Maybe, Just Maybe

I couldn’t have it, but I could have the fantasy. I could let it take me and drive me over the edge. I could lose that last aching inch of my own reservation as I felt my world explode, as I clenched my eyes shut and tried to focus on the sensations of this body and let my mind push the limits of what I’d experienced. Making the memory of hands on my skin into so much more.

I could imagine, even if it wasn’t real.

But the harder I tried to reach out for that fantasy, the more that it slipped away from me. Nothing was easy to hold onto, everything was insubstantial. Everything but the real.

But who I was now. But the shape that I was in.

Soft. Smooth. Supple. Feminine.

And I pulled back to feel that, slipping my fingers out of my sex and feeling the slickness of my juices sliding over my body as I traced the curves of myself, a momentary brush of it before the pounding water above washed it away. Both hands of mine roaming across my burning skin, taking in the feel of myself to emphasize the certainty of the form that I was in.

To remind myself that right now I was a woman, as if that was something I was capable of forgetting.

I couldn’t deny that now, not with my hands entirely full of myself. I couldn’t deny or ignore the feelings inside of me, the touch of fingers on skin that didn’t belong to me but felt so right at the very same time.

It had been, somehow remarkably, less than twenty four hours since I woke up in the body of Emily and yet my time in this body had been so full that I couldn’t deny the fact that it was something real for me. I couldn’t ignore the fact that her skin, that her body, felt so right and so real. That when I closed my eyes now the memory of who I used to be was slipping away moment by moment.

That I was forgetting who I once was.

And the reason for that was so simple, so clear to me.

I’d felt good as a man before but it had never felt as good as this. The soft curves of this body and the entirely unsubtle fireworks that played out beneath my skin were so intense that I had never even come close to experiencing anything like it as a man. The lively youth of her was, in part, so enticing because it had been years since I’d experienced anything like it when I was in my old body, but at the same time my old body had never been so fully alive as Emily was.

The more time I spent in her skin and the more time I lived in this life and the more experiences I had with her, the more I wanted. The more the thought of going back felt less and less appealing. The more I wanted to just live in this moment, to find this future, to feel it all so fully.

A second chance. My second chance. Entirely unexpected and not at all what I thought I needed but maybe it was. Oh god maybe it was everything that I’d ever needed.

Hands cresting over supple breasts, pushing into them and holding them, squeezing to feel the youthful bounce and the undeniable and irrepressible perkiness of them. Feeling my hard nipples press against the skin of my palms. Feeling the way that squeezing them took my breath away, made my body weak, and made my appetites crave even more and more and more.

One hand pushing down and the other pushing up. Sliding up to my neck and squeezing softly around my throat and then pushing forward, fingers feeling the features of this new face of mine before tangling in my hair and yanking my head back a little. Then slipping down for me to press my thumb past my lips and drag my tongue back and forth across it until I was sucking on it and thinking only of the lost chance to fill my mouth with something more substantial, with something far more masculine than my slender feminine digit.

My other hand pushing down and slipping between my thighs and piercing the heart of me. Plunging a finger in and then another and then another and pumping into a rhythm that I couldn’t deny, that I couldn’t forget. That I would always want.

If I went back now and had my old body, my old life, I’d be craving this. If I returned to the world of being a man, I’d never be able to forget these feelings in my skin. I’d tasted perfection, perfect sin, and I would need it forever now.

So maybe I could stay? Maybe I could love? Maybe I could lust?

Maybe I could make a life for myself here?

Maybe, just maybe, I could stop thinking of Emily as her own person and her own life and her own history. Maybe I could realize that I was Emily and that Emily was me.

Or maybe that was all too much to contemplate right now.

Maybe, right now, I could just concentrate on making myself cum.

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