Telling you all about my kink

Let’s not be coy. I’ve had more than my fair share of cock. More pussy than a wayward sorority sister on spring break. And more teasing, tongue-tingling encounters with sissy cockettes and sissy clits than I ever imagined when I first slipped on my first set of thigh-highs and bit my lip in the mirror

I’ve been fucked, properly, relentlessly, gloriously. Bent over desks, sprawled across beds, moaning into hotel pillows while strangers held my wrists. I’ve also fucked back. Hard. Hungry. Unapologetic. And maybe that’s what you need to know before I take you further into this story.

Because what I’m about to tell you isn’t just some salacious diary entry (although darling, those are fun too). It’s a reflection. A reckoning. A wet, wild confession about what happens when you stop pretending, stop performing, and just become the kind of woman who devours life, and lovers, without shame.

So let me set the scene.

I was in my first year of university. A baby, really, but full of fire. I wasn’t innocent, not exactly—I’d had my fair share of fumbles and flings, stolen kisses in stairwells, and a drunken finger or two under a dress at a party, but I hadn’t yet lived. I hadn’t claimed my body as a playground. I hadn’t been pushed to the edge of pleasure and grinned as I tumbled over it.

And then came her.

My roommate. Let’s call her Lexie. A full-on hurricane in tight jeans and fuck-me heels. Blonde, bold, always slightly glossy with lip gloss and secrets. Lexie didn’t walk into a room, she arrived, hips first, eyes locked onto whatever (or whoever) she wanted. And what she wanted was sex, daily, loudly, and with the kind of carefree joy I had only read about in erotica.

I watched her. Night after night. Not in a creepy, nose-against-the-wall kind of way. More like… an initiation. My bed was on the other side of the room, and she never closed the door. And when she brought men home—strong, sweaty, stubbled boys with too much cologne and arms like tree trunks—she’d shoot me a wink, as if to say, you can look, sweetie.

And oh, I did.

At first I pretended to sleep. Pretended not to hear the rustle of clothing, the gasps, the delicious slap of skin on skin. But one night, I didn’t pretend. I lay there, eyes wide, heart pounding, one hand between my thighs while she rode a boy like a goddess claiming her sacrifice. She moaned his name, and I came so hard I cried.

This went on for weeks. She knew I was watching. She started putting on a show, arched backs, louder moans, glances over her shoulder. It was flirtation. An invitation. I was drunk on the scent of sex and candle wax and the idea that maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to just watch.

And then came that night.

We’d both been drinking. Lexie was glowing, cheeks flushed, dress halfway to scandal. She brought home a boy I hadn’t seen before, tall, dark, fucking gorgeous. I don’t even remember his name. I just remember the way she leaned across the room and said, “You want to join us tonight, babe?”

And I did.

Clothes disappeared like magic. His cock, thick, long, pulsing, stood between us like an altar, and we worshipped. Two girls on our knees, tongues out, giggling, gasping, sharing. We licked him like greedy kittens, took turns sucking and stroking while he moaned above us.

We fucked like animals. We kissed like lovers. We collapsed into a tangle of limbs and sweat and messy, chaotic joy. I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t ashamed. I was free.

That night changed me. Not just because of the sex (though it was fucking incredible). But because it shattered the little glass box I had built around myself—the idea that I had to be a “good girl,” a careful girl, someone who kept her cravings quiet.

Fuck that.

I am a good girl. A very good girl. Good at sucking cock. Good at making women come. Good at whispering filthy encouragement into the ears of trembling little sissy gurls who want nothing more than to feel pretty and wanted.

Which brings me to the real reason I’m writing this.

I’ve had a moment of clarity, kittens. A moment of delicious, electric clarity about sex, gender, and attraction—and I want to share it.

See, over the years, I’ve met so many beautiful people. Women born in every kind of body. Sissies in skirts, trans femmes in thigh highs, boys in bras who bite their lips and blush when you call them “slut.” And let me be clear: they are all stunning. Brave. Bold. Desirable. Fuckable.

So when I see two people side by side—say, a cis girl bouncing on her boyfriend’s cock, and a sweet little sissy gurl grinding against a dildo in her favorite pink panties—I don’t see a hierarchy. I don’t see a real girl and a pretend girl. I see two hot bitches, each owning her pleasure in her own way.

That’s what turns me on.

The power. The play. The vulnerability wrapped in lace and moans. The truth that femininity isn’t a birthright—it’s a performance, a magic trick, an energy. And baby, when you do it well, you’re irresistible.

I know this might ruffle some feathers. Some women get uncomfortable when I say I find sissy gurls attractive. They think I’m comparing, or undermining, or fetishizing.

But this isn’t about comparison. It’s about celebration.

I love women—fierce, messy, bold, bitchy, bleeding, brilliant women.

And I adore sissy gurls—those trembling little vixens who pout and primp and beg to be used. I want to tie them up. I want to praise them. I want to watch them come undone with a single command.

One isn’t “better” than the other.

One just wants to be called “Princess” while she’s being throat-fucked, and the other wants to hold your hand while she whispers about the guy she wants to ride next.

Both are hot.

Both are real.

And both deserve to be seen.

So if you’re reading this as a woman who’s curious, confused, maybe a little turned on—explore that. Let yourself fantasize. Play. Watch. Touch. Let go of the idea that sex has to look one way, or that attraction is a neat little box with a heterosexual label.

And if you’re reading this as a sissy gurl, squirming in your seat, lipstick smudged, heart pounding—I see you. You are divine. You are desired. And you make me wet just thinking about how desperate you are to please.

So there it is. My confession. My invitation.

I’ve been the girl who watched.

I’ve been the girl who joined in.

And now, I’m the girl who leads, who whispers in your ear that your fantasies aren’t too much, that your cravings aren’t wrong, that you deserve every inch, every kiss, every slap, every praise.

Because sexuality isn’t about rules. It’s about freedom.

And baby, I am so very free.