post-op sex: erotica? My first time making someone else orgasm

I mean, it was the my first time my penis from phalloplasty made someone else orgasm.

My wife is different. She is six foot two or three, but she tells people she is six feet. She is naturally very pretty in the face; people often ask her if she is an indie musician by her creative style. She gets compared with Jack White of The White Stripes and Garret Clark Borns for dark, toussled curly hair; but her eyes and lips are Creole-angelic large against exceptionally fair skin. She is transgender too like me, over ten years into her transition. She doesn’t wear makeup, and she doesn’t care how our genders are read, as long as they’re queer. She doesn’t use her falsetto to speak, and she wraps her arms around me protectively, as my top.

As usual lately, at bedtime we were giggling about my erection. I just like to practice it, pumping up the phalloplasty’s cylinders and getting more deft at the go-soft button. We still had residual Valentine’s Day romance flowing in the emotional undercurrents, and she made intense, green eye-contact while she stretched her long arm across the bed to take out lubricant… That was it. The turning point, you know, where it’s not funny anymore?

She pulled me into a little spoon in front of her and started jerking me off. These are the moments that flash across my memory when people ask, “Do you have erotic sensation?” Yes, a thousand times, yes. It is pleasure, but so new it is almost like the pleasure touch has a little static in it? The zaps of nerve reconnection– synapse?– sizzle and tingle with the throaty, escalating ache of erogenous sensation.

I took notes at the fluid cycling jerks she made, so graceful it reminded me of the way wheels move in pivoting strokes along the bottom of a steam locomotive. I don’t think I can do that as well as she can. Not yet, anyway. The agility reminded me, too, of the way she whisks aoli, or beats heavy cream. “It’s all in the wrist, darling,” she murmured low, detecting my analysis. Pulls in the jerk tugged and bounced the balls, another layer of pleasure, which in turn rubbed natal parts, spared.

She rolled me on my back, and despite my stiffness, I expected she would top me– that is, be the penetrating partner to me. That is how we like it, anyway. She doesn’t call it a dildo or a strap-on. She calls it her penis, dick, cock, and her prosthetic when she tops me, which she cites as evidence of her fluidity, even post-op vaginoplasty so many years.

Our legs fumbled as we both reached to wrap a leg around the other– ah, no, she had every intention of sitting on my erect penis, I see. Well, her vagina being only three or four inches deep (more from a decided indifference about dilating than the fault of Pierre Brassard), I knew this six was going to be a lot for her. She would have to guide me, and I would follow her angles and refrain from thrusting back. She knows her limits.

It wasn’t by far anywhere close to the first time I would make her climax, but it was the first time with… Cock flesh. Living flesh. Wearing the realdoe, I always focused so much on the muscles to hold it in place, or on just her pleasure, I suppose we never really let loose like this. I was so thrown off initially by all the pleasure I felt while simultaneously giving her the same– we are so used to taking turns to a great degree.

She moved all around, somewhat awkwardly I’ll admit, because her rocks defaulted back to a thrust on the wrong axis for grinding her vagina whenever she got very aroused. It was like she had to remind herself of our flow right now, every so often. We are learning each other. I try to thrust some, but I’m not as good at it as she is.

Even our fumbling of second adolescence couldn’t forestall the excitement. The large glans ridge Devin O’Brien-Coon made for me rolled back and forth with her undulations, that movement a major site for pleasure. That and the squeezing rub tug of her hip stroke on me. I know, this is nothing new to anyone, but only having felt it for the first time, where my body didn’t used to exist, I am in awe.

We became breathless and made sweat in this winter air, we moved faster, and without any graceful words gutteral and gasping sounds came to us. She lunged forward over me, announcing to me what was happening, as if I wouldn’t have known only by the shifting muscular heaves within her. (I’d relish the memory of the tone of her announcement all the next day.) As she seized, her prostatic fluids began gushing down my shaft and pooling hot around my balls. As she rested over me, kissing me in ardor, I was at first speechless. The decrescendo of gasps then yielded to hums and sighs of affection.

When she climbed off and lay beside me, ragdoll, I touched the proof she left on me. Without breaking eye contact, I found the button in my sack and squeezed the shaft to drink the firmness back deeper into me. As senses returned, I could smell all the lubricants, sweat, the familiar scent-rarity of her vagina. I grabbed tissue to dry myself.

“It’s almost like we were made for each other,” she winked before her eyes closed.

Flaccid after sex, postop phalloplasty one year. I can’t believe it ever wasn’t this healed.

3 thoughts on “post-op sex: erotica? My first time making someone else orgasm”

  1. Wow 😯 is this the abdominal phallo? I’m searching around for surgery if you don’t mind me asking who did your procedure ?

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