and a swagger to her walk — but she knew there was more, much more to her, than most people ever guessed. But she had in her secret possession what was desired by the majority of women, and only the bravest of men would admit they craved — a hard dick, long and thick, with the sole purpose of going deep inside another person, filing the hot, wet cave where so much of them lives, and bringing to life that hidden, willing, much-neglected spot of fleshy, wet pleasure. That spot that intimidated most people so much they had only one name for that spot in women — the last name of a man, abbreviated as a single letter “G” — and they rarely mentioned it in men. Passing people on the street, she saw them look at her… differently, curiously. They regarded her with a questioning eye, trying to guess — male or female? — and her manner answered back silently, “Both”.
Her “childbearing hips” were un-mistakable, and her full breasts were not easily hidden. Yet with that cock tucked snug along her leg, she was always ready, always hard, always very aware of this organ strapped to her body with leather and snaps. Its only purpose was to give sexual pleasure — not to piss, not only to hang about as an ornament, but to fuck. With power strapped to her crotch, she had the ability all men craved and most women desired. In this world, that in so many ways refused her power, it gave her abilities and influence that the rest of the world knew nothing about.
But did she flaunt it? Not at all. On the contrary, she withheld it. Out of spite. Out of necessity. Out of commitment to her life-long lover, to whom she was ever faithful. But though she kept it concealed, the knowledge of her hidden drive accentuated the spring in her step, the swing of her shoulders, the glint in her eye. That was flaunting enough.
She was an 18-year-old boy — part man, mostly animal, with just the start of uncut fuzz on her upper lip. She was a matured playboy, knowledgeable in the material desires and comforts of the gentler sex. She was the 20-something, riotous, reveling, cross-dressing, gender-bending butch dyke who could spend all weekend making love to her lover and emerge on Sunday night to eat something and shower, exhausted but refreshed. She was all sex, all physique, all passion, smoldering just beneath the shield of her defiant gaze. She was her lover’s pleasure waiting to happen, an enduring, tireless lover with the patience of a saint and a virility few could imagine or acknowledge. She was the raging sea crashing against her lover’s cliffs, all waves and water and the untempered rage and wildness of youth possessed yet untested. She was the wind across her lover’s plains, passing lightly or strong as her desires called for, dipping into every crevice, every indentation and sweeping across her angles without pause.
She was all woman, who knew from her own core what it was within another woman that cried for more. More pleasure, more touch, more adoration, more adulation.
She was every frustrated housewife’s fantasy — a young and potent satyr with a glint in her eye and a taste for a full woman’s flesh. She was the one who could take them where their depleted husbands could not, would not, and had forgotten that destination ever existed. She harbored no danger of impotence. She never ejaculated prematurely. She never ejaculated at all. She could keep up with the roll and crash of every one of their orgasms, bring them down, and take them back up in ways their husbands never gave them the chance to discover. She was the answer to their every prayer whispered into the thick night air laced with the odor of semen-filled latex sheaths and propriety breaking a light sweat, when the burning in their flesh was only just kindled, but the man of the house grunted and gasped and rolled over to fall asleep.
She was every young straight woman’s fantasy, already eloquent in the language their bodies had yet to discover — the dialect that remains but clumsily spoken on most tongues and must be learned by repetition. She could be the teacher these students searched for desperately (and in vain) in the anxious, clueless groping of young men. She could offer more, much more, than any young man ever could. She was already fluent in the language of their desire; her fingers and tongue were ready and willing to pass it along. She had all the endurance of a young buck, coupled with the instincts of passion’s empathy, with none of the abrupt self-centeredness of an unseasoned lover.
She was the possibility of a fertile, horny woman in the height of passion never having to concern herself with pregnancy. She was the opportunity to give oneself over entirely to single-minded pleasure. She offered the chance to live out the wildest of fantasies with no threat of her losing her hardness, her strength, her desire. She was forever hard, forever long and thick — or, if they so desired, she could change the toy she wore to become as long or as short, thick or thin, as dark or as light as they pleased. She was always available, always versatile, always ready and willing to serve, and serve, and serve some more, till their exhaustion left no more room for movement, breath, or even fantasy. She was forever dedicated only to the delights of unseen flesh, so often untouched, so rarely explored.
And she knew, too, what would make a man moan, what would make him turn inside-out and roll over, legs to heaven, and beg for the hard probe thrust deep within. She knew what would make his cock jump, what would make his nipples harden and scrape against the sheets, and what would keep him aloft until he crashed to the depths of le petit mord. She showed it, as she made her way through this city — the fairies, the faggots, peered askance at her box as she passed them, then turned away with a defensive sneer when their eyes traveled up the length of her body and they saw her breasts, her thin, jutting chin, her woman’s brow.
At parties, half-drunk men who craved their own kind regarded her closely, curiously, their eyes traveling clandestinely to her crotch (whether her cock was with her or not), and holding there, wondering what might lie beneath the buttons of her fly. They took a seat nonchalantly beside her, where she sat along the wall, watching the movement of people and nursing her club soda. They pretended to talk to someone on the other side of them, yet pressed their arm against her shoulder, their knee against her thigh, and whispered they thought what she did in the hallway with her dildo was in bad taste. But in the smoky corners of the room, they still pressed against her — and didn’t pull away when she shifted her weight.
She had what they wanted, and they feared her as much as they desired her. Each emotion fed the other, making her undeniably desirable. They could mask their attraction for this man-and-woman behind their powder and lipstick, they could camouflage their wants behind catty laughter and rage, they could pretend not to see her when others were around. But she knew they did see her. She knew they did want her. She knew they could never deny it, if she pressed them for the truth in anonymous darkness, when no one was watching. She knew they wanted to admit it, with the voice in their head, with the head of their dick, with the hum of their pulse. They’d never admit it, though. Not to themselves. Not to her. Try as they might to deny it, she knew they were lying. They were lying.
But she left them alone, all of them, male and female and otherwise. And she said nothing to anyone of this. For she was committed to another. And what would those women and men do with her, if they could have her, anyway? The contradictions of her flesh against the training of their minds… what the world told them they could have, conflicting sharply with that dark and deeply rooted part of them that lusted for more… even if they knew what they wanted, they would never allow it into their lives. Their marginalized desires, their secret longings, their untapped passions might well cause them to self-destruct. And she would be the one covered with the mess, while they went back to their little boys, their flaccid spouses, their crimped and primped propriety, leaving her with little else but the proof of her capacity to fill their pleasure — a proof she never needed in the first place.
She didn’t need to search the alleys filled with strangers for proof. Her lover knew the effect her cock had on her. When she strapped on this toy and crawled in bed with her, she was ready. Ready to give her lover pleasure, ready to slip inside her and stroke her innermost reaches. All she wanted when she wore it and they made love, was to go inside her lover, to be there, take her up and over the lip of her pleasure, spilling into the thick night with a scream. It aroused her as little else could. She got so wet and open that she dripped in a steady stream down her leg that surprised even her lover, who knew better than anyone what her body was capable of. Her hungry clit swelled up to twice its size, her labia became engorged with blood, aching for caresses, and her vagina opened wide, gasping and sputtering for her lover’s hand — as much of her hand as she could take. In resembling a man, she was all woman. In going into her lover, she gathered within herself the room to take her lover deep within her.
And taking her lover in, she grew to resemble a man even more. Swollen, engorged, her clit peered up from between her lips like a tiny cock, hard and ready and probing ever outward for a taste of woman. Pendulous with the rush of blood, her inner lips filled and swelled and dangled between her thighs like balls, glistening with her cum. Her juices dripped down to the tip of her clit, shining in drops from the tip of her groin’s desire. And she knew then how men evolved from women. She knew where men came from. She knew the origin of dick and balls. And she knew, were it ten thousand years earlier, a generation of parthenogenic almost-male-beings would spring from her lineage. She would be one of the first.
Now she was one of the few. One of those who was not Either-Male-Or-Female, but Both.
One aspect would have been useless to her without the other. For with her commingled knowledge, she knew just where to lick, just where to suck. The female body whispered commands to her. Always speaking, always asking, always hungry… And the male in her obeyed. Few knew how to listen and understand, but the woman in her did. She comprehended each dialect of her lover’s body, the vernacular of every region from the crown of her head to the sharp edge of her toenails. She listened, heard, and responded. She followed the instructions of her lover’s lust, submitted to the direction of her sighs. If her lover never returned her favors, it would not have bothered her. If her lover never gave a thought to anything but her own pleasure, she would relish it still. Her lust, her longing calling out in moans and cries, her desire beading on her brow, her wild patches of hair, the corner of her gaping mouth… it was all enough. The rise and fall of her dripping cunt pressed to her face, her mouth, her hands, her cock, was enough. The roll of her beneath her, the rise and fall of the mountains of her ample flesh, her strong bones, her unappreciated and emerging cravings, they were enough. She wanted only to give her pleasure. She made herself obedient to the commands of her flesh. She was a willing servant to that benevolent, generous master whose subjects we all are. She served the body.
When she wore her dick, she knew what it was to be a man, to have the constant external reminder that she was ready, and that she had the ability at any time to take a woman and make her her own.
And because she was woman, she knew the secret places within her lover — and without. She knew the signs of her pleasure even before they fully registered with the other. She knew what brought her up, and up, and up. She knew what pushed her over the edge again, and again, and again, filling the air above their bed with their pleas and cries and gasps. She knew her lover’s capacity for pleasure, how complete and insatiable it was, how the glint in her eye sharpened, when she moved across the surface of her flesh, stroking and probing, raising the blood just beneath the surface of her skin, her tiny hairs standing on end, reaching up to her for more.
She was man enough for that kind of love. She was woman enough for it, too. She embodied all a woman needed, she represented what so many women feared and shunned. She was many a woman’s fondest dream, and their reality’s deepest frustration. Most of the world looked upon her askance. Because she was not all-woman-and-only-woman, many considered her less than what she could be. But she knew, the latex, inanimate conveyor of intelligence knew, the heat of her thighs and the roll of her shoulders knew, that the drive which arose within her when that member nestled not completely hidden along the inseam of her left leg, made her more, far more, than most would ever imagine.
Let them think she was less. She knew that she was more than most could ever want or have.
She was not Either-Or. She was Both.