#112) Androgyny and Consent, Everything’s Fluid – GRAPHIC CONTENT

#112) Androgyny and Consent, Everything’s Fluid – GRAPHIC CONTENT

I’m a girlie-girl and I adore all the arrows in my Cupid-quiver to utilize in the love/war between the sexes. This love/war can be all the more pitched between Tops and bottoms in the D/s dynamic.
But then I started to date Josh, a man so handsome he’s pretty, so buff he could’ve danced for Chippendale’s. When I first saw him I couldn’t believe he was straight, someone so gorgeous had to be gay. When I heard he was a Dom, I had to have him as mine. Our first weekend together was filled with spankings so perfect, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven, and sex so fulfilling, I did visit heaven. That was about three months ago, and it’s just gotten better all the time. We both used the L word on our fourth date, which was scary, but honest expressions of deep-felt emotion. We were in love. He semi-permanently moved some of his stuff into my apartment soon thereafter. Because it was all so wonderful, and because I am who I am, my mind began devising a way to tweak it. I wanted to squeeze every bit of juice out of this ripe lemon. What if we stripped away all that was familiar? What if I relinquished a lot of those arrows I referred to? I wanted to play with the concept of assigned, unquestioned gender roles, I wanted to toy with our comfort levels.
For a Christmas present to myself, I went to a bespoke men’s tailor in a large near-by city and was fitted for a man’s pinstriped suit. The trousers were designed to minimize my large, round derriere, just as they would for a male Crisco, a guy who is fat in the can. The jacket covered my hour-glass curves further. I bought a white dress shirt, necktie, and brogue shoes from the boy’s department at Macy’s.
Josh and I had already done a lot of role-play in our sex like, and he proved to be quite adept at portraying a doctor to my patient and a teacher to my errant student; this scenario would try both of our acting chops. I described what I wanted from him. He listened to me patiently, then took a moment to digest it all. I don’t know if he could tell that I was dripping wet just thinking about it.
Then he sagely said, “It sounds like, besides the gender-bending stuff, you want to play with the concept of consent. You want to give consent to playing out a scene that seems non-consensual…”
I kissed him passionately, so pleased that he got it, got me so well. “What I painted for you was just an outline in broad strokes, feel free to embellish and elaborate upon it if you want…” I said, and he nodded. We both began putting the scenario’s plans in place, scheduling it for the upcoming weekend.
On that Friday morning, as we were getting ready for our respective jobs, we cleared last-minute signals.
“You’re not coming back here after work, are you?” I asked him. “I need a place to get ready…”
“I know,” he answered patiently, and I’ve rented a room in the Excelsior for the night.” Our medium-sized city has a Hilton, but the Excelsior Hotel is like our Plaza is to New York City, the epitome of class. No, maybe it’s more like the Pierre, with an old world charm to boot. I was impressed. “Now listen,” Josh said and I recognized his way of making sure he had my full attention, “if you want to play this way, I want you to know that there is no shame in using our safe-word. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered dutifully.
“And what is it?” he grilled.
“Aardvark,” I replied, chosen purposefully so that I could beg and plead and say “no” and “mercy” and whatever else I wanted to in the moment. But I bet you can’t bring me say it; I’ve got a cast iron butt!”
“I don’t want any part of that bet,” Josh returned, always the safe and sane partner between the two of us.
“And we need different names. We won’t be ourselves. You can be Jake, that sounds macho. And I’ll be your john, so call me John.” I smiled. Josh’s patience was stretch to indulgence, not for the first or last time, and he smiled back.
Nine hours later I was right back where I was that morning, this time taking off all the make-up I’d applied at seven A.M. I removed my fingernail polish and trimmed them short. I felt the loss in doing this, but reminded myself that I needed to commit to the role I wanted to play. This reminded me of what I was asking of Josh. His part was even more challenging. But he’d accepted it as a part of being with me without question. It’s just for an evening, I told myself. It’ll be fun, then it’ll be hot, I told myself. I turned my mind back to the preparations. No eye-liner or shadow to actuate my baby-blues, no lipstick to adorn my mouth, no base or concealer. I put on my men’s clothing, going commando because my cupcake tits don’t need a bra and even my most granny of panties felt too feminine. I even pinned my hair up and tucked it under a fedora. I stood back and assessed the results. I didn’t quite look like the mannish boy that the Rolling Stones used to sing about, but I didn’t look female either. I liked feeling somewhere in between. In a way, I felt prepubescent, but in another way, I felt very sexually charged at the same time. I wanted to play at being Other for an evening, to try on what it’s like to be non-binary.
I saw Jake in the bar of the Excelsior. I approached him, trying to swagger like a man, or at the very least, not wriggle my ass seductively as I normally would in this situation as Jeanie. I lowered my voice an octave. “Is this seat taken?” He shook his head, I sat next to him at the bar. The barkeep approached. I looked at the scotch Jake was sipping. “I’ll have a martini, very dry,” I ordered. When it came, we just enbibed in silence for a few moments. To get the ball rolling along, I asked the standard query, “Come here often?”
“Naw, came here on business from a small town a ways away,” he answered.
“I’m here on business from Cincinnati,” I returned as John.
We exchanged names and brief biographical stories about our work. A shapely blond came into the bar. We both followed her with our eyes.
“Do you like that?” I asked.
“I like you more, if you are what I think you are… Are you transitioning or…?”
“We’re all transitioning, in one way or another, aren’t we?” I said in reply.
“I have a nice room upstairs,” John said, “care to join me there?”
We waited to get busy until safely behind the luxurious room’s locked door. We kissed. Jake sprang an erection almost immediately. I pulled his pants down and began sucking it. In between slurps I said, “That was fast… I hope it doesn’t mean you have a hair trigger! I want to fuck with you all night…”
“It’s because I need to pee,” Jake returned. I pulled his shoes and pants off, kissed his hard-on so-long, and smiled back at him.
“Don’t be long,” I whispered.
“Feel free to get undressed too,” he said over his shoulder. When Jake returned, he’d taken off his tidy-whities and flannel shirt. I, on the other hand, still sat on the edge of the bed full clothed. We kissed some more. Jake’s hands wandered and I no longer batted them away. My breasts have never been brag-worthy, but Jake seemed surprised to find them, nonetheless. He hastily undid those trousers and pulled them down enough to confirm his suspicions. “You aren’t transitioning… or a hermaphrodite…?”
“Is that what you thought…?” I said innocently.
“Come on, you know you were leading me on…”
“Is that what you’re into, Jake? If so, you ought to be more careful…” I waved the wallet I’d fished out of his jeans back pocket. He quickly snatched it from my hand. “I’ve already memorized your info… It’s not many people that still carry their Social Security card with them, I bet that number will come in handy, too…” and I quoted the nine digits back to him from memory. I could see the rage building in his being, bulging veins, red face tense musculature. When I’d outlined the scenario to Josh days before, I’d merely said that Jake should explode at this point and punish John. Jake interpreted those broad strokes as reaching for the belt from out of his pants. He doubled it in his hand. He knocked the fedora off my head with his other hand, and my hair tumbled down to my shoulders. I shook it, defiant to the end, looking back at this guy challengingly.
The first lash caught me directly across the summit of both tits. I’d never experienced titty-torture until this moment. The belt left a red swath of pain across the white flesh of my little mounds, but throbbed most on my nipples, which hardened from the surprise stroke. Jake twisted his free fist in my hair to hold me still, then gave me a second lash in the same spot, followed by a stripe across my upper thighs, right where he was expecting to find a little wee-wee. Jake rotated his fist and adroitly turned me over the edge of the bed. My well-tailored trousers fell to the floor. Jake beat my butt with the belt.
Such a simple sentence. Seven expressive words, subject, verb, object, prepositional phrase. I’ve never had such a belt-beating before. The first lashes felt like they were cutting into the skin, but a glance in a large mirror in this opulent suite confirmed that they were just vivid red welts like on my tits. But he unloaded on my butt. I yelped and whimpered until it all became too much and I sobbed and begged. He continued at the same steady pace, with the same harsh force, whipping the backs of my thighs when he’d run out of room across my big bottom. Then he increased the force, so that I wouldn’t become inured to the hurt, as he gave me a second coat of pain. Apparently, I’d touched a nerve when I threatened Jake with exposure of his kink and implied blackmail, so he wore out my last nerve. Only when I could no longer cry out because my voice was hoarse, when I could no longer cry because my tears were all spent, when I could no longer flinch because I was exhausted did he drop the belt on my lower back. The once-crisp sheets were drenched in sweat, the pillow was moist with my tears; as I sprawled across them, I looked back over my shoulder to see that my punishment was not yet over.
Jake had a jar of Vaseline in his hands, he must have brought it from home. We have a whole assortment of lubricants in the medicine cabinet, one of my favorites is Astroglide, but he didn’t bring any of these. He was coating his throbbing cock with the yellowish goo.
“What’re you gonna do?” I whimpered.
“I think you know the answer to that question,” he replied. You want to toy with people, pretend you’re a boy… I’ll fuck you like you were my boy…”
We’d just made love in this way about a week before. I usually love anal intercourse. Then he had been gentle and slow as he’d lubricated my rectum, inserted his big condom-covered thing carefully, being solicitous of my feelings. None of that was true now. He anointed only his naked prick, put it to my opening, and pushed his way in. Like a child playing a game of Red Rover, his dick might as well have yelled, “Ready or not, here I come!”
I tried to relax at this violent intrusion, I tried to accept his largess in my tight space. I breathed, I thought pleasant thoughts. None of these tricks worked; I felt raped in my tiniest, most private place. Even under the most considerate of circumstances, I always feel most completely penetrated and possessed during butt sex. I always feel so filled with cock. I always feel the inescapable conclusion that I’m getting truly Fucked. This time I felt all that ten-fold. No sooner was he all the way in me than he started to roger me, withdraw almost all the way out, until only his circumcised prick-head breached my anus, and then thrust back into me there. It burned so badly. It felt like he was literally carving me a new asshole with each vicious thrust.
During both the hard beating and this intense reaming, my sex proclaimed that it was aroused and eager. I guess I’m a conditioned pain-whore; my pussy salivated from these harsh attentions. But unlike usual, during a playful spanking or sensual session of anal play, I didn’t dare touch my vagina or rub it against the bed this time. I just took my medicine. After an eternity of agony, I felt Jake cum in my bum, shoot jet after jet of hot spunk into my bowels. It was over, or so I thought.
As he pulled his thing from out of my tender orifice, he gave my ravaged butt cheek a smart slap and instructed, “In the bathroom, you’ll find a big hot water bottle and hose and nozzle. Fill the bag to the brim with warm water and bring it all back here. You’re going to get an enema…”
I’d shared with Josh once, weeks ago, late one night during pillow talk, after a lovely session of anal play as I now remember, I’d shared with Josh that it’d be fun to experiment with enema-play. I’d received one at my Grandmother’s hands once when I was fifteen and visiting over the summer. She thought she’d remedied a tummy ache. What she’d actually done was rouse the sleeping giant of my libido, and I spent the afternoon masturbating instead of resting quietly under the bed covers. Josh had remembered my sharing, now Jake was using it against me.
I was made to accept the whole big bag of water up my intestines, until I was groaning and dancing. Oblivious to my predicament, Jake alternately massaged my tummy, brushed his fingers across my aroused sex, and spanked my tender bottom with sharp slaps. He kept me there in the middle of the large bedroom until the last possible second, and I had to sprint to the bathroom. It hurt like holy hell to sit my flaming fanny on the cool toilet-seat to expel. This was only accomplished with a great deal of flatulence and moaning, as all manner of sludge emerged from deep within me in explosive bursts. I looked up to see Jake in the bathroom with me. I was humiliated to my core. Privacy in the bathroom was a basic tenant of femininity, which was now violated along with so much else. I hung my head, so that I could shield him from my view and silently sobbed as raucous raspberries ripped out of me.
He leaned down to whisper in my ear, “When you’re done, be sure to wipe your pretty little ass extra well. If I catch even a whiff of shit when I give you the next bag-full, I’ll give you another dose with the belt…”
I was able to manage to escape a repeat performance with the leather, but was made to accept enema after enema, until I was spouting like a crystal-clear fountain.
“Please, let that be enough punishment!” I implored. “I’ve learned my lesson!”
Jake acquiesced that I’d had my fill of punishment, but not humiliation. He sat on a richly-upholstered divan. “Suck me off,” he instructed. I knelt before him quickly and obediently. Just before I took the big thing in my mouth, I realized that it was last deep up my butt. ATM is usually a hard limit for me, but in this moment, I eagerly complied, and took him down my throat. “Straddle my leg as you suck,” he barked, and I did that, too. “Hump my shin… that’s it, ride my leg until you get off, just like a dirty little poodle… that’s it cur bitch, god your snatch is wet… hump faster, harder…” He reached down and seized my throbbing nipples in each hand, pinching and pulling them mercilessly. I rode his leg for all I was worth, knowing that the look on my face must be comical. Jake didn’t laugh, just pinched me all the harder. We climaxed simultaneously, him shooting a smaller load (than the one previously) down my gullet and I creamed all over his leg and foot.
I was an empty shell, spent, exhausted in every way. Wordlessly, Josh led me by the hand back into the bathroom. Ignoring that the room stunk to high heaven, he helped me into the large shower stall and turned the water on hot. He gently soaped me up, sore nipples atop tender titties, raw butt cheeks, ravaged rectum, and still-pulsating pussy, while I softly sobbed.
“You’re my good girl. It’s all over…” he consoled over and over, holding me tight in his arms when I was rinsed clean. I wrapped me in a luxurious terry robe and led me back to bed. I heard him order a huge repast to be delivered by room service. I ate mine lying on my tummy on the bed, with Josh seated nearby. Fortified by a bite of lobster, I was able to start to process it all.
“We live our lives within clear boundaries,” I whispered finally. “We know our roles, whether as Top or bottom, man or woman… I wanted to experiment speeding around those curves with those guardrails down… It was so thrilling when you used your belt on me, not knowing when it would stop, knowing I’d been truly bad and needed your hardest whipping! I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned-on, ever been beaten so hard… something exploded in my head and I don’t think I’ll be able to put it back together again in quite the same way… and the rest of it just… added to it… you’re a genius at role-play, Josh… you know just how to push my buttons… you pushed my sub-space express elevator button for the basement, whew! …thank you for all you gave me today, not just the pain… you gave me a new paradigm… we don’t need to revisit this role-playing scenario ever again, once was enough… the others, the doctor and the professor are plenty… but I will need you to punish me again, without any known, agreed-upon boundaries… to warp my mind… not too often, but occasionally, when I need it… will you do that for me? …Do you know that I love you?”
Josh joined me on the bed, kissed away the replenished tears that brimmed my eyes, opened my robe to cuddle skin-to-skin. I physically felt myself rise out of my sub space.
“Yes and yes,” he said, looking me right in the eye. I pushed my tongue deep into his mouth, he pushed a miraculously-rejuvenated erection into me. We made love in the missionary position, something I thought was reserved for vanilla and old people. But this wasn’t sex just for fuddy-duddies; it was sweet and slow and soft-focused and just what I needed. And I learned yet another lesson. I didn’t feel like a woman and her vagina making love with a man and his penis inside her. I felt like a soul melding with another kindred soul. For a moment, we were just conjoined spirits, blinding lights radiating all the brighter because we were co-mingled. I know that this sounds like cosmic bullshit, but it’s what I felt profoundly inside me, not in my mind, not in my pussy, deep within my core.
The moment passed, my internal light, that had been hovering above us near the vaulted ceiling returned to me, glowed within me once more. I’d had enough of the ephemeral. I pushed away from Josh, pulled his sex from my sex. I threw the robe off, lied prone flat on bed and parted my thighs.
“Get on top of me. Fuck me, Josh,” I begged.
I was fully back in the corporal world. His cock felt heavenly as he pushed into me. His weight against my wounded backside hurt like hell. I took a bite off the plate in front of me, gave my lover an asparagus spear dripping with béarnaise sauce with my fingers. We found our rhythm. I was ravenous, both for the fucking and for the food, both right there for the taking, both mouth-wateringly delicious. I ate with my hands as Josh fucked me from behind. In this ostentatious hotel room, I felt like a cave-woman, without manners and with very little language. I grunted at how tasty the food was, how tasty the sex was; everything now was carnal and basic. My words came back to haunt me, the pain that Jake had inflicted earlier on and in my ass had opened a whole new paradigm in my mind, there was no more secure structure to hang meaning upon.
“Fuck me,” I growled, food juices and saliva dripping from my chin, our juices co-mingling at our loins, both staining the bed-sheets.
Josh sat up on my thighs, his cock still working in and out of my pussy, so that he could slap my butt. Each spank stung, reignited the flames the belt had seared into my flesh. Pain and pleasure were one, I was his to do with however he pleased. Man and female roles were just convenient constructs, we are animals, I thought. My taste-buds were satisfied, my sexual hunger sated. I swallowed a mouthful of food and climaxed simultaneously.

8 responses to “#112) Androgyny and Consent, Everything’s Fluid – GRAPHIC CONTENT”

  1. Have you ever thought of changing sex roles in any way? Is it as easy as changing your clothes? I LOVE the photo I found to illustrate this piece! On the one hand, the concept was done even more satisfyingly in the movie, “The Artist.” Check that near-silent classic out, if you don’t know it. On the other hand, I relate to this photo heavily. I am guilty of letting my imagination and fantasies get ahead of reality. Can you relate?

    Liked by 1 person

    • Dear A.J.,
      I liken anal intercourse to New York City. It is the very best and the very worst all at the same time.
      It is the epitome of sex, intense & pure & raw. And it’s accomplished where I go to the bathroom, so there’s that. I like to include in the rhapsodic & romanticized details the truth; I’m known to fart afterward. They aren’t noxious, just obnoxious (because I can’t control them). This is why I called my blog, “Butt-Stuff,” because I didn’t want it to be just about spanking. I love butt sex! But I’m realistic about it, too. I hope this makes sense. I didn’t state that to give offense.

      Like

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