Smiling

His ass is in the air, and I'm smiling. His shoulders pressed into the bed, his neck twisted painfully to look back at me, that beautiful, pleading look in his eyes. 

"Please," he whispers. "Please fuck me, please."

I am pressed tightly against him, purposely angling myself low, so that only my abdomen is pressed against that wanting, needing little ass, so that my cock juts out between his legs, too low to even brush his own. And I am smiling. 

His hips are rolling now, his body pressing back into mine, begging me along with his words. He knows that I want it, too. Knows that that cock in my head is even harder than the one jutting out from my hips, knows that my cunt is almost dripping with how much I want this. How much that I want to press into him, one sweet inch at a time. How much that I want to press in as hard as he can take, and then just a little harder. 

I never thought I was interested in strap-on sex. I really didn't. I thought that that cock in my head, the one that gets hard when a pretty girl flirts with me, or when I'm hurting a little boy, I thought it just meant I was a little crazy, a little off. 

I thought it meant I was a guy in a past life- it never occurred to me that part of me is one now. 

He's whimpering again while I'm ruminating.

I don't mind, I like to keep him waiting, make him beg and stew. I made him wait months before I finally fucked him for the first time. He can wait a few more minutes for this. 

Although I doubt he'd agree with me at the moment. 

I bring my attention back to him, back to the sweeping line of his back, the inverted heart shape of his so-feminine hips. Back to the soft down of his hair and the pleading green of his eyes. "Please..."

I laugh now, and lean forward, making him whimper as it presses my cock so tight against his, my hanging breasts pressed against his bowed shoulders and my lips dangerously close to his ear.

"Yes," I whisper, and with that I rear back and press myself into him.

I'm already lubed and ready, and it takes little effort to line myself up and press into him. 

Even the first time, I knew how to do this, the angle to press and how to open him up. In my head, I'm a man and I've had a cock all my life. 

And in his head, he's my pretty little cunt.

And I slide into him as easily as into the wettest woman, and we both breathe a deep sigh of contentment as I sheathe myself in him. His whimpering has started again, but there's a note of pleasure, of relief in it now as I start moving inside of him.

I'm warming up slowly, careful of my bad hip and just enjoying teasing him with my so-gentle movements. My hands grip the hollows inside his hips, small and pale against his skin while my hips roll in movements I learned long ago in belly dance.

I lean back a little, watching my cock as it rolls in and out of is body. This is so beatiful to me, beautiful in almost the same way as being fucked but so different. I love the sensations of it, they roll up, along the synthetic skin of my silicone cock, as real and deeply intimate as anything born from my body. I *know* the sensation of my cockhead popping softly from his ass. I *know* the pressure/relief/utter bliss of sinking my cock inside him. I know it as deeply and intimately as if this piece of silicone contained all the nerves of my body. Once upon a time, in another life, another incarnation, my body had a penis, and it, and I, still remember the sensations.

We still remember the sensations as I'm fucking him harder now, using my grip on his hips to slam him into me, and he's making small, eager noises and pressing back into me hungrily. We still remember the sensations as I draw out of him, only to slam back in, hard enough to bring a small pain sound to his lips and I'm laughing, laughing joyfully as I'm reunited with this part of my body I never had in this lifetime. Laughing joyfully as I'm fucking this boy spread beneath me in wanton invitation, laughing in pleasure as I'm slamming into him with every thrust and I'm letting go of his hips, letting go now to smack his ass in rhythm with my thrusting. I never understood why my lovers did that, never understood its power, its pleasure, until now and I am smacking him, alternating hands and cheeks as they redden beneath me and he makes low, gutteral sounds of need, desire, and contentment. 

This. This is what he was meant for, what I was meant for. This moment of deep connection and utter bliss, and my hip is getting tired now, warning me of impending soreness, and I change my angle, raking my cockhead over that spot inside of him, pressing into him, against him, drawing him with me, my hands returning to his hips just because I love the grip there, the hollows made for my hands as I'm fucking him and pressing into that spot over and over while his breathing is speeding up and he's moaning, loud and slutty and my arousal is dripping down my thigh as he explodes around me, deep, hoarse sounds ripped from his throat as I prolong it until I feel him rest limply against me. Only then, do I slow, gentle my hips and my hands, stroking him lovingly as I bring myself down, too, grounding myself in his body and stroking him, inside and out until finally my body tells me that it's time, I'm finished, and I roll myself slowly out of him, collapsing backwards on the bed with a low, masculine chuckle, an utterly feminine sound of joy.

And then his hands are gentle, loving, grateful as we unhook me, setting my cock aside for cleaning, and then we're spooning, his body warm and small and curled into his pleasure, his joy as my own is wrapped around him, safe and loving and intense and relaxed and happy and content. 

We sleep this way, drifting in and out of dreams whose pleasure cannot be as complete as this moment with him in my arms. 

And I am smiling.