Girl on the Net

I’m really excited about this week’s guest blog, it’s hot and sweet and vulnerable and gorgeous. Please welcome Dissembling Cub, a non-binary trans guy who’s here to share a story about getting fucked for the first time ‘as’ a guy, wearing a double-ended dildo. Sometimes writing sex stories is like performing for people, fucking in a theatre to which anyone can buy a ticket. Other times, like this one, it’s like opening up the bedroom door and letting people peek through into some of the most intimate sexy bits of your life.

Bottom euphoria – fucking as me

Sir bites my lip, one hand at the back of my neck, pushing my head up, the other pinching my ear. When he pulls back, his eyes are blue, blue. I’m kneeling up on the edge of bed, and wearing nothing but a harness. Between my legs, there’s something I don’t usually have.

I don’t normally get bottom dysphoria.

If you don’t speak trans, what I mean is that normally the fact I have a cunt rather than a cock doesn’t bother me. Normally I fucking love my clitoris. Normally when I’m get dicked down, it’s handy that one hole is self-lubricating, and doesn’t need to be douched.

But this is not normally.

Because when Sir runs his hands down my back, around my arse, he can reach between my thighs and start stroking them up and down my dick.

I moan, stretching up for a kiss, but he puts a hand on my collar bone, pushing me back. He pauses, pumps some lube on to his fingers, goes back to stroking me, rougher now, grip firmer. I watch him, his eyes, his lips, the curve of his neck from his collar to his jaw. For once I don’t brat out, or pout, or say something smart mouthed.

Because this is not normally.

The word ‘pegging’ never did it for me. Even before I came out, it felt like bad manners to draw attention to the fact my dick was only silicone. And if I didn’t like the word, I didn’t like doing it much, either. With no feedback, I just got bored up there, dysphoric. Besides, I might be a trans guy, but that doesn’t make me a top.

One hand still around me, Sir unzips his fly, pulls out his cock, rubs the length of it against mine. I moan. With the smart bit of my mind, I know it’s just the pressure of the dildo against my clit, that the bulb inside me is pushing against my g-spot, but that’s not how it feels. I take both cocks in one hand and Sir pulls me to him, both his arms round my shoulders now, the pair of us locked together.

One kiss, and my mouth is still soft for it when I’m yanked around, shoved down on to the bed. His hand heavy on the nape of my neck. “Stay there.”

I struggle, because brat, but all I can think of are his fingers in the short hair at the nape of my neck, and how I can feel my dick, thick and solid against my stomach, between my thighs. I hear him undressing and stay as still, like I was told to.

He knees my legs apart, rough, the way I like it. “Raise your arse up, boy.”

Boy.

Sometimes, one word can undo you.

Everything shifts: the arousal, the love, the way my chest feels flat against the bed, the way his hands are on me, possessive, hard. Everything: the weight of my dick, shift of my shoulders as I raise myself, even the straps of the harness, their roughness.

I have never felt so very boy.

It’s something about how his fingers, heavy and cold with lube stroke my arse, push their way in to me. It’s something about how my mind and body are working together now. First time ever. I’m too tense, trying to relax, but it’s all too much. It doesn’t matter how many times we’ve done this before, because it’s never been this.

His free hand is careful, on my sides, my back, keeping me steady. “That’s it,” he says, going careful, going slow.

Can he tell? My face buried in the pillow, my thighs shaking, my arse against his hand? Can he tell the way the fight’s gone out of me? Tell how much I need him, how much this suddenly means? There’s his cock, so thick and warm, and there’s mine, yes, there I am, bucking against the bed, feeling it like I was always meant to feel it.

He pushes harder, slamming me back down, hands crushing my shoulders, breath harsh in my ear. “There’s my boy,” he says, “That’s my little tart.”

I squirm down in to the bed, crushed between it and him, hot and keen and breathless except when he yanks me back up by my hair. Except when I’m twisting to kiss him, when he sometimes let me. I could go on, give you long page of rough, hard, dirty smut, tell you how my hands made fists in the sheets and I bit the pillows, about how long it went on and how I came so hard I nearly pushed the dick right out of me.

But really, it was all about the moment I felt him cum inside me, the way he arched up and bent over me, how I felt his cheek on my neck, and how raw his voice was when he said my name. Not the old one, not the one too many people still call me, but my name.

The one I chose for me.

And what it’s really all about is the way he holds me as I lie there, ruined and weak and covered in cum, and finally, finally whole. Because after so many first times, this is the real first time. This is the first time it happened as me.

This post is sponsored by the awesome people at Peepshow Toys. They give me money to support my blog and help me pay guest bloggers, and they also sell a fabulous range of body-safe sex toys including wearable dildos, harnesses and more.