My fantasy crush story

It seems ridiculous, but there are moments when I see him and I don’t want to fuck him; I want to be him instead. Ryan, in my view, has the ideal masculine physique. Broad shoulders, a long, slender torso, narrow hips, and an outstanding ass are all characteristics of this man.

He has a very fuckable physique, and I like fucking him to my heart’s content. In some instances, however, I would prefer that he not jump onto my backside and smash it against the wall. In other instances, I would prefer that he not bend over and grab me from behind. In still other instances, I would prefer that he not press my back against the wall and make me writhe with pleasure.

No, what I really want is to be able to go inside of him and experience the world through his eyes. As for me, I’d want to devour some summers chicklet decked out in one of those swishy flowery skirts and tie-up espadrilles and fuck her while pretending to be him in the process.
Is it too similar to the John Malkovich movie?
Maybe.

But why am I unable to be him? It’s just for one evening. Alternatively, for one hour. It’s frustrating that I’m not the one that moves through the throng and picks up a woman of any age. (He is free to choose any female he wants.) What makes it so difficult for me to just take one of them home, or out to some back alley, and force her up against the brick wall there, rip her pants down, and fuck her.

That’s all I’m looking for. One hour is allotted. Allow me one hour inside his body so that I may learn what it’s like to be a guy—not just any man, but the man I want to be. For some reason, I really want to manhandle my aching crotch, grasp it, and fondle it. The only thing I want to do is force-feed it to some attractive young lady, to make her drink me and empty me. I wanted to make her feel my strength.

He’s not usually that type, I know. He is a lovely, compassionate, and sensitive young man. He is devoted to me and is a monogamous man. But if I were in his shoes, I’d be the same way. I’m the sort who likes to be in command of the situation. I’m the sort who likes to be in command. It would be liberating to be in command. It would be incredible, for God’s sake.
I reach a point when I am completely overwhelmed by the concept itself. So I take a step forward, or more accurately, a roll forward on the mattress, and I wrap my body up next to his in bed, saying, “I have a fantasy……”

He wraps one powerful arm over me, holding me tight. “Tell me, sweetheart,” he responds in hushed tones, just as he usually does. He loves my mind most. It’s more than just my juicy, full chests. There’s more to me than my thick, black hair. He is more interested in my ideas than he is in the contours of my hips or the fullness of my ass. My nefarious dreams. My X-rated images come to me. Using his deep, silky voice, he pleads with her to “tell me where your thoughts is going tonight.”

“I really want…” I begin, but I am unable to finish.
“Please tell me.”
“No,” I say, a shaky voice echoing in my brain.
“Tell me,” he urges, his voice firm and persistent in its command.
“I’ll prove it to you,” I resolve. Because it is the most effective method.
My husband begins to speak, but when I put my finger to his lips he stops and I slip out of bed, take my bag, which contains my clothes and all of the just acquired things, and vanish into our bathroom.

Where is she going?—I can practically hear his thoughts spiraling out of control in the other room. What is she doing? I wonder, but I am more preoccupied with my own thoughts. At this moment, they are the only ones who matter.
As I use an Ace bandage to flatten my breasts, I take a long, hard look at myself. As I slide into my new harness and adjust my beautiful, attractive cock, I take a moment to appreciate my physique. I slip into the worn 501s, pull on the boots, and throw on a wifebeater T-shirt that makes my arms seem chiseled and intimidating.
What exactly am I?

Is he going to find out?
I style my hair with gel and tuck it into a hat, then put on a pair of his sunglasses to complete the look. I can see what you’re talking about. It’s there, I can sense it. I spritz him with cologne from the pricey bottle I got him for Christmas last year, and then I stroll back into our bedroom and wait to watch how he reacts to my being there.

The first thing he says to me upon seeing me is, “Oh, Jesus,” and I know with that ripple of joy that passes through me that he’s up for it. “Oh, goodness,” he exclaims, staring at me from every angle. I’m a tall, slender, and tough guy. My hand has already been placed on my belt. I want to undress as rapidly as I did while I was getting dressed. But first, I have to strip him down to his bare essentials. I’m going to have to lubricate him. I had to kiss him all over, since he is such a beautiful flower. After all, who does he have to be now that I’m in the role of him?
No, we don’t have to provide a response to that query. No, I didn’t believe that.

However, despite the fact that I feel like I should be completely nude so that he can experience the metamorphosis for myself, I choose not to remove my clothing this time. I need him to respond much more quickly than that. I separate my pants and let him to have a look at my crotch. I manhandle my cock with my fist tightly wrapped around it. I really want to run my tongue over his gorgeous lips. I really want to see him swallow it whole.
That is something he desires as well.

My fantasy crush story

“Take a look,” I say. “Come closer so you can see me better. “You can really see me.”
He scrambles on the bed in order to comply. Before I can order him to close his lips, his mouth is already open. I’m not required to instruct him on what to do. His lips part, and he pulls me very close to him. I can feel him tugging on my genitals. I can almost taste how hungry he is for that.
With the sucking movements of his insatiable lips, I imagine him emptying me and bringing me all the way to the pinnacle of the experience.
Later. After.

For the time being, I keep him at bay. Lube may be found in the drawer next to the bed. Normally, lubrication is what I’m after. It’s lubrication time for him now. I instruct him to go fetch the bottle for me, and then I sit back and watch him watch me lubricate myself up.
You know where this is heading,” I continue, seeing his eyes widen and watching him bite hard on his bottom lip, almost as if he is about to say something but isn’t quite sure whether he has the courage to. 

While I say it more softly than I would have liked to, the red flush on his cheeks tells me he is listening and understanding. He, of course, does so. When I’m done, I forcefully flip him over and rip his underwear off, spreading those wonderful asscheeks of his, and kiss him right there. Mmm. I take my time, the same way he takes his time, and I can tell he is becoming more excited by the way he moves against the covers as the night goes on.
This is something he enjoys. This is something my baby enjoys.

So softly and tenderly do I oil him, my fingers reaching deep into his asshole as I move them slowly into his asshole, pressing my face against his silky skin and taking long breaths. Oh, my goodness, he’s adorable. He is a guardian angel for me.

My partner in crime. My darling young thing, dressed in a flowery dress and tie-up espadrilles, is ready and eager to get fucked against a back-alley wall at some back-alley location.
I raise my thighs and prepare to jump over a cliff into the abyss. Even when my baseball hat comes off, my hair remains in place, and I continue to be him while I slip the initial half of my thick, ready cock into his asshole.

And when I f*ck him, I know that we’ve blurred because there I am in the mirror looking at myself. I’m here in front of you. But who exactly am I? His face is filled with amazement and surrender, and there you have him. And who exactly is he? And more essential than either of those issues is this one: Does it matter?
No. In no way, shape, or form.
Not tonight.