A is for Anal

So, anal sex. When we got together, both Daddy and I skirted the issue nervously and left it alone for the most part. I had tried it before, a couple of times, but always with little pleasure and more than a little pain. Never more than a fingertip had entered my body, and even then it was just Not Good. Orgasms for me are almost purely mental and if I can't talk myself into arousal (or if my partner doesn't talk to me while fucking me) it just isn't going to happen, and I couldn't coax myself through the pain to any kind of significant pleasure. So I stopped, somewhat regretting that I couldn't just DO IT -- I mean, it looks fun. I like the idea; the thought of having a second orifice available for penetration turns me on greatly. Just, in practice, it didn't work.

On the other hand, I have been the "giver" of anal sex, (oh, I know that is totally not the way to word that but I can't think of a better way to say it right now!) with nearly every partner I have had. I like the way my fingers feel buried in my lover's ass, and I love the intensity of the orgasms that come (heh) afterward. I really enjoy being the penetrative partner, the one to assess the situation and go slowly when it's needed, or faster and harder when it's time. I function very well on that kind of level and it makes me feel extremely connected with my lover. And it makes me feel very...tenderly protective. It's the closest I come to topping, honestly.

As we became more and more comfortable with each other and ourselves when we were in bed together, both Daddy and I gradually admitted that anal was one kind of sex we hadn't been comfortable exploring, but that now we were both curious. In fact, his previous partner had used anal sex as a target of ridicule and made it seem filthy, something of which one ought to be ashamed. (Need I add that they never even tried?) He was even more reluctant to admit his interest because of the mentality that he'd become accustomed to. It took a lot of coaxing on my part to help him understand that I find nothing about him or his body filthy or gross, and never could. Besides, I really do believe that if sex isn't messy, (at least SOMETIMES), then you aren't doing it right!

Earlier this week, I was going down on him, mouth snug against his clit, two fingers working deep inside his cunt, (wet, always so amazingly wet for me), when he asked me to please add his ass to the mix. It pains him to make this kind of request, and I don't actually require that he does it, but since this is such a sensitive issue with him, I am often reluctant to just go for it without knowing it's what he wants. When he made his request my heart swelled with pride for him and, fully aware of the effort it had cost him to ask, I gladly reached for the lube.

It took a little doing, as I was already laying on my stomach between his legs and partially propped up on my elbows, but in a few moments I was able to maneuver my left hand carefully between his cheeks. I stroked there gently, moving my mouth back to his clit and sliding the fingers of my right hand back into his gorgeous cunt. (Side note: I am unbelievably careful about which hand goes where -- I NEVER use fingers on the same hand to stimulate his cunt and his ass at the same time, much less move one hand from his ass to his cunt. I use my left hand for his ass and my right for his cunt, always. I just don't want to transfer any bacteria where it shouldn't go. Totally careful at all times about this.) He was tight -- nervous, I think -- and so I didn't push at all, just gently ran my fingertips over the ridges and valleys of him, feeling the contractions elicited by my fingers in his cunt echo in the twitches of his anus. It was lovely and I was prepared for that to be the extent of our exploration for the evening.

However, I think the sensation of so much stimulation between his legs was what allowed me to accidentally slip one fingertip into his anus after only five minutes or so. He moaned deep in his chest and began to buck against my hands, a huge orgasm washing through his body and shoving my fingers out of both ass and cunt. He is so strong! I hung onto his clit with my mouth, tongue working furiously, and penetrated him again in both holes. Another orgasm, this one complete with his body lifting entirely off the bed and shouts of pleasure that I'm sure were audible to our neighbors. (What do I care? Let 'em be jealous. :)

He begged me to stop then, and I did. His emotional reaction afterward was entirely reasonable; he was shaken by the pleasure he'd felt and still in the throes of "butt-shame" as he calls it. I washed my hands quickly, came back, held him, comforted him, and reminded him that he is beautiful and so his his body.

It's true; his body is perfect to me. It is a source of so much pleasure for both of us, and feeling him come as hard as he did that night satisfies me in a deep, intense way. I love when he lets me hold him, I love to take care of him, and that night brought out my tender, protective side like nothing had before.

He's my Daddy and I love him until the end of time and beyond.

(Soon I will detail my first experience with receiving anal from him. It was...intense.)

Poetic license

"Want to play?"

His breath was warm against my ear. When I craned my neck just enough, I could catch a glimpse of him in his black binder and camo shorts; he was wearing my favourite outfit of his. The binder accents his muscular arms and flattens his chest; he carries himself so differently when he's binding. The charisma he exudes is even more enticing than usual and I? I am lost in the dangerous purr of his words.

Unable to respond, I simply shake my head. No, Daddy, I don't want to play Maria Callas with you. It's a game I can never win, though it is fiendishly simple. The one and only rule: don't move, even as the razor slices deep and the cut lasts as long as her voice holds whichever note he chooses. And this is his favourite recording of her, so he cheats and picks only the longest passages, the times when she impossibly lilts up and down the scale for longer than I ever thought anyone could without breathing.

Opera singers. Sometimes they are the bane of my very existence.

But my denial is feeble, cursory at best. One of his long-standing rules is simple: I cannot use the word No when speaking to him. Sometimes, when he is feeling especially vicious, he will take a simple head-shake as a No as well, and make me pay for that. But last night he simply laughed.

"Come on, pet. We'll just play real quick." I tried my best, I really did, but every time he cut me my hips thrust helplessly into the bed, even as the tears came, wetting my cheeks. I cannot deny that the feel of his lips against the blood on my back turns me on terribly. Recently he confided that he can sometimes come simply from the taste of one mouthful of my blood, one deep slice of my skin, and that's all it took to reframe this practice of ours. Now I can take even the most painful cut, knowing that it feeds him even as it does me.

Before him I never dared to consider this kind of surrender, giving him the very flesh of my body to carve, the very blood in my veins to paint with or taste, as he pleased. Now I am fulfilled completely by the depth of our bond: fluid-bonded, soul-bonded, as he whispered to me last night, after the pain stopped. I cried then for a different reason; I have never felt love like this before. I am the luckiest girl in the world.

Butches and femmes and everyone in between

I began this post with the intention of writing about our progress on the fisting front (fisting me, I should specify) and the progress I made last night toward taking Daddy's ass, but this morning I am finding that I need to mull over both a bit longer. They feel too new and too tender, so I shall let them marinate.

Instead, I have been thinking quite a bit about butch/femme identities and how that applies -- or doesn't apply -- to my life. I've always been reluctant to quantify "my type" when asked. I mean, I am attracted less to a specific physical trait than I am to a personality quality; I am mesmerized by charisma. Daddy has it in spades; when he turns his attention to you, you can't help but feel bathed in his interest and approval, a heady combination that draws people to him like moths to an especially bright porchlight. It's an addiction in me now, and when you add his dominant personality to the mix...well, it is the perfect storm for me.

For a while, during the past couple of years, his doctors told him that physical transitioning would be impossible, that his liver couldn't take it and he might die trying. After such crushing news, he tried to move forward with his life, unable to accept that he might always have to be trans but pre-T and pre-surgery. So he tried to re-mold his personality and rebirth himself as the butchest dyke possible. He even managed it for a while -- after all, it wasn't all new to him. That's where he was for at least some of his life as a queer woman. But, of course, it didn't fit him, and he was able to take sufficient steps to achieve a level of health at which he could transition. And now he is and he is so thrilled with it, and so am I.

But that's a bit beside the point: when we are out on the street in our neighborhood we are routinely read as a lesbian couple, sometimes even if he is binding. I, with my shoulder-length hair, curvy figure, and clothing from the "girl" stores at the mall, read as the femme; he, with his mohawk, broad shoulders, over six feet of height, men's clothing, and gorgeously visible tats, is read as the butch.

At first, this bothered me. I thought it would (of course?) bother him, as well. He is from the deep South, where passing as male is less a political statement and more a matter of survival (at least sometimes, even in the year 2007 and beyond), so when he came here, to this queer, queer, queer enclave in this city that I love, and rarely passed, even though he changed NOTHING about his appearance...it was strange. And yet, when we talked about it, it didn't bother him. People seem to be more open to different gender expressions here, and many are so polite that they don't want to assume that he is trans, or step on either of our toes by suggesting that he ISN'T female, so they acknowledge him as a butch lesbian. I may not be able to explain that correctly...the point I'm trying to make is that people try to acknowledge him as butch and yet female, which is, to me, an expression of respect.

And I, of course, am by default the counterpart to his butchness. This does bother me because first of all, not all butches partner with femmes, nor do all femmes partner with butches, but that's not even it. What is it is that I don't identify as femme, no matter what I look like. Yes, I can dress feminine-ly, but I am not comfortable in heels and lipstick. Nor am I comfortable as a butch -- I just don't identify, personally, with either of those roles. But that isn't to say that I don't respect those expressions of gender and sexuality in others because I do. I am very often attracted to butch women, and I am very often intimidated by femme women, (and yet also inexplicably drawn to them). I just am neither one nor the other, as many of us aren't.

Which brings us to the thing that I most wanted to talk about: living in the grey. Daddy and I often talk of this because it's where we both are, always, and it's something that we love about each other. For me, I am neither butch nor femme, (and I know I don't have to be either, but for the purpose of explanation, I'll pretend I do), and at times I express (small) aspects of one or the other or even both at the same time. I love that I don't have to be one or the other for him or for me.

As for Daddy himself, yes, he is trans, and yes, he prefers male pronouns, but he also dwells in the grey area between male and female and is most comfortable there. He doesn't want gender-neutral language applied to him, (and, really, I have a hard time slipping them into conversation anyway -- lack of practice, I know) but he does see himself as genderqueer. I love that about him: I love the man in him and the woman as well and at the end of the day, to me he is my Daddy and that's all I've ever wanted. He's on T and he's going to have top surgery, but never bottom surgery. He loves his cunt, as do I, and wants to keep it. It's not a source of anguish for him, as it can be for many, many other transfolk.

The best thing about being as fluid as we are is that the friction between us is constantly changing. There are days when his male/butch/top energy is waxing and it brings out a very feminine/submissive side of me, but other days that same energy will bring out my own butch/aggressive side and we'll fight, wrestle, attack each other -- in a very good way. But no matter how things evolve between us, we bring out the best in one another.

I may need to return to this later. Hmm.

Update: showerhead

I am very, very sad to report that the showerhead, while shiny and gorgeous, does not "do it" for me. The water pressure just isn't intense enough. I'm keeping it anyway -- I mean, we did get pretty...involved, for a while there so I can't just kick it to the curb -- but my plans for big happy fun shower time are rather dashed. Le sigh!

It's time for another disappointing update: I have made no progress on Operation Tranny Fisting. Our schedule has prevented the kind of time comittment that this kind of venture necessitates, but I am hoping to give that another go within the next week.

Update #3: testosterone. We were recently lucky enough to become patients at the Sherbourne Clinic here in Toronto and we're under the care of one of two doctors on the LGBT floor. (We have our very own floor. I am...floored!) Daddy was able to get his T rx the very day we met her, and she even suggested that he move his shots from every 14 days to every 10 days to help him deal with the emotional flux that is common around day 12-14! He is thrilled, I am thrilled, and things are going *very* well on that front. Every day I bless T and the heightened libido that it brings to our relationship, and now I have something else to be thankful for: Sherbourne. I have never before felt so comfortable with and accepted by not just our doctor, but by every single person that works there. We waited about two and a half months to become patients but it was worthwhile. They are so trans-positive -- and not just trans-positive, but genderqueer-positive too. When they process you as a new patient, they take down your legal name, and also your chosen name, if you have one. And that's the one they use for you while you're there. I could write a novel about them, but the best thing I can say is what our intake counselor told us: they run the clinic the way the world *should* be: everyone is accepted just as they are, nobody is judged, and they constantly try to evolve with the changing needs of the communities that they serve. I wish I could work there, too.

For shame, blogger!

I've been remiss lately, I know. But I am back with a short observation on Things That Give Me a Happy: hand-held showerheads.

When I was a little girl I used to masturbate with allllll kinds of things, including a motorized nail-file (without the sandpapery part!), a mechanical toothbrush (again, without the abrasive part), and dolls of many sizes, shapes, and colors. All of this occurred within the safety of my bedroom, mostly at night, but the first-ever orgasm I had outside of my safe haven was in the shower with a hand-held showerhead.

It started innocently enough; I was just showering, you know, like you do, and rinsing off, also like you do, when one of the streams of water...caught my attention. That's all it took and voila, I had discovered the joys of masturbating in the shower. Sadly, I have never in my life OWNED my own hand-held showerhead.

Until today.

Daddy and I spent yesterday trying to install the showerhead only to be totally thwarted by the flow restrictor that turned the flow of water into a dribble of water. BUT. Now we have a bigger, better, (more expensive) showerhead, and I am actually praying that it works. Because I really, really miss shower orgasms. Here's hoping!

On Safewords

I've been following an ongoing discussion about butch/femme relationships (among other things) at Sinclair's blog, and while I'm not ready to tackle what *I* think about various gender expressions and sexuality, I did note an interesting comment from one of her readers about safewords.

Actually, I'm going to go back and find the comment so that I can give credit where credit is due: Kimi Dreams (here's her blog) commented on this post by Sinclair and mentioned that not all BDSM relationships utilize a safeword. All of this is to set the stage for me to say: we started out without safewords, Daddy and I. It worked at first, as we both grew more confident in our desire and in what we could expect from one another. I think we both wanted to be safeword-free for the duration of our relationship because that's the kind of friction that is most ignitable between us: what he wants to take from me and how I am able to give it up, and really, I don't want to be able to say no, and he doesn't want me to either.

But we ran into a problem. I have, as so many of us do, a very rocky time in my sexual past that occasionally rears up and bites me when I am not expecting it. One afternoon, Daddy began lining my breasts, belly, and clavicles with clothespins. The pain was searing, so intense that I couldn't keep still and in fact barely kept from screaming. I cried and thrashed but he refused to yield. Suddenly I was beyond terror -- I lost control of my emotions and began hysterically crying. I felt myself begin to panic (I have panic disorder -- normally this wouldn't happen in this situation, though) and tried to use my usual methods to calm down but the pain pushed aside everything I attempted.

"If you need me to stop, say the word," he told me, another pin biting into the thin skin above my right collarbone, but I didn't know any such word. "I don't know it, oh god, just take them off, please, please," I screamed, panic constricting my throat and roughening my voice. He saw, too late, that I was far beyond the state he had intended to put me in and immediately removed the pins, gathering me into his arms and talking to me until I was in control again.

After that, we established safewords. I can't speak for everyone in this kind of relationship, but I know for us that we need to be able to tell each other, very quickly, if things move in a bad direction. And yet I still wish I could have held on to the ideal of a safeword-free relationship...part of that is just my own pride. But I have yet to safeword because he was hurting me "too" much. So far only my own mind has overwhelmed me to that degree.

Natural

"You're a natural, baby girl," he panted to me, cradling my face in both hands as I raised myself from tonguing him for the first time. He told me later that he wondered for a moment if I had lied and if he wasn't my first. I am still not used to it; not used to thinking of myself as good at this. Somehow I expected that I would have much to learn, that I would need diagrams and books and gentle tutoring.

Is it strange that I was both elated and let down when I was told that I don't? Of course it is a pleasurable surprise to find that you are good at something that you're trying for the very first time, but for me I find that learning, allowing oneself to be taught, can be an act of submission. Admitting that you don't know it all and opening yourself to new knowledge -- I find it erotic. No more so than when he slipped his fingers inside me for the first time and showed me my G-spot.

"Orgasming is a learned behavior for many women," he explained to me as I writhed beneath him, more than a little afraid of the intense sensation he was coaxing from deep inside me, "and you haven't learned yet." I half-sobbed that I thought I was going to pee and recoiled from his touch as much as I could. "You aren't." He thrust his fingers into me firmly and curled them, stimulating me in ways I had never felt before. "You're just going to come for me really hard."

But I couldn't tell; I had never orgasmed like that before. Until I was with him, orgasms occurred only when I was alone, or *maybe* if my partner played with my nipples and gave me a long time to work through the many mental blocks I've set for myself against that simple, explosive pleasure. Coming was a chore, (it can be still), and it meant working my clit alone. I had never had an internal orgasm, as he calls them -- in fact, I never realized that there was more than one way to come.

When it happened for real, for the first time, I cried. It took us over a month and he literally walked me through it, and it was one of the most beautiful times of my life so far. Never before have I had a lover who knew and understood my body so intimately; my body had in fact begun to orgasm from internal stimulation before I recognized what it was, but he could tell by the feeling of my muscles working inside. "Tell me," I'd beg him, and he would. "Now...you're coming, baby," and I learned, slowly, to tell the difference between regular muscular contraction and orgasm. It felt so very different from what I know as a clitoral orgasm.

In the beginning, I was afraid. I thought it would hurt and I found the almost-going-to-pee feeling much too intense and off-putting. So we got me high first, enough so that I could relax and just feel what was going on. Normally I can't turn my mind off enough to enjoy sex, so this was the first time in my life that I really let go of everything that normally holds me back.

The night that I first honestly came, I was high and he had been fucking me carefully and tenderly, talking to me and reassuring me, for nearly an hour. Up until this point, I had slowly become more comfortable with the pre-orgasmic feelings that came from his fingers curling and uncurling inside me. I trusted that I wasn't going to pee on him, but I wasn't able to go from "ok...that feels pretty good..." to actual orgasm. It freaked me out too much and too often I would wrench away from him, distraught by the emotions that came with pushing me so close to the kind of edge I'd never before felt.

But that night, he didn't let me flinch away. "I'm going to fall," I cried to him, gripping him tightly around the neck and breaking into wild tears. "I'm right here and I'm going to catch you, little grrl, so fall. Let go, let go, let go, it's safe, you're safe, just let go..." he murmured into my ear, urging me closer and closer, until I did fall. And he was there to catch me, there to wipe my tears, there to bring me back to myself.

I am such a lucky grrl, to have a Daddy like him.

Why I Hate Drumsticks

There are twin bruises on my ass, disc-shaped, one at the apex of each cheek. They are a rich, dark purple, and the flesh beneath each is slightly swollen. My Daddy gave them to me, and though I take pride in them now, I hated their making. And I also loved it, and this, for me, is the dichotomy of what we do.

Daddy is a drummer, and one day, when I had been especially petulant with him (I admit that I do this far more often than I should; it's one of the best ways to get his full attention), he stripped me and stood me before his drummer's stool. "Stay still," he said, his hands cradling my hips as he faced me away from him and took his seat. He cued up a playlist and I winced, guessing at what was to come.

He began tapping out the rhythm of the music on his thighs with his drumsticks and I wrapped my arms around my belly and breasts, shivering away from the expected blows. But they did not fall; the music swelled and I closed my eyes, the better to hear what he was doing. When I let my guard down just a little, just enough to shift my stance slightly...that's when he hit me.

It was just one drumstick per cheek and it doesn't sound like it would hurt much, or possibly even at all, but my Daddy has a heavy hand, and he takes his drumming very seriously. This means that every beat is tightly controlled, from the speed at which the stick strikes the surface on which he is drumming (in this case, me) to the precise spot upon which the stick lands. It's always the same spot, you see, and the stick always lands with a certain oomph which, over time, becomes annoying, then painful, then unbearable. And he didn't begin with lighter blows -- no, he warmed up on his own legs -- so after five or six strokes I was already biting back sobs and trying not to twist out of his way. (I failed in this; I always fail in this.)

I am not at my best with real pain or even with extreme discomfort. I cry, I whine, I protest, I don't take it gracefully. I fight it, and I fight him. I'm trying to learn to control these impulses but the truth is that I think he likes the fight in me. He likes to force submission from me...and I like for it to be wrested from me. The thing is, the more it hurts, the more I cry, the harder he is on me, the wetter I get and the better the sex is.

So yes, the bruises on my ass are deep and precise, but they came from a beating that my Daddy gave me and I accepted from him and though I cried at the time, I am grateful to him. I am never more peaceful than when we are laying together after a wild, passionate, angry, tender period like this; it's something we both need and it brings us closer. That's what the bruises show me: how much we love each other.

QAF vs. L Word -- is there really any doubt about the outcome of this one?

Well, to me there isn't! I'm finding that I have a somewhat unpopular opinion about this obviously gripping issue: I prefer Queer as Folk all the way. Yes, I know Shane is hot (and Carmen, and dead, dead Dana, and honestly I think I would be a better person if I could just keep Alice in my pocket and pop her out every time I needed a pick-me-up), but not a single episode goes by without me screaming at the screen about the fucking asinine storylines and/or dialogue. And Jenny. What the fuck, Jenny? Can I possibly hate you any more than I already hate you? I submit that I cannot. My biggest hope is that she floated off in that damn boat and will magically never be heard of again. I figure it won't be that surprising, considering the many, many loose ends that the writers have left floating in the aether.

But QAF, QAF, QAF...I mean, Brian Kinney. Need I say more? Everything I need to know about life I learned from Brian Kinney. Yes, I know the lesbian couple isn't believable, and the storylines are over-the-top, but if I could keep Emmett in my other pocket, across from Alice, my life would be complete.

Then there's the sex. No QAF is complete without a Brian/Justin sex scene (though occasionally the other characters got some, too), but it seems that as the L Word goes on, the sex is less and less a part of the show. Is it lesbian bed death already? If I must watch the show, at least give me something pretty to look at. Otherwise there's no point at ALL.

Quest: FtM ejaculation, part 1 of ?

Side note: I was thrilled to see that one of my very favourite bloggers, Sinclair from Sugarbutch Chronicles, linked me after I recently borrowed a survey of hers. Her writing inspired me to start my own blog, so garnering her notice is very exciting for me. :)


Recently we have been discussing elements that one or the other (or both) of us would like to add to our sex life. We were outside smoking after a nice brunch when I broached my suggestion: I'd like to see if we can get him to ejaculate.

The subject came up because my deepest desire (right now) is to be fisted. We've tried. I think we've given it several really *good* tries, actually, and we get allllllmost there...and then it hurts. Not as in, huh...that's kind of uncomfortable, but as in, STOP RIGHT NOW FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I AM BEING BUTCHERED!! We've established that it's that crucial last half-inch or so that gives me such trouble; the place where his knuckles are widest catches against my pelvic bones and we're bone-on-bone with my flesh caught in between. No amount of lube or relaxation has helped us over that spot and I think we're both kind of frustrated with it. Deep down, I fear that I am one of the women who can't be fisted due to anatomy issues. I possess, (...am blessed with, really, I think...), a very tight cunt. Generally I am very pleased with her; this is the only problem we've run into so far. But it's a problem that sticks in my mind because it's the only roadblock to something we both want badly.

However, once I let it be known that fisting me is very much on the table, he told me that fisting him was also an option. I was shocked and very excited -- again, this is something I never thought he would be ok with, so much so that it never even crossed my mind to bring it up. He'd never been fisted either, so...wow! Once again, he blew me away with the lines he was willing to cross with me.

After that talk, we let things sit for a while and I didn't bring it up for weeks. Until Thursday morning, when I was fucking him just after we woke up. Suddenly he asked for another finger. And another. And another. He took them all easily and there I was, four fingers inside him, all the way to my third knuckle, and all that was left to do was tuck my thumb under and push.

It had happened so quickly! I thought I'd have to, like...work at it for a while! I was very excited but also concerned -- I well remembered how much it had hurt me when we tried to just 'push past the pain' before, and I didn't want to do that to him. I lubed up my hand (more lube than I'd ever used, and then an extra pump for luck), slipped my fingers back inside, and found myself easily drawn in, thumb and all. My last set of knuckles rested against the entrance to his cunt and my hand was duckbilled inside him, thumb tucked under, and I was overjoyed! After some research on my own I'd found that there are a few different definitions of fisting, one of which is simply all five fingers inside the pussy or ass -- so this was certainly fisting!

I told him and he was surprised but too busy enjoying the sensations to really talk to me about it. (Sometimes I let my excitement at what we're doing overwhelm my good sense -- I'm trying to get better at that.) The thing is, what we're both after is fitting my (or his) entire hand into the relevant area, wrist-deep.

With that in mind, I gently worked my way up to the point that always stopped us on me. I felt my knuckles brush his pelvic bones and then...I held back. I couldn't pull the trigger. I felt like it could have happened if I put my shoulder into it but was worried that attempting to work my entire hand into him at first try was excessive and might hurt him. And what if I never got to try again?

So I stayed there, working my fingers as best I could inside him -- he is STRONG! -- and he came several times. It felt strange to me, though, because I didn't have the type of room inside I'm used to having while fucking him with two fingers. Which makes sense, of course, all things considered. As the fuck continued, I spaced out a bit and wondered how the hell I ever could manage to find enough space inside him to fit the rest of my hand, assuming I got it past his bones. I'm still not sure!

At any rate, we both enjoyed it. At one point I went to pull out all the way -- slowly, of course, one finger at a time -- and he sharply told me not to. Oooooh. So I stayed and fucked him until my fingers got pruney and he was exhausted. :) It was a lovely morning.

His reaction to the experience made me wonder about ejaculating, so I am on a researching journey. I haven't yet tried anything, but it's in the works. I shall report back periodically with my findings. :)

Cunning linguist

I've mentioned that my boi is the first female-bodied lover I've had but the truth is that I have been queer my entire life. I knew it when I was 5; the little blondie across the street and I were "engaged". I loved her so! But then my mother told me that girls and girls couldn't fall in love and I believed her. My girl-crushes cooled off for a time as I grew up a bit more, but when I was a freshman in high school, I fell in capital-L Love for the first time...with the captain of my all-girl swim team. I didn't know exactly what I was feeling. I just knew that when she was around, I was so much more alive. Butterflies flocked in my stomach, and when she traced her fingers along my inner thigh on a late-night bus ride from one of our away meets, under the guise of "massaging" my leg, I thought I would die if she didn't stop touching me right that second. Or if she did.

But she was a senior and I was a freshman and all too soon she left for college. I remained at school with nothing but rumors of my supposed lesbianism, which were positively soul-crushing to me. Lesbian. It was a filthy word and it frightened me to the core. So I spent the next three years denying the rumors the best way I could: by dating as many boys as possible.

I didn't actually have sex for the first time until I was 18 -- the summer after I graduated high school. It's the same kind of boring tale that so many people have; dark 7-11 parking lot, front seat of my car, wondering if it was in yet and why I wasn't bleeding. It didn't hurt. It didn't feel great. It didn't really feel like much at all, actually. And he was a total loser, as well. I didn't do it for love or because all my friends were doing it. I just wanted to get it over with before I left for college. So as far as I was concerned, sex was messy and boring. I didn't mind doing it but it didn't knock my socks off by a long shot.

College: I screwed around with 5 different guys in the first two weeks and then immediately fell into a long-term relationship with the safest (read: most boring and backbone-less) boy I'd met. And I spent my free time online, reading all that I could about bisexualism (I was willing to admit that I *might* be bi, but not a Lesbian, oh no no no), and every time we fucked I closed my eyes and saw nothing but girls.

I tentatively attended one meeting of the undergrad GLBT club; it seemed like a huge clique, I was terribly shy, and I left as soon as I possibly could. I crushed regularly on girls in my classes but didn't dare hit on one -- what if I was rejected? Everyone knew me as straight. I tried so hard to fit myself to that label that I couldn't even see myself clearly anymore. I was suffocating.

Finally, after a long, long struggle, I admitted to myself that I was queer. And I admitted to myself that I was in love with my boi -- it only took YEARS to get to that point. But he was in a relationship, I was in a relationship, blah blah blah...so I'll fast-forward to a few months ago.

He's female-bodied; so am I. I had had plenty of time to dream about what sex with him would be like. I'd read so much porn that I think I actually exhausted the internet's seemingly endless resources! And yet, there I was, 29 years old and faced with my first-ever real live cunt. Oh. My. God. And what made it worse is that he'd had more than a little experience since he'd been out as queer since he was 15, and out as trans since he was 21. Let's just say he's always been popular with the ladies.

So there I am, in his room, on my stomach, between his legs. My heart was racing, I was dripping with arousal, and I was scared out of my mind. What if I did it wrong? What if I didn't like the taste? What if I hurt him by accident? What if...I was HORRIBLE at it?

But none of my fears changed the reality of his gorgeous pussy laid out before me and I knew that I had best dive in, literally and figuratively. It's what I'd always wanted, after all, and if I was bad at it, I'd learn in time how to please him.

Eyes shut. Tongue out. Breathe. His scent, both new and entirely familiar, intoxicated me. I leaned forward and made contact with his skin, just above his clit. Salty and sweet at the same time -- it was a new taste to me, but not bad at all. Just different than I'd tasted before.

I opened my eyes and panicked for a second. What if I couldn't find his clit? But there it was, just where it should be -- he is blessed with a larger clit than most and I was *so* grateful for it (and still am!) because it gave me the landmark I was looking for. I hesitated, tongue poised...and licked. Gently. No teeth.

Further up the bed, he moaned encouragingly. "A little harder." So I gave him some pressure and licked again. His second moan released something inside me, and suddenly all of my fear was gone. I mean, I HAD one of these myself! I had a good idea of what felt good. All that remained to find out was what he specifically preferred!

As I relaxed, I decided that I would take a plunge (heh) that I hadn't actually planned on trying so soon, and starting at his clit, my first two fingers slid between his inner lips and I began to probe gently for his opening.

And I couldn't find it. Panic returned! What the fuck must he be thinking of me right now? I tried to hurry up but his wetness (oh, he was so so so wet) confused my touch and I was too afraid to push too hard because I didn't want to hurt him. Oh god, this is taking forever... I began licking harder at his clit, hoping to distract him at least, and without even thinking about it, I took the whole thing into my mouth. Pinning it against the roof with my tongue, I carefully began to rub it back and forth. He arched his back and spread his legs further for me -- I was thrilled! It was working!

As his hips began to move, my fingers suddenly slipped into him. I was so relieved! That only lasted a second, because I was immediately overcome by this new, incredible feeling -- the feeling of being completely enveloped by my lover's body. It was so intense that I began to cry, my tears mixing with his slickness and bringing more salt to my tongue.

As he began to come, I instinctively curled my fingers into the tightness in his cunt and that's how I found his g-spot, the existence of which I had questioned until that moment.

Afterward, wrapped in his arms, I told him that it was the most beautiful experience I'd yet had with a lover. And it was, until he taught me to come.

Working out the kinks in our kink

Sometimes, even in the best relationship, things don't work as planned (in bed...and elsewhere, but I specifically mean in bed right now). Last night was one of those nights.

"Little girl, get up on your knees and elbows, RIGHT NOW," he growled at me. I'd been in the fetal position with my knees tucked up underneath me, face down, my arms stretched out over my head. He'd been relentlessly rimming my ass for the better part of ten minutes.

I've never been much for ass-play. Previous lovers have tried; the idea of anal sex was titillating, so forbidden and risque. But I am a delicate girl and I am very, very tight, so it's always ended up hurting too much to continue. So I've never had anal sex. I've barely managed to take even a fingertip.

But I trust my boi implicitly, and when we decided that we were interested in trying this again, it felt like a good decision to me. There's nothing I will ever deny him. I wanted him to take my virginity this way -- it's the last that I have. I want it to be his.

And yet it's hurt before, and so I'm scared. I don't think I've made this clear enough to him, as evidenced by our miscommunication last night.

I sobbed softly, but got to my hands and knees as instructed. "Good girl, you're so open to me now," he purred and immediately penetrated me with his tongue. The feeling was so disconcerting, hard and yet soft and wet at the same time. I didn't like it. At all.

"Stop squirming or I swear to god, I will grab a handful of lube, strap on, and fuck your ass right now, don't even think for a second that I won't." He spanked me, hard, more of a slap that ended with him gripping a handful of my ass and squeezing than a true spank. I whimpered and answered him, turning my head so that my mouth was clear of the pillow I'd been hiding in. "Yes, Daddy."

I'm his little grrl. He's my Daddy.

His tongue slipped into me again. I couldn't help it; I jerked away. He wrapped both hands around my hips and yanked me back, the motion serving to press his tongue further into my ass. I yelped. It didn't feel great, that was true, but it was scaring me more than it was hurting. This time I held still.

The squirmy feeling stopped abruptly and was replaced by his fingers, stroking my anus softly. I sobbed again; this felt good and that scared me, too.

One fingertip stopped, probed gently. "I am going to shove my thumb into your ass now," he said, calmly. I gasped, dumbfounded. I knew it would be excruciating. I was not the least bit ready for something like that. "I'll count down for you: three, two..."

I couldn't help it; I jerked away. "No!" I cried into the mattress, "No." He pulled me back, repositioned his thumb.

"Three, two..." I jerked again, agitated beyond myself. "You have no fucking idea what you're doing," I sobbed. I meant it; I thought he was going to fuck me that abruptly, with that little foreplay. When we're in the moment like that, I believe everything he tells me.

The finger withdrew. "Why do you do that?" His voice was low, angry. I froze. "Why do you get so damn mouthy?" I was silent; I thought this was part of it.

He seized me around the waist and pulled me toward him, his hands rough. I balled up and covered my face with my hands. He likes to slap me across the face (and I like for him to do it) but I instinctively protect myself against it sometimes.

But he wasn't after that. He was honestly angry and I just didn't realize it. I landed in his lap and he pressed his forehead to mine, his eyes grey and stormy. "Answer me. Why do you get so damn mouthy?"

My mind raced. How do you answer a question like that? "I don't know, Daddy." It was a useless response and I knew it.

"You have to be in control, you have to know everything at all times, you have to KNOW, don't you?" He shook me for emphasis. "You need to learn to keep your damn mouth shut."

"Yes, Daddy," I muttered. I had no idea what he was talking about.

"'Yes, Daddy' what?"

What? "Yes, Daddy...?" I didn't know what he wanted me to say.

"'Yes, Daddy, I'm sorry for running my fucking mouth,'" he prompted. I started to get angry, too. I didn't realize I'd been running anything. I repeated it anyway.

"Get up." He pushed me off his lap. I knelt in the center of the bed, waiting to see what he wanted next. But he was...moving around the room, shutting off lights and turning the music off and...getting ready for bed?

I didn't understand. The room went black.

I felt shut down, thrown aside. What the hell had just happened? I lay down on my side of the bed and curled up, dismal.

"Where did you go?" His voice wasn't as angry in the dark.

"I don't understand you," I answered, dully. I've never been good at rejection.

He put his hand on my back. "What do you mean?"

We've been in love for ten years but we only got together a few months ago. Before that, neither of us had had any experience with BDSM in any capacity other than fantasy. We both wanted it, needed it, yearned for it, but never wanted to do it without the other. So the actual practice of domination and submission is new for us both and sometimes, we run into...kinks. Lately I have been having trouble submitting completely due to other shit going on in my life. He knows this and is trying to bring me back into line, but it's not been successful yet. And I don't think it's his job to get me there; it's mine. I'll get there.

So after a few fits and starts, we worked out that he had never intended on going through with fucking my ass like that. I just believe everything he tells me when we're intensely in that mindset. And my telling him that he didn't know what he was doing hurt him and made him angry, but I didn't know that his reaction wasn't just part of what we were doing in the first place. So we put measures in place for him to tell me if he was actually angry, and I promised not to say that again to him.

We're working on it. Sometimes a dom doesn't know exactly what a sub wants, fears, or feels, and sometimes a sub doesn't respond the way a dom wants or needs. But the more we do this, the better we get at reading each other, and the better the sex -- and the connection -- will be.

An old survey, filched from Sugarbutch

my favorite way to come is: sobbing in ecstasy as he fucks it out of me with his fingers.

the way I come the hardest is: the most intense orgasm I've yet had was while high, as he held my inner lips tightly and licked my clit as hard as he could. I *never* come like that -- it blew my mind.

what I think about to tip myself over the edge: his eyes boring into mine, his voice urging me on as my nipples are relentlessly pinched and twisted and my clit is, too.

what scenario I imagine when I'm alone: being restrained and made to come over and over (in my fantasy I can come as easily and as hard as I like...which is to say, easily and HARD).

what I crave: to turn off my inner monologue and give in to him completely, to feel overpowered by something bigger and stronger than myself, to lose myself for a time in our own little world -- to feel utterly dominated. Sexually, I most want to be fisted. I've never been, though we've tried, and I want it so badly.