I know that Jenby (aka @JenetalTorture) needs no introduction, because you’ve already read her incredible accounts of pony play, e-stim, erotic hypnosis and more by now. But still. STILL. I need to tell you, for the avoidance of any doubt, that this new guest blog gave me a pretty intriguing biology tutorial as well as all the sexy shivers, and I am honoured to be able to host it today. Here’s Jenby’s intense and kinky account, as a transfeminine person, of her first time squirting…
Squirting – a penis owner’s odyssey
A quick recap for those who need it: squirt and ejaculate are different things.
Ejaculate is a white, creamy substance often accompanied by orgasm, squirt is a thin, clear to cloudy liquid produced in large quantities by the bladder (a mixture of urine and prostatic fluid), not necessarily associated with orgasm but capable of occurring with it, and is – received wisdom tells us – the preserve of people with vaginas.
Spoiler: this blog isn’t about to disprove that theory. But…
Two days ago I was strung up in a hallway by my nipples (specifically by nips and wrists, connected via a piece of string looped over a pull-up bar and attached to a devilish pair of clover clamps), constricted by a rubber hood and shoulder-length gloves, stifled by a gas mask and hose, whimpering over the half a kilo of weights dangling from my genitals and generally, one might say, getting thoroughly worked up.
After what felt like an endless cycle of gradually relaxing my arms, feeling the tug on my punished nipples, jerking my arms up in search of respite and my play partner L attaching yet more weight to my tormented testes, I was eventually granted release. L led me into the living room congratulating me on my endurance, and telling me how much ‘appreciation’ I was receiving online for my performance.
Fair to say I was now not so much ‘worked up’ as ‘at the top of the corporate ladder and CEO of a large multinational conglomerate specialising in the manufacture of horn.’
As I stood there trembling from the insistent throb of the still-acute pain, dripping precum and awaiting my next instruction, I was informed that I’d been good enough to earn a reward, and was commanded to kneel.
Almost unable to believe my luck, I sank to the floor and felt L connecting something to my granite-like member, which I later found out was a silicone tube covered in bumps and ridges, with a large bulb to accommodate the head of a magic wand. I was still completely blind, but when the vibe went on I knew exactly what was happening, and what was expected.
As I began thrusting, feeling the approach of my first whiff of sexual relief all weekend, the vibration intensified, and a once common sensation – already foreign-feeling after only a couple of days of denial – began to permeate my body.
I was close.
My thrusting became more urgent, more determined to make good on this generous gift before it was snatched away by my capricious keeper, but just as I approached the vinegar strokes, L bumped up the vibration once more.
It was too much, I was off my stride, that familiar pleasurable sensation evaporated, but I was still on the verge of coming. Then, before I could say anything, it stopped being cum and changed into something else…
As the buzzing wand worked its magic, every ounce of my muscle control evaporated, and I began to fill up the bag L had judiciously attached to the other end of my tube.
I was gushing. But I was gushing piss.
However, all was not what it seemed. I was still rock hard, and as that familiar glow of euphoria washed over me, I realised something extraordinary: I’d just orgasmed.
And bar the precum I’d been leaking, I’d done it without a drop of semen leaving my cock.
L was clearly as surprised as I was. That had, apparently, never happened before. And while I was predominantly concerned with being mortified about pissing all over their floor, I couldn’t get a tiny, niggling thought out of my endorphin-addled head.
I’d just squirted. I’d done something I never expected to be able to do. Even if you quite reasonably think I’m just being overdramatic and that all I’d done was piss myself when I came, that’s still something I’d always been explicitly told it was impossible to do, and for me it was the sensation that mattered. As a transfeminine person, it was one of the most affirming moments of my life.
Gratifyingly, L seemed more thrilled for me than annoyed at the piss currently seeping through their carpet, and gently walked me backwards, still blinded by my latex hood, into the bathroom.
They encouraged me into the bath and turned on the shower. But as I began to shuffle my body in the direction of the heat and noise they grabbed hold of me and told me not to stand under the water just yet.
I turned to face them, my quizzical expression still obscured by the impassive countenance of the gas mask, and without missing a beat they emptied the bag of my still-warm piss all over me, and I promptly melted.
L smirked. Fair enough, I thought, as they gave me the order to get myself clean, and went to mop up my mess.