The closer I get to orgasm, the hornier I become

Doctor’s orders.  That’s my excuse.  ‘For what?’ you might ask.  To masturbate for hours on end three times each day.

Amused?  I’m not.  I am so horny now that I have reached a kind of fugue state.  I can’t really think straight.  The wind blows and I become aroused.  Any situation, from the most mundane, is immediately triggering of sexual fantasy.  And I follow each and every one of them in my mind until I can’t see straight.

I am on holiday with family and friends.  I would normally be so fully engaged with everything, at the heart of every activity.  This time I am withdrawn.  This is what happens when the relentless schedule of dilation asserts itself—I simply have to do it.

Dilating is supposed to get easier and less frequent.  My doctor told me that I would be able to start going down in frequency, initially to twice per day. They also told me that my body would step up resistance to the wound created between my legs…that it is just like an ear piercing, it needs to be kept open while it heals.

The number of people who have asked me why don’t I just wear a dildo inside of me for long stretches of time.  Three slots of one hour each not being enough.

In part, the answer is comfort.  When I reach the larger sizes, it is not particularly comfortable or pleasurable.  I can remember my early adventures in ass play.  And the one time that I tried to slide a butt plug in too quickly.  I cannot recall anything that was ever so painful.  But the funny thing about desire, is that after 30 seconds or so of having pulled it out and caught my breath, I was back at trying to get it in.

I have been fortunate in that dilation (up until now) has not been painful.  I was able to achieve a state of relaxation that allowed me to ‘get it in’, each one, that avoided pain or serious discomfort.  It was just mainly a time issue—how annoying to break up the day like that.

Those first three months are relentless, and that on its own is one reason to require a post-op transsexual to not work.  Once she has ‘obligations’ other than those to her own body, it becomes hard to keep the schedule.

The nurse that I have the hots for told me, “you have a year to get to the largest size, but the faster you do it, the easier it will be.”  She also said, “once you start going up a size, you can’t go back, don’t do it halfway.  On a given day, the commitment to size up begins, and no matter how far you can insert it, just keep going, and don’t slip back down in size.”

All good advice.  My doctor, the nurse’s boss, said, “I want you to masturbate each time you dilate.  It will make it easier.  Make it less tedious.  And it will also speed up the healing process.”

Who wouldn’t want to follow doctor’s orders on this?  Girl waits entire life for vagina.  Get’s designer kitty.  Is told to start playing with it.  Is told that the more she plays with it, the faster it will heal, and the more pleasure it will give.  What do you think is going to happen next?

The byproduct is a level of horny ideation that I haven’t felt since I was a teenager masturbating several times a day.  My therapist does refer to me as a teenager.  My endocrinologist has deliberately pitched my hormone dosing to mimic natural puberty.  My bloodwork shows me as a 14-year old girl.  My therapist sees so many parallels between me and her adolescent girl patients, including the trans ones.

Everything is new.  I was secretly hoping that my therapist would see me as a baby, as I hope everyone does, and after hearing me out, my impeccable logic as to why I am a baby, proceeded to tell me that she regarded me as a young teen girl.

My Queen, after giving me a beating which had me sobbing and in a puddle in her arms (it was the first time I have ever cried with her, really cried, and it had nothing to do with pain.  It was a beautiful experience…and do you know what is weird?  A good domme conditions us.  She creates a reward-punish system that begins to elicit a Pavlovian response.  She was pleased with me, pleased that we had finally broken through.  Without saying it.  I could feel that she was very happy that I had opened up in this way, and her response to me, her presence with me in my raw state made me want to be there with her again).

In the meantime, my Dr’s orders are serving to increase my crazy-ass fantasies involving them. My sex change, in this state, feels like a voluntary castration, a life of chastity, only in this case, it is not about being chaste, but about perpetually horny and unfulfilled. We call that ‘obedient’. And since obedience is my kink, my number one turn-on, I feel like I am in an echo chamber of my own desire, kneeling at the feet of a dark Goddess who often looks just like my surgeon…

A few weeks ago, I felt my lady bits, my female pleasure system, kick into gear.  I was driving to a dominatrix retreat.  I was listening to a new podcast, which was safe for work even though the topic was pornography.  It was two women reviewing smut they had consumed, but in a literary, proper British, fashion.  One of the films that they reviewed was of a particular kind of porn that really used to turn me on, and which I have also written a slew of…

They called it ‘bro’ porn.  This was two young, ostensibly straight, guys being ‘bro’s’ with each other, ribbing, teasing, being guys, vaguely macho, and not at all gay, and then suddenly one is topping the other.  Part of that ‘first time’ category.  It was momentous for me as I felt this incredible twitching of arousal in my pussy, my pussy lips got swollen, I could feel my clitoris pulsing.  I was like, ‘oh my, welcome back’ to my libido, and ‘holy shit, that’s intense, it feels totally different’. And it does.

Who can describe it?  Ladies, please share the physical sensation of arousal in your best prose.  This is what I felt.  Starting with my vulva and the entire area between my legs, I felt a ‘thickness’.  I also felt flushed in my body.  All of my body.  My nipples became erect and I could feel them rubbing on my shirt.  My stomach, my belly, had butterflies.  And my mind had a flutter of shame, desire, hunger, and this feeling that I had an itch that needed scratching.  I wanted a fucking.

So, with the rediscovery of arousal, something which has been gone since July of 2022, when I first began my GAHT (gender affirming hormone therapy) journey, has also come the return of kinky thoughts, of a desire to write and consume porn.

To each their own.  Everyone has their own taste in porn.  My favourite is the written word.  Just as any great novel gives more pleasure as a book than a movie, I like my porn served up with a healthy dollop of imagination—my own.  I want the characters to take shape the way I conjure them, their voices to sound as I imagine, for them to take up residence in my mind in ways that make them welcome, and which might be totally different than yours or anyone’s.

A few weeks ago I sized up with the dilators, up to the next-to-largest size, pulled out my Hitachi wand, read porn, and edged myself for hours.  I also seemed to have hurt myself a bit.  I forgot the part of my Dr’s admonition, “be gentle,” when they gave me the all-clear to start having sex.  I had a lot of fun, but after, and for a few days after, there was a bit of blood in my discharge.  And I had bruised myself inside too.

I decided to ‘take it easy’ on dilation and give myself a chance to heal.  I backed off on the sizing up and went down to twice a day.  To be fair, my Dr had said I would know when it was the ‘right time’ to reduce the frequency, but also warned me that I was likely passing through a period when everything would be tightening, and that it would hurt a lot more before relaxing again.  And that I should wait to cut down on frequency until after the ‘relaxing again’ part.

Well, it didn’t quite work that way.  I began to lose depth, the biggest no-no in this process, for once you lose it, you can’t get it back.  Plus, my travel schedule and access to privacy and clean bathrooms and a place to lie down and spread my legs was proving quite challenging.  Sending your children out for ‘a walk’ so you can dilate when sharing a hotel room with them is not ideal, but neither is an expensive second room in an expensive city.  In the end, out of a profound fear of losing depth, and real pain at smaller and smaller sizes, I knuckled down and really fought to get my depth back.  It has taken about 10 days of extended marathon sessions, and I mean marathon, upping my time in dildo to two hours, and with interventions that seem to mean I am lying in bed most of the day.  At least that is how it feels.  And this has come to a head on vacation.

What else?  Self-pleasure has become an integral part of it.  Can you imagine masturbating for up to 6 hours each day?  And never getting off?  Just getting hornier and hornier?  That’s what is happening to me.  I seem to get closer and closer to orgasm, to experiencing full-body pleasure, but I am getting there by fucking myself with my dilators, relentlessly playing with my clit and labia, and simultaneously reading one kinky story after another.

And most of what I am reading is gay male porn.  And this is alarming to me.  It was the topic of my last therapy session.  Why?  I don’t understand it.  My therapist does not feel I need to understand it.  That it is okay to just let it happen.

But my hunger for a fucking is real.  I find myself admiring the occasional ‘perfect’ male body in this earthly paradise where I am right now.  These tanned Adonis’s are plentiful, but few actually spark an interest.  Only sometimes.

But at the same time, it is purely sexual, like a disembodied torso.  I don’t look at any part of a man other than his washboard tummy, the muscles, his tan body, and this feeling of tension and strength which emanates from a cocky walk, his groin, a tight ass, and plenty of attitude.  But as a human, as a man, zero attraction.  As a fuck machine?  Bring it on.

After hours of frigging myself and edging, and then finally collapsing back onto my pillows in exhausted frustration, I realised it was 3:00 am and I had been at it since 11:00 pm.  “Goodnight everyone,” I had said to all and sundry, but there I was still at it long after they had entered the land of Nod.  But when I finally gave up, stopped reading porn, different thoughts came rushing in.

The main one was a woman I had met that day.  A woman who I find deeply attractive.  She wanted to sell me art.  Very expensive art.  And she decided I was a credible client.  Queue flirtation.  I am very susceptible to a woman’s charms.  She paid attention to me.  Offered me her hotel room to change, her balcony to lounge on.  Then she came over to where I was lying on a lounger near the beach and asked me if I wanted to have a swim with her.

I found myself saying, “yes please” and feeling so submissive and hungry that I felt as if I would choke.  And I followed her into the water, an invisible thread running from a gossamer leash which looped around her narrow waist and ran to my nose.  And we talked of a million things and suddenly I realised that I was kneeling on the ocean floor, had been kneeling for quite some time, and she was standing, only ever standing, and my eyes were at her belly, and how naturally we had fallen into this way of being.

Conversation was effortless and time flew by.  And I realised at the same time that I discovered that I had found myself kneeling at her feet for an hour, that I was crushingly mesmerized by her.  And later that night, after masturbating for nearly four hours to gay porn, all that was left was this raw hunger that was filled by desire for her.

And I found myself wanting to say to her, “Miss, if you want me to buy these paintings, all you need to do is tell me, ‘now be a good girl and buy these paintings.’  And I would.  Not that I have that kind of money.  But crazy shit can happen.  And the thought of being her art bitch turned me on so much that all my gears slipped and I fell asleep thinking of nothing else.

In the morning, I was rewarded by a flurry of messages from her.  Telling me what to read.  Things to do, people to meet, places to go.  And I was falling into a ‘yes Miss” pattern with her.  And she is milking it, milking me, and I love it.

Unsurprisingly, the art in question is feminist.  Vulvular.  Depicting female power, female sexual energy.  I am tempted to tell her that she can control me in a very simple way.  But I won’t.  Because good girls don’t say such things.  And anyway, she already knows.

I guess that is an example of how being horny, too horny can affect one’s thinking.  I just wonder how long it will be before I have my first clitoral orgasm…up to a year post-op says the Dr.  But waiting that long?!  I’ll get into too much trouble.

I am reminded of the Quest for the Holy Grail. I am reminded of unrequited love. I am reminded of Chivalry and the Buddhist doctrine of self-abnegation. I am reminded of surrounded myself with things I desire and seeking mastery over this desire. I am reminded of every search for the impossible. And in the end, I can’t help but think that mankind’s (intentional use of a gendered word) questing is a search for the eternal feminine. The hunger we have as a species, and more particularly, the male of our species, is destined to be unrequited…it is the search for what can never be possessed. It is the search for the essence of woman. The Divine Feminine is just on the other side of the portal, the other side of the womb, the other side of desire.