Reclamation

It's that time of the year again: one more pap smear, one more internal exam. For all my medical fetishism, I've never been able to eroticize, or even really get comfortable with, the gyn exam. 

My blood pressure was through the roof before I even got into the exam room. The nurse was surprised. I wasn't--I'd been dreading the appointment for days.

My first several gyn exams were really bad, done by insensitive assholes I never want to see again, and they did a lot to raise my anxiety level. I've had a few good ones, done by sensitive doctors who knew how to keep me distracted and not make a big deal of it. Even the best exam has left me feeling... violated. I come away from them with the feeling of some semi-stranger's hands inside me, the feeling of my cervix burning from the brush they used to scrape off the precious cells so they could tell me whether my body is turning against me... it's hard to shake those sensations. Usually, I find specks of blood on my underwear afterward and it makes me sad. My cervix shouldn't have to weep. This year it didn't, and for that, at least, I'm grateful.

I took the day off work, knowing from long experience that I'd be emotional and wanting to be able to take care of myself. I had a harder time with this year's exam than with my last several--I have a new doctor and we don't connect as well as I did with the last one, who moved into a different specialty field for the money. I miss her.

I did what I had to do--I got through the appointment, went to the lab to have blood drawn, met up with Boyfriend for lunch, and drove myself home. I regretted having scheduled myself several other commitments on that day, but I had a little time, and so I did the next thing I had to do: I took off my clothes, found my favorite vibrator, put fresh batteries in it, told my pussy I was sorry for putting her through that horrible exam again, and made love to her. I didn't cry, though the urge was there. As always during this yearly ritual, it was difficult to find my groove. Orgasms tend to be elusive when my mind is filled with uncomfortable, unerotic thoughts. Finally, with some effort, I brought up the memory of my most recent play with sounds: the way it felt to slide a big, solid, smooth, cold metal rod through my urethra and into my bladder to massage my g-spot from an unusual access point. That did it--thirty seconds of those thoughts and I lay gasping and twitching in a twist of sheets. When I stood up and put my clothes back on, I no longer felt anyone's hands on my body but my own. Relief.

Butt Seriously

The blood on the toilet paper doesn't scare me anymore. It used to. I remember panicking more than once, sitting home alone, afraid, wondering whether I should go to the hospital but worried about embarrassing myself. Wait a little while, I'd tell myself, and if it gets worse then go. Words like perforated rectum and peritonitis and horrible death would run through my head. In the end, I'd always fall asleep eventually, and by morning there would be no more blood and I'd feel sheepish but relieved to realize that it was nothing serious.

I've been sticking things up my butt for as long as I can remember. In childhood, anything from a Q-tip to a pencil to the handle of a pair of scissors was fair game. I didn't know there was anything unusual or taboo about it--I just knew it felt good. As a teen, deeply embarrassed about my sexuality, I tried to force myself to stop... but within a week, or maybe two, I'd always end up giving in. It was like a compulsion.

As an adult, immersed in a sex-positive culture, I'm not shy about most of my proclivities anymore. Oh, I have one or two that I'm not ready to shout from the rafters, and I'm sure they'll find their way into this blog eventually, but I no longer hesitate to tell people I like it in the rear.

I've been awfully horny lately, and today the magic 8 ball in my brain kept turning up anal. I couldn't wait to get home. I daydreamed the workday away, rushed impatiently through errands, and finally found myself at home, alone, free to indulge my desire.

There's this thing that I do sometimes, when I'm by myself and the the mood strikes me. Partnered sex is always more self-conscious to some degree, but solo I don't have to worry about what anyone else thinks of me or the mess that I make. I like to lay out a big towel and a lot of toys, grab a bottle of baby oil or a bowl with a big gob of cold Crisco, and see just how far I can stretch that little pink pucker.

The more I play with my ass, the hotter I get. Tonight I started with a little acrylic dildo, slim and slick, baby oil squirted along its length. Once things were slippery, that toy practically fell in all by itself. I moved from that to a string of anal beads, then to a larger rubber dildo, then to an acrylic bloopy toy, then back to the first dildo, then to a glass Coke bottle I perverted years ago. I filled the bottle with two inches of baby oil and tried to pour it into my ass, but the oil stayed stubbornly in the bottle even when I upended it entirely, so eventually I trotted to the kitchen, where I found an empty plastic soda bottle. I poured the oil into that, stuck the neck up my ass, and squirted it in. Feeling the cool liquid fill me, I nearly came right then.

Suffice it to say that I made a hell of a mess. I was at it for an hour and a half, and by the time I was done, the towel was smeared with baby oil and shit and mashed banana and perhaps even a trace of blood--and so was I. I was slippery and smelly from my tits to my ankles and I didn't care. By the time I finally allowed myself to come--clothespins on my nipples, a two-inch-thick wooden truncheon up my ass and cradled between my feet, a vibrator on my clit--nothing nothing nothing else mattered.

A long, hot bubble bath, a book, a bowl of spaghetti and a lewd phone call to the Boyfriend... it's been a very nice evening. I may have to produce an encore before bidding this night adieu.

Cock

Lately I've been obsessed with cock. With rubber cock, specifically, and sucking it in particular.

Don't call it fake. It might not have nerves and blood vessels running through it, but it's no less real to the dyke who wears it than if it were made of flesh and blood. When I lick my lips while looking up at her from under my lashes, then lean in and slowly wrap my hungry mouth around the fat head of her hard cock, believe me--she feels it.

Blue and I go back a ways. His wasn't the first dyke cock I ever sucked, but it was possibly the most riveting. I was in thrall to him and even after several years of life's ups and downs, that hasn't changed. He pulls my hair and I'm all his, just like that. Everything else and everyone else disappears. I could easily disappear into him, if he'd let me, but he won't. That's probably a good thing.

But oh, I love his cock. It's not about the physical prosthesis settled on his pubic bone; I don't think I've sucked the same one twice yet. But no matter what he's got there, I mean even if he strapped a banana on under his jeans, I just want to fall onto it like I haven't eaten in a month. I forget to flirt. I forget to try to show some style. I just want it, want it all, want it all right now.

He knows me so well. He knows when to push me, his hands in my hair, pulling my head down on his cock till his zipper scrapes my nose and holding me there forcefully until my gag reflex or my desperate need for air forces me to struggle. I'm overcoming both of those obstacles with practice, though--the last time he pushed me, he was surprised. He needed a bigger dick that night if he wanted to choke me with it. He made up for it, though, with cruel clamps on my nipples, pressed against his knees as I worked, and strong hands around my throat. Just the way I like it.

I saw him again last night, even though he was hundreds of miles away. Condom in my mouth, I slid it down over the head of his cock so smoothly, all the way down the shaft--hungry, starving, both of us. He moaned a little. I heard the creak of his leather pants as he settled back on the bed to give me access. I felt his body rocking under me, felt the familiar tightening of his abdomen as he came again and again, abusing my throat with quick, sharp thrusts leading up to each orgasm. I struggled to breathe. I gagged and drooled, the thick mucus and saliva dripping off my chin, down his cock, onto the new white comforter, leaving a stain. His hands tightened their grip on my hair as he growled pet names at me: Cock-sucker. Filthy pig. Greedy cum whore. You like that, don't you, babe? Take it all now. That's right--suck. Good girl. His breath came faster and faster until finally, eyes closed, body bucking, he pulled my face down hard and held me there, retching, gasping for breath as he exploded in one final cathartic climax.

I couldn't hold it then--that last thrust was just too much, and I turned my head to the side as a small flood of spit and snot rolled out of my throat. It landed in my hand, on the comforter, on the rug next to the bed: slippery, warm, feeling just exactly like cum. It didn't smell. A little revolted at myself, I scooped it up off the rug, smeared it all over my cunt, my ass, the cock I'd just been sucking. I rolled over and slid that cock up my ass to the hilt, and then I jerked off like my life depended on it. It was 3:30 in the morning. Blue, wherever he was--I hope he dreamed of me.