I love guest posts about people’s relationships to their bodies, especially when those bodies are changing and there’s this burst of new discovery. Even better when those discoveries are hot and full of joy. So I’m especially delighted to welcome this week’s guest blogger – she’s here to share a gorgeous story that combines exquisite sexiness with some fabulously thoughtful introspection about healing after vaginoplasty.
Newly becunted – sex and healing after vaginoplasty
“This isn’t working”, I admit to my girlfriend. Her hand pauses in mid-action on my pubic mound and then draws back.
“What would work better?”, she asks, her voice gentle, breathy, her beautiful face showing only concern for me. I don’t deserve her, I think to myself, though she has assured me many times that I do.
“I don’t know. Nothing seems to… I’m sorry, I’m just so…”
“…in your head?” She finishes my abandoned sentence. I nod and mumble an affirmation, unable at that moment to meet her eyes.
It’s a month and a half after my vaginoplasty, and things are going well, mostly. I’ve finally, in my mid forties, achieved the anatomy I’ve fantasised about since I was thirteen years old: a vulva, vagina, the whole deal. The surgeon’s handiwork is nothing short of genius, I couldn’t ask for better in terms of my body’s healing, and the long hours of dilation are passing by easily enough, when I’m not panicking myself about small amounts of bleeding.
But… no sex for three months. Not only penetration, the doctor had meant, but also direct clitoral stimulation. Everything’s too new, too delicate. The best we can do is touching around my new vulva, and of course every single other erogenous zone on my body.
It shouldn’t, I tell myself, be a problem. The sex we were having two months ago was even more restricted, my dysphoria ruling out any genital contact. My lover had instead focused on other areas, even managing to bring me to climax solely through tit play; a phenomenon I’d once thought confined to the realms of erotic fiction.
But tonight I am, as she says, in my head. Not when I had been the one pleasuring her, happily bringing her to a screaming orgasm with my touch. But afterwards, as soon as she had tried to return the favour. Everything she had tried had felt pleasant for a few seconds, and then began to annoy me, my legs feeling restless, my thoughts distracted.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, and turn over onto my side, away from her.
“You’re OK,” she reassures me. She begins stroking my back.
“I’m just frustrated, I think,” I tell her. “I don’t feel like myself. I feel weak, fragile.”
“I know. I wish it could be different. That you could get back from Thailand and immediately be your old self again, running around doing everything, dancing, swordfighting, back at the climbing wall…”
I picture it, and let out a sob. I do want that. I want to have my life back already. I want more than this enforced gentleness. I want… what?
In a leap of logic, the realisation dawns on me. The stickiness between my legs, and the painful throb of my clit, subtly distinct from the healing pains I’ve been feeling for over a month. It wasn’t annoyance I was feeling at her touch. It’s the deepest sexual frustration I’ve ever felt. My cunt wants more than gentle touch; it wants to be used. It wants to be fucked.
I curse the doctor’s skill. The technique he used kept the nerves entirely undamaged as he carefully reshaped and resituated what was once my glans, now my clit. He carried it out to perfection, leaving me with full sensation basically from day one. All credit to him. But now that lovely little bundle of nerve endings is reporting to me that it’s ready to be played with, when in reality it just isn’t healed enough yet.
I let myself sulk and cry for a minute or two, and then turn round to look into the eyes of my infinitely patient girlfriend.
“I’ll tell you what else I want, though it’s not anything we can do right now.”
“Go on,” she encourages.
“I want your fingers between my legs, and then your face in the same place.”
“Mmm.”
“And then I want to mount you, ride you, feeling you deep within… hnnnggg!”
The orgasm bursts out of me, taking me fully by surprise. It’s not one of the warm, gentle, flowing orgasms I look for in these post-transition days, but something rapid and desperate; a need finally met.
I groan, and my body softens in her arms. She looks surprised, then amused, as she realises what has just happened.
“Better?”, she asks me.
“Mm-hmm.”
We’re still hugging when, minutes later, a second climax follows, slower and gentler. I thank estrogen, once again, for its gift of multiple orgasms.
These days, I love my body. I never thought I could. But I stand in front of the mirror now and see the curve of waist, hips and thighs, where once I was straight up and down. Another of estrogen’s gifts. I’m not sure I’ll ever take this joy for granted. I’m me, at last and forever.
And between my legs, my vulva; my pussy; my cunt. Vaginoplasty isn’t “cutting it off”, as the whispers I heard in the nineties described it. It doesn’t leave just a senseless hole to be fucked. My cunt is the real thing, full and complete and in working order, recognisably the same as anything that sits between a cis woman’s legs.
The surgery isn’t new, or experimental. It’s been perfected through a century of development, and the results take my breath away. They have an observably similar effect on my girlfriend.
I love how I look in tight leggings, now, or a bikini, or a thong. Days after getting back home, I nearly cleared out Ann Summers in my excitement, wrapping my reshaped body in various configurations of lace and satin and PVC, coming back home with shopping bag bulging.
My mind swings like a pendulum between being turned on by the potentials of my new configuration, to simply feeling normal about it. Calm. At peace. Increasingly, this just feels like what it is to be human-shaped. My underwear sits snug at the crotch, I walk around without a distracting bulge shifting around with every step. A tiny change, which changes imperceptibly how I walk, sit, hold myself. It shouldn’t make me feel more like a woman, I scold myself, but it does. I needed this so much more than I ever appreciated.
A couple of days later, we have sex again. I’ve got more energy, but still I have to be careful as I administer to my girlfriend’s needs. I can’t yet straddle her as fully as I want to, restricted by doctor’s orders to keeping my legs at most sixty degrees apart while I heal.
I make do. I run my fingernails down her back, enjoying the pink streaks I leave on her milky white skin, resembling abstract art. She groans, calls me mistress. She ties up her long red hair, and I sink my teeth into her neck, my desire for her making a vampire of me. Her flesh is soft between my lips as I suck at her— estrogen has been as kind to her as it has to me.
My lips leave her skin, and I admire the strawberry-red bruise I’ve left there. I inform her that I’ve left my mark on her. She thanks me for the gift.
“Turn over, and I’ll leave another one where it’s more visible.” I don’t know whether that’s a command or an offer. Either way, she gladly obeys. I put a pillow behind her shoulders so that her head falls back, and bite her again between neck and collarbone. Her appreciative panting is the reward I’m looking for.
I suck at her tits, sink my nails into her supple waist, then pinch her nipples, giving her that edge of pain I know she craves. And then I switch to pleasure, making my way down her body with delicate touches. I tug at her pyjama bottoms and she wriggles her hips out of them, kicks them to the floor.
I stroke her inner thighs, and she lets out a loud moan. My finger traces slow, teasing circles around her groin. She thrashes and pants at my touch.
“Can you touch me on… the underside of my clit?”, she asks.
“I’ll get there,” I tell her. “Could you hold yourself out of the way for me?”
My beautiful girlfriend, my muse, hasn’t yet had the surgery I’ve just been through. She’s still the same shape down below that I was, a mere two months ago. Yet it already seems very foreign to me. Very other.
Her use of the word “clit” to describe her anatomy gives me a clue as to how she wants to be treated. I make my way with careful strokes towards her genitals, then brush gently against the skin that one day will be her outer labia, and listen with satisfaction to the noises of pleasure she makes.
I run two fingertips up the middle of that structure, where one day she will have an actual slit rather than the soft dent that I feel there today. I slide them up the underside of her clit, begin softly massaging in the exact spot where that little sensitive nub will one day nestle.
“I can feel my cunt”, she tells me. “I know what I have there now, but still, I can feel it as it should be.”
“I know,” I respond. “I can see it. It’s beautiful.”
I’m not lying. After all the befores-and-afters I studied as research into vaginoplasty, I can easily picture her own outcome. A cute little pussy, for my cute little toy; a tender triangle sitting sweetly between her plump thighs. And it’ll be my turn to help her through her adjustment, her dilations, her cleaning and care.
She plateaus, not reaching the same definite climax as she did two nights ago. It’s not like before for either of us, when testosterone was the dominant sex hormone, and the moment of climax was straightforward, predictable, and obvious. You get one and done, followed by the almost inevitable falling asleep in your lover’s arms. Part of me misses that simplicity, even if I didn’t enjoy my maleness.
We switch over. She begins attending to me, running her hands over me, then moving to straddle me. I gaze up at her tits hanging above me. She’s been going through a growth spurt of late, and her curves are looking sexy as hell, backlit by the bedroom light.
She rocks her hips against mine. I bite my lip, imagining she is inside me. At the three month mark, if dilation proceeds to schedule, that will be an option for real. And my lover has expressed her willingness to do so, while she has the equipment for it.
I want it badly. It is, with no exaggeration, my lifelong fantasy. It’s what buoyed me through every encounter with a cis lover before my transitioning— using my powers of imagination to rewrite what I was feeling in the moment: my legs wrapped around her rather than vice versa, her sexual organ the one that is filling me, thrusting into me.
Willing or no, I’m mindful of the possibility that my current partner will find the act too dysphoria-inducing to go through with, or that we discover that estrogen has taken from her the requisite stiffness to penetrate me. Even in that case, there’s options. A good strap-on is just an internet purchase away— and of course will be needed eventually anyway after my magical girl goes through her own transformation sequence.
Her hands go to my chest, and mine to hers. Sometimes the joy of lesbianism is in simple maths: four tits is twice as good as two. The thought makes me grin up at her.
I let out a satisfied, catlike purr, knowing the sound sends her wild, and she bends down to kiss me; first soft, then passionate. She unmounts me again, and starts stroking me, getting closer and closer to my cunt. I raise one knee, giving her easier access.
As her fingertips begin to circle, a lightshow plays out behind my closed eyelids. Time stretches out— has she been going two minutes, or ten? I’m in a state of bliss rarely accessible to my old self, my usual busy train of thought set aside as I abandon myself fully to her ministrations.
She runs her fingers over my slit, and I gasp, shake my head no. I’m so sensitive right now that it’s unnecessary, almost painful. A simple breath there would be enough, or the lightest…
“Aaaaaaa!”, the cry comes out of my throat, high and feminine and delicious; the sound of a woman nearing climax. “Aaaaah… Aaaaaaagh!”
A tide rushes over me, warm waves of pleasure intersecting, forming a sudden peak. An orange light seems to surround me, hold me.
I lie there, looking up at my desire, my joy. I think about what we just did, and then my body tenses up, my hips buck.
I introspect on what I’m feeling. Orgasm feels deconstructed right now. The emotional peak can arrive at one moment, the muscular response a little later, that gasping feeling of need a minute later again. Little components of pleasure, adding up to a greater whole than I experienced before.
Perhaps after I get more in touch with my new body and new libido, they’ll coalesce again, into more of the “big bang” I’m used to. That might be nice. But where I am right now is equally pleasant.
I tell the woman above me what I’m noticing.
“One day soon,” she purrs in response, “I’ll take you to this point, and keep you here for a full twenty minutes, keeping you coming over and over while I explore every… last… inch of you.”
She runs an expert hand down the length of my leg, and I gasp through another aftershock. She’s right— in this state, every part of my body is an erogenous zone, if you know how to work it. And she does.
I stare up at her, overwhelmed, vulnerable. I’m meant to be the domme here, I tell myself, but the roles are distinctly reversed right now. I’m at her mercy, with her able to play me like a harp, seeming to know my body better than I do myself.
But then, of course, she does. She’s been a conscientious lover to multiple female partners throughout her life, and I am still so new to being one.
“But tonight,” she continues, “I should let you rest.”
She barely needs to work on me in any case. I keep peaking intermittently for the next ten minutes after we roll into an embrace, holding each other physically and emotionally, talking and kissing, laughing and crying.
I love my body, and hers. Having sex now, I feel marvellously present in myself, and present with her. Everything feels right in me, and— when I’m with her— right with the world. Our future is tantalising, but I need not hurry it.
For now, this is just perfect.