Her beautiful eyes left mine to look down at the creamy post-orgasmic mess, and then returned to meet my gaze. Suddenly, her expression changed. The happy smile took on a twist of mischief that almost made me gasp with desire. Then she lifted her leg, leapt off me, and bent down to my belly. Her bright pink tongue emerged from her full, gorgeous lips and made a long stroke of my skin. She was licking up our cum!
She worked at it for several minutes, her head bobbing industriously. She briefly popped the head of my cock into her mouth to lick off the residue there, but she mostly left my penis alone; it rose obediently out of the way as her ministrations took effect on my body, occasionally brushing her cheek as she passed by.
She was thorough, catching every drop that had not already dribbled off me and onto the bedclothes. Twice, she turned to me, opening her mouth so that I could see all the man-mayonnaise she had collected, then slowly, deliberately swallowed. Just the fact that we had ejaculated more than two entire mouthfuls of semen was a thought that brought a real thrill.
Having harvested everything on my belly, she worked her way up my chest. Her cheeks now had a slick residue of mixed bodily juices. Then her hot mouth travelled up my neck, kissed off the drop on my cheek and the one on my forehead, and finally came to rest, an inch from my own lips, where she hesitated.
Again, I made the decision for her. I rose up and our mouths met. It did not have the urgency of previous kisses; it was more tender, even comfortable. I tasted the salty tang of sperm in her mouth. I turned her cheeks to either side to return the service, licking each one in turn and ingesting the remainder of our shared love juice. There was still some on her own body, but it would do for now.
“I’ve never done that before,” she said quietly, “licking up cum like that. Did you like it?”
“I think it was the single sexiest thing I have ever seen,” I replied. “It’s hard for me to judge though, because at least the half-dozen sexiest things I have ever seen have all happened in the last hour or so.”
She giggled prettily, then settled in to lay down beside me, her head resting on my shoulder. Our arms went around each other. Her now-limp cock draped across my thigh – I noticed that, purely by accident, our penises were now pointing directly at each other, the heads a mere inch apart.
I love a good, comfortable post-coital cuddle. In some ways, it is as nice as the actual fucking, albeit in very different ways. Having just let each other into your most intimate inner sanctums, the fading orgasmic glow becomes a feeling of profound shared peace. Try it. It’s bliss.
It does give you time to think, though. I had known I was sex-starved, having not orgasmed the entire time I had been on holiday. Was I sure that this glorious night had not just been an overdrive of lust, making me desperate for any kind of sex? Even kinds I never would have considered before? Had I done something crazy, solely due to blue balls? Lord knows, I have had a case or two over the years of letting my libido run away with me, and then regretting it as soon as the deed was done.
I looked down at the body pressed against mine, resting peacefully in companionable silence. Now I had gotten my end away, surely those raging hormones and endorphins should have settled down a bit, leaving my perceptions clearer.
And yet, the beauty was still there, undiminished. The hips, the breasts, all perfectly proportioned. The cheekbones, jawline, defined and chiselled. The long golden eyelashes, smooth blonde hair, thin delicate eyebrows. The long, toned legs wrapped around one of mine. All exactly according to my picture of feminine beauty. There was no doubt about it. It wasn’t just my cock thinking for me. She really was an absolute stunner.
So why wasn’t the one blemish, the major deviation from normal female anatomy, putting me off? We’ve all seen the somewhat dated comedies with that moment, where Ace Ventura or Frank Drebin is confronted with the sexy “woman’s” male junk and reacts with horror and revulsion. Am I some kind of deviant? A sissy boy? A pervert? Well then, call me a pervert, I thought. As long as it was between me and a consenting adult, I didn’t care what anyone thought. I just couldn’t imagine how anyone could look at what I was looking at and not love it.
We lay there a while longer, listening to the sound of our own breath, and then she gave a deep sigh that pressed her naked breasts into my side. “Okay,” she said, without lifting her head from my chest or turning to look at me. “It’s time for the questions.”
“What questions?” I asked, surprised.
“You will have questions, I know you will. I’m… different. Let’s get it all out of the way right now. You’ve already seen my greatest secret, so I am an open book to you. I just don’t want those uncertainties, those questions, to sit there between us, festering and growing because you aren’t sure you can ask them. So I am declaring a moratorium: all the questions now, stupid or otherwise, and then you’ll know who I am and what we should be together.”
I nodded. It made sense. And that part at the end about ‘being together’ made my spirit soar a bit. “Alright,” I replied, “but the same goes for you. Ask me anything. Perhaps we should take turns?”
I felt her cheek move as she smiled. “I’d like that,” she said, “but you first, while my nerve holds.”
I pulled her tighter into my embrace. “Very well then. First stupid question: are you a man or a woman?”
“I am a woman,” she replied firmly but quietly, her voice exuding cast-iron certainty. “I have a penis, but I am a woman. I have always known that, deep in my soul.”
She hesitated for a moment, before continuing. “I tried for a short while, living as a boy, when I was in school. I was fourteen years old, and my parents moved me to a new school so I could have a clean start.
“I hated it. It was awful. It wasn’t just the physical discomfort either. My breasts were growing, and I strapped them down tight, making excuses in gym class changing rooms about an ongoing back problem. I was sore and aching all the time I wore that strapping, but I could have endured it if it had made me feel like I was fitting in. It didn’t. I was never like them, no matter how I tried to be. I was so depressed. I felt like a fraud, constantly.”
Her voice lowered as she continued. “I lasted six months. My parents pulled me out of school in February when they found out I was self-harming – nothing that left any permanent scars, thank god. They home-schooled me for a few months, and I endured the disguise for a couple of weeks so I could sit end-of-year exams. Then I moved schools again and went back to being a girl for my GCSEs.”
I stroked her golden hair, trying to ease her trauma in any way I could, although I knew it was futile. “Hermy,” I said gently. “… Hermione?” I tried experimentally.
“It’s Hermia,” she replied.
“Nothing to do with JK Rowling then.”
“We don’t speak that name,” she said sternly. “Not any more. I take her behaviour these days personally.”