Did not need to see that

I haven’t bothered trying to perfect the art of administering an enema since the disastrous first time and, thanks to keeping an online diary, I know I haven’t had anal sex this year.

So when the little devil on one shoulder says, “Hey, the Country Boy suggested engaging in some anal sex sometime. Drop your pants and go for it now,” and the little angel on the other shoulder says, “You’ve not had to think about how clean and empty your body truly is for some time. Stop and think properly,” listen to the angel. The angel knows.

I know everything washes off with soap and water, but there is such a thing as too much sharing.

The body still surprises (or, my arse rocks the house)

A similarity between the non-sexual and sexual compartments of my life is that I am driven largely by the push and pull forces of curiosity and learning. Sexually, the greatest lesson last year was when Jekyll fisted me for the first time. A human hand fitted inside my body and it took two days for me to dare look at the photo because of the shock at my body’s hidden capability. This year Country Hottie sent my sense of comprehension reeling when I squirted for the first time. I was tied up and expecting a simple spanking scenario but the torrents of liquid running down my thighs told me that another bodily secret had been unveiled. I don’t necessarily enjoy the sensation but it could make a fun party trick when I work out how to do it myself.

Mr OMG has caused probably the second-most surprising moment of the year. He called a few mornings ago at an unexpected time that only birds and tradespeople (and me, now) are going about their business and all he wanted to say was how full his mind was with sexual thoughts. I’m not sure what’s behind his increased attentions of late but who am I to do anything but encourage more? We organised to meet on his way home from a Christmas party but I didn’t expect him because I thought he was too optimistic in the time he could leave. However, he called half an hour earlier than he had guessed and was 10 minutes away if I wanted him to drop by. I was in bed reading a book and sleepy enough to desire being draped around him lazily but alert enough to launch out of the covers, strip my clothes and greet him naked.

I left the bedroom door wider ajar than last time to bathe more of his lean body in light from the loungeroom. We mock argued about who was going to devour the other first, and he capitulated after the briefest of jostlings and laid on his back. I used my mouth from the head of his cock past his balls, with the sensation of my wet tongue brushing along the perineum making him shudder like a skyscraper in heavy wind. I wondered how long it had been since someone had adored attention on him there so I made a few passes that caused guttural sounds to escape from deep in his throat.

I flicked and twirled and rolled my tongue around his hole but he reacted most strongly to my tongue diving in as far as I could reach. He wanted deeper penetration and lifted his legs to allow me freer access. I snuck a look up and thought I saw his feet, hands and head in a perfect horizontal row; I’ll have to ask him to do that again when I’m less aroused so I can appreciate his range of movement (and think deviously about other positions that make full use of his flexibility).

He became too charged sexually to tolerate more foreplay and went down on me before we fucked with him on top. It was my turn to make guttural noises from who-knows-where each time his cock sank deeply. He tested the water and said coyly that he had thought again about fucking me anally — in a classic case of reacting before thinking, I squeezed my muscles and ascertained that I felt clean and empty enough to try. Before I gave myself the chance to talk myself out this hasty consent,  I grabbed a tube of lubricant out of the drawer, smeared a generous cold glob over his cock and rubbed the surplus between my legs. He winced at the initial chill but shuddered again and almost toppled from his kneeling position as I masturbated the slick fluid along his length — I suspect he’s never had a lubed hand caressing his cock and I plan teasing him to madness another time when he is unfettered by protection.

He laid me back on the bed and lifted my legs so they rested on his shoulders. Before I could ask him to move slowly and not allow the head of his cock to escape, he was half way in and thrusting. I don’t know which of us was more surprised by the smoothness of his entry. We checked each other’s welfare and were both feeling fine. I propped my head on a pillow so I could take in the view of his cock shifting in and out and felt tingling waves of goodness emanating from my centre. He pushed with more determination a few times and said he was all the way in and asked if I felt all right. I muttered a perplexed, “I do, I feel fantastic actually.” His noises told me more than enough about the joy he was experiencing.

He came and withdrew while he was still hard and we collapsed together — in released pleasure for him and thrilled surprise for me. My body accepted and enjoyed his cock with more ease than a finger or a smaller penis and I felt lighter than air. He didn’t understand my sense of wonder but he didn’t have to; memorable moments are often gifted by people who never realise the magnitude of their benefaction.

I was glad I gave him this pleasure and I felt good, too. If there is a next time, I’ll ask if he wants to try doggy style so he can watch the show as I suspect he’ll enjoy that very much.

Fight

Preparation

I assembled, packed, unassembled, re-packed, paced the house, showered, unpacked, checked my phone a dozen times to ensure he hadn’t cancelled, re-packed and pounced on the tick of the clock that I was allowing myself to leave the house.

The timing was good: I tried a new route in daylight that got me there a longer but quicker way and I arrived in the comfort of darkness. I stopped in the town centre to change shoes and breathe a few moments.

I parked and knocked on his door. Hair straightened and tied back, fresh make-up with darker eyes and glossier lips than usual, pressed white shirt, charcoal pencil skirt, black heels and leather compendium. No earrings — lose them too easily. Friendly-but-tired-after-a-long-work-day smile. We didn’t shake hands but he welcomed me in. I left my handbag in the entrance hall.

I flipped out brochures and property prices I’d ripped from the web and prattled inanities about the market as he walked me around the loungeroom. He started friendly enquiries veering towards where I live, who I am, who I’m with. I brushed him off with a fabricated life as a divorced career changer with little interest in men and no interest in clients. He maintained generous personal space between us in the open plan kitchen and dining room; a third of the house inspected and I hadn’t noticed any clues of when or where he would transfigure.

Aggression

Home office, main bedroom, second bedroom, I talked about walk-in robes and en suites and he asked more insistently if I would consider dating a client. Preparing to strike. He had left until last the narrow and dark hallway and compact bathroom, toilet and laundry. Which one? I didn’t have a plan to instigate action if he let me inspect the house without interruption — suddenly I was more nervous about something not happening.

He closed the personal space in the bathroom but moved to allow my exit. I checked the toilet perfunctorily and stepped out towards the laundry. He blocked my path silently. In heels I was taller but he dominated the space with presence alone. Too early to resort to panic although my heartbeat was hurting my eardrums. I stood my ground and told him to let me through.

He asked for a date, a kiss, just one, he knows I want to, he’s lonely, the town lacks single women, just one kiss. I said no, no, no, no, let me finish my job and I’ll leave without reporting you. Let. Me. Go.

There’s a gap here. The next thing burned in my memory is being pressed against the wall of the hallway with both of my hands locked in one of his and my compendium wedged against my throat. He licked my face. I spat at his. He slapped mine and I spat again, giving tacit permission for more. I remembered later that he alternated sides — a considerate attacker.

Another gap. I remember seeing my fishnetted legs strobing under the entrance hall lights as he dragged me by my feet towards the loungeroom. My skirt must have gathered somewhere around my backside. When was the transition from vertical to horizontal? I twisted and launched for my bag and car keys. He slapped my thighs so sharply that my eyes shed tears of surprise and the keys slipped from my fingers.

We wrestled on the carpet. I don’t know where the buttons of my shirt ended up landing. He stuffed the rags of my underwear in my mouth. I spat them out and bit his arm. He wrenched my inner thighs between his thumb and fingers and sent flames through my nervous system. Easy way to stop me biting.

We surged with the same adrenal gland chemicals and fought with the same intensity but he was stronger. I squirmed and pushed and shoved and we shed the same amounts of sweat and exhaled loudly in unison. I sent strings of verbal obscenities as surprises but words were useless against the decades he’s spent strengthening his body.

Pleas

I scanned my surroundings and was surprised to see I had dragged myself with him atop me in a full circle towards the front door. With the realisation of my effort came the loss of my energy. Nothing. I slumped and moved to bargaining with my captor and wished to myself the gift of a second wind. He said I could leave when I had done what he planned. I nodded and looked away. He cajoled and offered me water, fresh clothes, safety if I obeyed.

My prediction about duct tape and hessian rope was wrong: a box on the bookshelf contained lengths of chain, thick powerlifters’ nylon and velcro straps with large D-rings and rock climbing caribiners. I didn’t protest my wrists being shackled. He left my legs unfettered and guided me to the dining room, his spare hand carrying jangling metal for the next phase.

He attached my ankles with chain around the legs of a dining chair. My hands connected to my feet with more chain draped through the chair’s support beams. As he was arranging other chairs in a formation, I scratched away at the velcro around my wrists and freed my left hand, then my right. As he bent to remove his pants I dropped the wrist restraints and fled with the chair still attached to my feet — he had wound the chain around and not through the wood and the furniture had to come with me.

Funny moment one: I dipped my head to avoid being seen smiling when the futility and stupidity of this tactic hit.

Defeat

I ended up lying on the floor while still attached to the chair, as if I were eating a meal and everything had been tipped backwards at 90 degrees. The tiles were cold and he collected a cushion from the loungeroom for my head. I rejected the gesture but quietly wanted to hug him for being a sweet bastard. He punished me with nipple twists and slaps that elicited unguarded shrieks of pain. I had revealed my tender spots and he pinched me there again when I refused his cock in my mouth.

He turned his body around and my world became black when his testicles spread over my face. I felt digits on my breast and started licking to avoid another wrenching. He edged lower and I knew what was coming.

Funny moment two: When he insisted I use my tongue on his arse, I called him perverted and disgusting and filthy and I couldn’t do that because I didn’t know what to do. My script writer needs a kick in the pants. He was spotlessly clean and hairless and I was in reality wanting very much to pleasure him with my tongue.

Submission

My hands were turning red and purple from restricted circulation and the bend of the chair prevented his next act of fucking me. I was the quietened victim with my eyes shut and head turned. Yes, I will do as you bid and promise to behave if you loosen the bindings. I ended up facing the chair, bent with my head resting on the seat in an upsidedown J with hands fastened in front. With time and space now to watch and absorb, I was aroused and tried to conceal my readiness for his cock by clenching my thighs. He slapped them open.

He fingered me and I came with my eyes open in a naive attempt to bely my body’s ripples. He wasn’t done and I abstractly watched a rain shower spray from my cunt. He was pleased and I still disbelieved that my body holds these fluids for his taking.

He entered my messed-up hole and I bit my lip to contain my noises. I was unsure whether to continue feigning horror or head towards redemption and give myself to him. Don’t fantasy rapists want to ‘convert’ their victims? I must have started rocking back into his cock — a finger invading my anus let me know we were still in role. My final pleas were for mercy when his cock moved towards the space broken by his finger. Another gap — sensation overload? I remember him taking me anally for what seemed a long time but can’t remember how much I enjoyed.

He withdrew and stood by my side as I lifted my head for the next act. There weren’t any words and I don’t recall any cues but at the same moment we broke into warm smiles and he hugged me and we laughed and kissed like reuniting lovers. He freed my wrists and we tongue kissed and found new reserves of a different kind of energy. I was more talkative than he about the previous 90 (that was all!) minutes — he said something about needing to stage a roleplay if we do another one and I wasn’t sure of his meaning. I was already dragged in too many mental directions to ask. I’m curious now but it’s probably not important as once is more than likely enough now I’ve come down. With the return of commonsense I thanked him effusively for *not* letting me escape when I was mostly naked and attached to the chair.

He led me to the sanctuary of his bedroom with murmurs of affection and how early the night still was. I stopped by the bathroom to tame the mass of fairy floss that was my hair and to tidy the rings of eyeliner that smudged more than I could have planned — I looked completely fucked.

Somewhat lost in translation

I received a text message from Country Hottie in response to the scenario ideas: “Mmmm thks for e-mail so horny now lets do one line soon x.”

I think that means no at this stage to the first 95 per cent of my message, but he wants to fuck my arse as I described in one of the final lines (the sentence was more graphic and daring in the version I sent and was presumably the one that got his testosterone racing.)

I’ll see what happens — or when, more to the point because it is him, but I already have a Plan B dom/sub scenario in the back of my mind. I should be careful what I wish for because he is of larger than average length and girth and has enviable endurance. Each time with anal sex feels like the first time, which is the dangerous beauty of its dual games of trepidation and anticipation.

PS: I hope the unplanned new look is working.


Rolling hips – 0, jackhammer – 1

The outline of some strap-on action played out the other night almost to the letter, except the part where I ask if ArmyDude wants the larger dildo — in real life he told me to damn well stick it inside him. He took the wide implement to the hilt where my hand was providing stabilisation, and he wanted my fingers uncurled from the dildo’s base so he could swallow the last half-inch. I was more surprised than he.

A couple of days later my hamstrings still ache, my groin muscles protest with the effort of getting out of bed and my quadriceps and upper thigh muscles are unrelentingly and distractingly sore. Fucking is really hard work: men, I salute you for lasting longer than a few minutes at a time.

Granted, much of a woman’s work in wielding a strap-on is in managing balance and co-ordination of an appendage that can’t be sensed spatially or felt bodily. After a while, I was begging silently for him to either stop or come because my legs were screaming with unfamiliar strain. The other difference is the way my body moves in penetration: the thrust originates at my hips and the movement rolls downwards and forwards like a wave breaking to the shore before receding out to sea and starting again. Short-stroked aggressive pounding isn’t on my body’s list of features, only my list of loves as a recipient.

I ended up wrapped behind his backside with one hand helping my hips plunge the dildo and the other stroking his cock. He groaned with pleasure at the tempo of my thrusting but wanted quicker rubs of his cock: it’s like trying to pat your head and rub your tummy at the same time at different speeds. Ain’t gonna happen with this neurally-challenged amateur man-fucker, I can tell you right now.

We changed positions and he propped himself atop my recumbent form and lowered his arse down the dildo. I laid back and enjoyed the visual feast of the man bouncing up and down my fake dick with unrestrained enthusiasm. The joy wasn’t for me erotically but I felt warm with pleasure about being included in a fantasy he’s day dreamed about for a long time. And, slyly, I was hoping he’d be as sore the following day as he makes me sometimes because he treats my anus as an instrument that doesn’t require tender loving care.

His legs fatigued after a few minutes of riding me and we set the gear aside for the finishing act. In line with my promise, I asked mouth, cunt or arse? He chose the latter and gave me a straight-stroked reaming from behind that was glorious to behold at the time but I can still feel inside. Payback. He came hard and collapsed over my back. We hobbled to the bathroom arm-in-arm to clean the lubricated mess we had created and compare the damage tally. I think I won. Thank goodness birthdays are only once a year.


Enema. Fail.

[I promise to make this entry as benign as possible. My motivation for this blog is to document and understand the good, the bad and the ugly, and today landed on butt ugly.]

I have a reasonable idea of the spatial layout of my gastrointestinal tract and knowing when and where I feel full, empty, clean, not clean and combinations thereof. The prospect of anal sex increases my focus on bodily movements though: when preparing for an expected encounter, I eat lighter meals a couple of days prior, pay heed to my bowel movements and do a quick clean in the shower with a finger and gentle soap before leaving the house in case a curious tongue or hard cock probes its way around there. When I’m not satisfied with my feelings of emptiness or cleanliness, I communicate and we focus on the myriad other ways of sharing pleasure.

Something happened a few months ago that’s meddled with my relaxed ritual, and I’m not pleased because I keep thinking it’s not my fault.

I was with Jekyll during one of our hotel afternoons and he made indications towards anal penetration, but we’d gone out for a late breakfast before we checked into the hotel. My stomach was heavy with an impulse order of eggs Florentine, which triggered the gastrocolic reflex too early and I felt increasingly full and uncomfortable with digestive machinations. I told Jekyll I didn’t feel empty enough and but was coaxed into listening to his counter-claim that everything would be all right.

Wrong. I won’t go into too much detail but I was indeed full, the sex was uncomfortable and I called a stop and ran to the shower when I caught smell of the waste I warned him about.

Instead of listening and respecting my knowledge of my body, Jekyll defended and suggested I learn the ancient art of administering an enema. The thought has drifted through my mind ever since, wondering if one of us was right or wrong or if a formal cleansing was a useful practicality rather than an attempt to obliterate a conflicting guilt trip (on one hand it’s partially for his benefit so I sense guilt trip , but on the other hand he is comfortable with self-administration when he’s been a bottom for gay and bi men he’s had sex with so it’s no big deal for him).

Anyway, as part of the education process I spent part of an afternoon messing about with an enema kit (not the fancypants, scary one that looks like a hot water bottle and hangs in the shower, but a big squeezy bottle with a three-inch tube). Not happy. I got lube over the bathroom floor, fluids escaped during administration and more towels were soiled than I’m going to admit, the toilet needed a damn good scrubbing after expulsion and I don’t think I got enough liquid inside to conduct a thorough cleansing despite the mayhem in the bathroom. The hours of subsequent cramping indicated I tried to force the warm water too quickly or too much air was introduced when trying to piece together a workable process.

Fuck that shit.

I know my body. I also know I don’t like to fail but on this occasion I’m content to flunk the masterclass in scouring one’s insides.

(And remember to follow qualified and verified opinions if searching for advice on the web. I checked about 20 sites and at least a dozen contained conflicting information and advice bordering on negligence. At least I learned how to erase my web browser’s history as I was using The Drummer’s computer and there is such thing as too much information.)

Fucking to forget

Some unexpected and distressing news about an immediate family member was received and in the past few days I’ve struggled from helpless crying into wallowing in denial and crawling towards a listless imitation of life while tests are run and experts make diagnoses and the ground we stand on is shaking uncontrollably.

The illusion of having control over life is strongest when the passage is smooth. Sure, setting goals and making decisions can influence life’s direction, but bad tidings can arrive without warning and with enough stealthy force to warp every perception before the moment the information was delivered. What was enjoyable yesterday is suddenly frivolous and pointless; the pursuit of pleasure was enlivening and spirit raising but is now tainted with guilt; and what am I doing masquerading as a modern-day libertine when, just over there, someone might be dying? Who the fuck do I think I am?

Literally a few minutes before life became gravely serious I had made a hotel booking to meet Jekyll the following day. After thoughts finished crashing between hiding in denial and screaming internally in defensive Fuck it! I still have to live! I confirmed the booking and gave myself permission to seek some temporary oblivion.

Our needs were mismatched from the start. He wanted as much as we could squeeze into the handful of hours, in as many different ways and with memory banks filled with impressions to last until next time. My ambitions were fewer: to live a different life for a while, to forget and to see if my sense of entitlement could overrule my sapping guilt and fear.

He wanted to discuss, probe, be overtaken by lust when hearing me say what I wanted to do with him. I was surly and didn’t want to talk. He tried to pinch my PMT-sensitive nipples to invoke giddy reactions and I wasn’t in the mood to play the lusty nymph. He wanted the full acrobatic display with all orifices stretched to their limits and I needed a firm, uncomplicated fuck.

I got my legs-in-the-air, head-smacking-into-the-bedboard fucking but a voice crept into my head among the ruckus, saying that the least likely time I’ll find abandon is when I’m seeking it. Oblivion only comes when it’s not coaxed or craved or needed.

What does the fucking voice know? I challenged. I’ll throw more bait and surely it’ll erase the distracted mental jumble. I teased the voice with Jekyll’s hand in my cunt, fucking me with his fist and with a good-sized dildo partially inserted in my anus – further and harder than we’ve gone before. I experienced everything from the objective perspective of an observer and stagnated in the nowhere land between sensory overload and orgasm. I added a vibe to my clit and became only more conscious that I couldn’t clear my mental slate enough to find some desired moments of sweet, sparkling nothingness.

He fucked my lubed and prepared arse with what would normally be an overawing pounding and my body took the lot. There was one moment I warned of looming sensory overload: he upped the tempo and perversely my body relished the harsher treatment and is making me pay for it today.

He came again, we showered and returned to our respective realities. I don’t know how I feel, apart from some general awareness of bruises and muscular aches, which isn’t answering the question I just asked myself. Still empty inside, I suppose, and fucking didn’t fill the void temporarily.

That was a brief intermission

I ache. My mouth protests at pronouncing words containing an ‘O’, although it held that shape faithfully many times. My inner thighs and backside are pock-marked with bruises and the vertical crease between my eyes is longer and deeper from frowning when he ignored my pre-menstrual sensitivity. My lower spine is surprisingly limber considering the corkscrews it formed to hide my buttocks from his gnashing teeth.

My quadriceps muscles feel like the overtired workers of a long run, but I didn’t travel further than his ensuite. Confusing. I fucked him from behind with the strap-on; perhaps maintaining balance and some semblance of control wiped more strength from my legs than I’m crediting them for.

My anus is bouncing back, so to speak, after his playful warm-up tonguing, determined fingerings and a final fucking when I said I couldn’t, really couldn’t, take another battering. My body betrayed my sense of self preservation and took him fully in a few deceptive thrusts that I knew I’d lament later.

He almost screamed from tear-welling sensitivity when he withdrew his cock from my arse the final time. His anus is probably tender as well after my earlier turn with him — fair’s fair, share the pain.

I hope his hand has recovered from a prolonged period of pins and needles. My drained body had lost enough nervous edge to allow his hand inside but my tightness cut off his circulation. He tried to twist once to find a more comfortable position but a nerve-shattering squeal put a stop to that. Actually, I hope his hand is as tender as my cunt as a reminder that he is big and I am not and big things don’t turn in small spaces.

Before the mayhem, I was lounging at home with my head in a book and eyed the beeping phone that interrupted my indolence. Home alone, you say? Tonight? A few hours later I snuck into his house and found him lying on the bed, his dick released through the open zip of his jeans. You like? Oh yes, I like. I sidled up to him with lingering touches and kisses tinged with hibernative warmth and somehow the rest just happened.

It’s best we don’t have a lot of time together because our bodies would collapse, and so much exchanging and giving and accepting and shape-shifting takes place that I can’t remember the exact order it all happens in. The flashbacks and aches are my only reminders.

Fists and ass

I returned for another bout in Jekyll’s car, determined to either ditch him or drown him in my juices (over-reactive fight or flight actions are my conduct of choice when frustrated).

In the brief slip of time between arriving home from work and leaving to meet Jekyll, I tossed into my gym bag a vibrator, condoms and the unopened tub of Crisco on the chance we’d test its reputation as the fisting and handballing underground lubricant of choice.

During our warm-up chat comparing who had the most unproductive work day, Jekyll’s eyes widened and he demanded I remove my pants. I glared in response and said mine would hit the deck as soon as his were off.

He asked if I wanted my clit licked.

My shoes, jeans and underwear were in a pile before I could get my tongue into gear to respond verbally.

I pulled a towel from my bag to place under my backside in anticipation of flooding his face and caring about his car’s upholstery. Jekyll asked what else was rattling about in the bag and I said the Crisco hadn’t been opened.

It was like a pervert family Christmas morning when we removed the plastic lid and peeled the tub’s protective silver foil. We looked, poked our noses in and dipped our fingers as if the vegetable shortening might come to life and bite us. We rubbed the white grease between our thumbs and fingers until it turned clear and our digits slippery. It tasted bland but acceptable enough if dollops reached our mouths during hands-on testing. We pondered if people really used a cake-making ingredient to insert human body parts into other human body parts or if we’d been taken for a ride. We wiped our hands on the towel and placed the open container on the dashboard for later. The electric blue tub and its pound of contents stared at us mockingly as if we were too scared to play.

Jekyll folded his legs into car’s floor cabin and licked, fingered and slurped until all I could hear was my breathing. I went to a glorious place where my body turned on and my brain turned off and nothing mattered but the tiny mass in my centre where our surfaces connected.

My hamstrings strained to secure my body higher up the backrest and allow Jekyll’s fingers more room to move. I wriggled into his first two, burbled something unintelligible when the third entered and lost the power of speech when the last finger slid against the upper lining of my vagina.

So close to making the car rattle on its axles and forgiving Jekyll for any sin of the past, present and the entire fucking future. Please, body, I will crawl along a highway of broken glass to pass the stubborn gatekeeper between tension and release.

I asked Jekyll to rest his tongue when the cruel remnants of medication dangled relief an unreachable grasp away. He noticed my stagnation and enclosed his thumb in his hand, toying with my already-stretched cunt. We played with pushing and holding, retreating and re-trying, stretching and contracting.

“Feel that,” he said.

My right hand groped a digit-less forearm and I yelped.

“Where are your fingers?” my last functioning braincells asked.

“Inside you, silly.”

He guided my hand to the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the last undulation my vaginal entrance was reluctant to accommodate.

“Want to try the Crisco?” asked Jekyll.

“Why the hell not?”

He allowed his vaginally-lubricated hand to slide out and mixed my secretions with the greasier substance. I stretched and relaxed to settle myself for the battle of the last knuckle.

Jekyll’s hand slithered to its previous progress mark within seconds, and I heard him whisper, “Ninety-nine per cent, want to try for the last bit?”

“Please,” I said.

I didn’t have time to finish my sentence because he was in. Almost an anti-climax.

My brain exploded.

Jekyll tried to articulate the moment but my mouth uttered a jumbled, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, overload.”

He asked what was wrong.

“Shut up! And don’t move.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, brainy full. Shuddup.”

He closed his mouth but twisted his hand a few degrees at a time to test the effect. I reacted with yeses and nos as his subtle movements translated into buzzes of pleasure and pangs of discomfort. He said I felt full inside, which I agreed with but also found hard to believe considering his hands are of average size.

The oh fuck, there’s a whole human hand in me concept loosened its hold and I marvelled at the everyday miracle of women popping miniature humans out of their bodies.

I felt his tensed forearm again and marvelled at the I-don’t-know-what of the last few minutes. Like the night I was close to handballing Hyde, there were no sexual connotations at this stage; we were awestruck by the mechanics rather than the sensations.

Jekyll asked if I wanted a photo.

“Um, yes, no, oh, I don’t know, I don’t think I could look at it. Oh, maybe, I don’t know. Can you reach your phone like that?”

His spare hand was within reach of his mobile phone resting in the centre console. As he fiddled with the settings, I spread my thighs to minimise the effect of eating too much comfort food over winter in a surge of camera shyness and silly vanity (in case I did want to peek at the photo one day).

I caught sight of the stump of Jekyll’s arm between my legs when the flashlight illuminated the cabin. I reached mental overload again and it was time for his hand to be removed.

The extraction of his hand was like giving birth to the head of a giant octopus and his fingers were its tentacles. They kept coming out and coming out and I nearly yelled at the never-ending slippery intruders to get the fuck out of my body. A lifetime later my vagina was my own and thankfully Jekyll’s octopus child turned into a hand again.

We wondered and analysed and kissed and decided we were rampantly in need of a good old-fashioned fuck. The night so far had been surreal so Jekyll continued the theme and lubed my anus with his greasy hand. He ordered me on all fours as he wiped his hands and applied a condom.

We muddled about in the confined space and found a happy medium with my face wedged between the seat and headrest and my legs splayed wherever they fitted. Jekyll covered my back from behind and did a rollicking good job of pounding my arse.

He is a confident lover but purrs with the best when he receives compliments, especially my dead-honest feedback between moans and gasps that it’s been the best-feeling anal sex I could remember.

“In how long? Weeks, months, years?” he asked during thrusts.

“I don’t know.” Oooh. “Probably forever. Don’t know if it’s you or, hmmm, the heavier lube or both but, ahhhh, I don’t remember backing into a cock like this to get more.”

He’s sweet (and backhandedly asking for more) when he says if I keep talking like that he’s going to come.

I provoked him with the most vulgar dialogue I could channel and was drowned out when throaty groans and wails signalled his orgasm. He collapsed on my back as I fell down the seat in a helpless lump.

We cleaned ourselves and congratulated each other’s talent for causing so much mayhem in barely an hour. As I searched for my belongings, Jekyll offered to send the photo to my phone.

My skittishness returned.

“Okay, but not Bluetooth because it’ll open on the screen and I can’t look at it yet. Send a text and do not dare text me for the rest of the night, because I’ll forget and open it accidentally.”

I ignored the discreet buzz as the image hit my inbox and skipped to my car, forgetting how to drive and where I lived and how I managed complex tasks like remembering which traffic light meant stop and which said go.

My leg and glute muscles are strained from maintaining anatomically unusual positions but the important bits have bounced back to normal. I’m curious to try his hand again now the ignorance and apprehension have been dealt with and I can focus on how it feels.

Anal sex, anal sex, anal sex

Now, have we got over the taboo aspect yet?

Why is so much wrong with perceptions of anal sex in a supposedly modern society?

Somehow, opinions of sexual activities involving the anus fall into two main camps: Camp Stigma believes it’s still taboo and can only be discussed in whispered tones or as a joke attached to prostate gland health checks. The other is Camp Porn where the onslaught of modern-day XXX clips portrays aggressive double penetration of women screaming “fuck me harder ah ah ah” as the norm.

Anal sex is neither of those.

The rectum is a part of the anatomy where women *and* men can experience enjoyment and it’s important to move past the stereotype that anal sex is about a man fucking a woman up the bum. It’s a sexual experience for each partner involved and is a lot more enjoyable when everyone is open minded and considerate in regard to an encounter.

Women need stop to treating their anuses like sacred vessels when the topic of anal sex is raised. Everybody has a bum hole and some women like anal pleasure. Some don’t. Judgement and the ‘only bad girls and sluts do it’ attitude don’t do the sisterhood and feminism any favours.

It’s also a step backwards to belittle a male partner who might want to try fingers, tongues, toys or a strap-on in his own anus. He’s not automatically gay, bisexual, sissified, perverted, dirty or whatever other demeaning label can be slapped on him. He trusts enough to share part of his desires and that trust needs to be treated with respect. (A man wanting to dress like a woman while being fucked anally with a strap-on in a humiliation scenario is a different story altogether. Bitchy Jones expands on backwards feminisation better than I ever can.)

I will be correct in guessing most of the women who read this will nod familiarly when reminded of men “accidentally” trying to slide into the anus during vaginal sex. We all know which hole is which and ignorance should not be used as an underhanded entrance tactic, ever. Discussion is a better way of communicating desires and how they might be shared and enacted.

Some real-life practicalities

S-l-o-w is the order of the day. There’s nothing wrong with building up stimulation over a period of weeks until trying penile penetration. Taking time with preparation might make the success rate higher for regular anal activity to be included in a sexual repertoire if each partner enjoys the session. The perception that the giver is the enthusiastic partner and the receiver is the anxious partner needs to be given the boot with lots of slow, careful build-up so it’s pleasurable for everyone.

Just like sex as a term should not always imply a penis in a vagina, anal sex should not automatically mean a penis in an anus. Think more broadly into the range of activities that can take place between male/female, male/male and female/female. Try a gently buzzing vibrator or hand stimulation to the external areas during oral sex and build up to a lubricated finger, a tongue, a butt plug, then a penis over different sessions if each partner wants to keep experimenting and building on the foundation. Not everyone is going to move at the same speed or like the same things.

Use toys designed for anal use. They are shaped they way they are and have flared bases for a reason. This is not the time to play with the contents of the vegetable crisper, beer bottles or other household goods. The hospital emergency ward stories are true.

Safety and comfort are the orders of the day and condoms and lube are a must. Lubed condoms can be good as they maintain their ‘lubiness’ but use in addition to condom-safe lube.

There should be more talking than grunting. Keep checking into each other’s welfare and sensations so it’s a shared experienced and not one-sided in the favour of the giver. The recipient is in control of what’s happening at all times.

Anal penetration does feel different to vaginal penetration for women and it can take time to adapt and relax into the new sensations.

Ignore that porny stunt of a man penetrating a woman’s anus, returning to the vagina, back to the anus and repeating. That is a rapid-fire way to a urinary tract infection. Porn producers cut the non-sexy scenes like disinfecting genitals to avoid cross-contamination but here we are dealing with real life.

Do not use one unsuccessful episode as an excuse to shut the door completely to anal sex. No one was accomplished at kissing, oral sex or vaginal sex the first few times and anal play is no different. Women in particular use the, “I’ve tried it once and hated it” line, which may not be fair to future partners with more skill and experience.

My rules of play

I like fingers and smaller toys, especially during oral sex but I’m still not converted to the sensations when a penis is moving around in there. I see it as part of a total experience with a partner – I have quirks that aren’t shared by everyone so it’s part of the give and take of sexual desires and is an ongoing project.

A side-effect for me is farting uncontrollably for several hours after receiving something of decent size up there so timing is a consideration. For practicality’s sake, I’m not going to take it up the arse the afternoon of a family dinner.

I’m not keen on one-night-stands anyway but I won’t receive anal sex with a partner I don’t know well. It’s on my mental list of things to do only with trusted partners.

Any man who goes near my anus with his penis before “warm-up” play will either be told to fuck off or re-educated. I don’t have time for people who think they can pretend their way into experience if they don’t already have it. Honesty goes a long way.

Any man who wants to play in my dark hole without reciprocation of some kind needs to have a good reason and not a closed mind, or he will also be told to fuck off or re-educated. It’s a game both genders can enjoy and my role is not as a one-way receptacle.

I won’t do anything with a higher risk of pain or discomfort for me under the influence of alcohol or anything mind bending. Consciousness and awareness always.

I’ve never had an anal douche, enema or colonic irrigation and don’t plan starting now. Anal play can smell and brown bits sometimes lurk in the rectum. I’m not a fan of those aspects but I’m less keen on pretending that my arse is fresher than a daisy. I know when the path is at its clearest and will communicate that.

Any man in my orbit who wants to try being the recipient is hot. Bring that bottle of lube over here and let’s play.