The humid air of a Saturday afternoon, pressed against me as I sat in my cluttered trailer, the faint hum of a busted AC unit in the background. My laptop screen glowed with Alessia Iris’s profile from https://ladyboyxcam.com/alessia_iris19/photos, her skinny frame and brunette locks taunting me from every angle. At 22, this post-op trans goddess had my heart pounding—me, a burly ex-rally guy who’d never admitted my bicurious streak until her. Her bio hinted at a new chapter: “Post-op and practicing keeping my new pussy open, wanna help?” The cheeky wink made my pulse race, and after months of drooling over her cam shows, I’d finally booked a flight to her undisclosed location, somewhere exotic, she’d teased. Today, I’d meet her in my dreams…
The doorbell buzzed at 7 PM, and I stumbled to open it, my hands sweaty. There she stood, 5’5” of pure temptation, her dark hair cascading over a tight red dress that clung to her slim hips. Her skin, a soft olive tone, glowed under the porch light, and her eyes—deep and mischievous—locked onto mine. “Well, look at you, big American boy,” she purred, her voice carrying a faint accent, maybe Italian or Latin. “Ready to help me practice?” I nodded, dumbstruck, and she sauntered in, her heels clicking like a countdown to chaos.
We started with beers, her laughter filling the small space as she lounged on my couch, legs crossed, the dress riding up to reveal toned thighs. “I’ve been working on my new pussy,” she said casually, sipping her drink. “Post-op life is all about maintenance, you know? Stretching, keeping it ready.” My face burned, and she grinned. “Don’t be shy, cowboy. Tell me what you think.” I stammered about her beauty, her transition, the allure of her new anatomy. She leaned closer, her hand brushing my knee. “Good. Let’s explore that.”
The night unfolded slowly. She suggested a massage, and I obliged, my hands trembling as I kneaded her shoulders. She shed her dress, revealing lacy black lingerie that framed her slim body, her post-op area a mystery beneath. “Start here,” she guided, pointing to her back. My fingers worked her skin, sliding lower, and she moaned softly. “You’re tense,” she teased, flipping over to face me, her breasts small but pert under the lace. I hesitated, and she laughed. “Touch me, silly. We’re practicing.” My hands grazed her chest, and she arched into me, her breath hitching.
Hours passed in this teasing dance. She’d strip off the lingerie, posing nude, her new pussy a smooth, inviting slit she spread slightly with her fingers. “See? Needs work,” she said, winking. I groaned, and she pulled back, giggling at my frustration. “Patience, big guy.” She introduced a vibrator, running it over my thighs, my chest, never where I ached most. The anticipation built, a slow burn that had me sweating. She’d sit beside me, guiding my hand to her inner thigh, letting me feel her heat, but stopping before I reached her core. “Not yet,” she’d whisper, her voice a torment.
By midnight, the air crackled with tension. She stood, fully naked, her skinny frame a canvas of desire. “Time to get serious,” she said, her tone shifting to command. She pushed me onto the couch, straddling my lap, her new pussy inches from me. “Help me stretch it,” she ordered, guiding my hand to her. I touched her, the skin soft and warm, and she moaned as I explored, my fingers slipping inside under her direction. “Deeper,” she urged, her hips rocking. The sensation was surreal, her tightness yielding slowly as she coached me, her breaths quickening.
She pulled my hand away, replacing it with a dildo from her bag. “Watch and learn,” she said, lubing it and sliding it in, her moans filling the room as she worked it. “This is how I practice,” she gasped, moving it in and out, her fingers spreading herself wider. I watched, mesmerized, my own arousal straining against my jeans. She handed me the toy. “Your turn,” she commanded, and I obeyed, sliding it into her, her cries guiding my rhythm. “Faster,” she panted, and I complied, her body trembling as she climaxed, her new pussy clenching around the dildo.
The oral began next. She shifted, kneeling over me, her pussy hovering above my face. “Lick me,” she demanded, and I did, my tongue exploring her post-op folds, the taste unfamiliar but intoxicating. She ground against me, her hands in my hair, directing me deeper. “Yes, like that,” she moaned, her voice breaking as she came again, her juices coating my lips. I was lost in her, my MAGA pride crumbling under her dominance.
The anal came later. She lubed herself, then me, positioning me on my knees. “Time to feel me,” she said, pressing her fingers into me first, stretching me with slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation was intense, and she added more lube, her touch firm. “Ready for the real thing?” she teased, grabbing a strap-on from her bag. She strapped it on, the thick length gleaming, and entered me, her thrusts gentle at first, then harder. “Take it, cowboy,” she growled, her hands gripping my hips as she pounded me, my groans mixing with her laughter.
The night peaked with a fiery fusion. She removed the strap-on, returning to oral, sucking me with expert skill while fingering her own pussy, keeping it open. I couldn’t hold back, exploding in her mouth, and she swallowed with a smirk. Then she rode me anally, her strap-on back on, her movements wild and unrestrained. We climaxed together, her screams echoing, my body spent beneath her. As we collapsed, she whispered, “Practice makes perfect, huh?”—leaving me broken, enthralled, and ready to return.
