Scintillectually Yours

It has been said (and quite often to me lately) that less-than-perfect relationships can sometimes help you prepare for the one you are meant to be in. This is most certainly the case with me and with the relationship I had with former HTB. If you are a long-time reader (and have not yet abandoned me as I have slighted this site for such a long time) then you might remember that my former fiance was FTM (that’s female-to-male transsexual for anyone not in the know). During his transition, which began about six months after we started dating, there were aspects of his physical form that changed as soon as he started his hormone therapy. Along with the change in bone structure, deepening voice, and receding hairline, his “little man” grew…er…quite large. The physical changes brought about a new level of comfort with his body and eventually those former “no-fly” zones became hands-on and mouth-on again–but necessitated a very different technique than that which I had always been accustomed to when participating in erotic encounters with women.

Now let me digress a moment to my late teen’s when DPR and I first got together. She was what most would refer to as “stone butch.” While she did let me go down on her (because I wasn’t going to take no for an answer after having fantasized about just such a moment for most of my life), she was not used to being on the receiving end and most of our sexual encounters led me into more of a pillow-princess mode along with a fair amount of tribadism. When we reunited 26 years later, I realized that I had come back to her prepared with some new oral skills that I thought she may react more favorably to. You see, DPR identifies as transmasculine (and at this point, referring to DPR as “she” and “her” is not exactly true to her ever-increasing masculine nature…but I find the alternative pronouns cumbersome so bear with me), and has never been keen on having direct clitoral stimulation. While I want, nee NEED it (power, more power!), she finds it downright annoying. So much so that she had long given up on being on the receiving end of any sexual activity. Knowing this, and armed with some knowledge about how to treat a “micropenis” as it were, I set about approaching her nether parts as more masculine. The results…well…let’s just say she’s pleased. Very pleased.

While I am not in the habit of giving up trade secrets, I do think that there are a vast number of folk who are still biologically female-bodied but who don’t relate to their genitals in the same way as those of us who are extremely comfortable with our very girly girl parts. So, I impart this little piece of knowledge on “how to treat the boi-clit.” I don’t mean to imply that I am the only femme on earth who comes equipped with this little skill, but I do believe there are women out there in similar situations who have partners who have given up in frustration or feel, as DPR did, that something must be physically wrong with them because their parts don’t respond in a “typical” fashion. And to that end, DPR would like you to know that her parts are working just fine, thank you. You can try it or not…but if you do and it works as well as it has for us? Consider it my little Christmas gift to you and yours. *wink*

I begin by using my hands and lips. All over. Foreplay is essential for everyone and heightens the senses for the main event. A soft caress here, a trail of nails there. A kiss, a nibble, a bite. If your boi’s chest is a no-fly zone? Run your hand down the middle of hir chest–rest it there and let hir feel the sensation of what it might be like the day zhe won’t have to bind or be hyperaware of hard nipples poking through a beater on a hot summer day. Let your fingers trail downward and trace lazy circles in the manscaping (and please, bois, do tend to the bushes…no matter how you identify, no one should need a machete to reach the promised land). I then focus on the shaft. It’s all about the shaft. Grasp hir boi-clit between your thumb and forefinger (trust me, it should be nice and thick and hard by now, T or no T), and stroke. Stay away from the head of the clitoris, it is likely to be supersensitive to the point of painful. If natural lubrication is not a no-fly zone then that’s a plus, but not necessary, it’s all in the pulling motion.

This, in itself, could lead to orgasm, but I really love my lips wrapped around hir little cock. I come in from the side–always. Either on my knees so zhe can have access to either my breasts or cunt, or lying flat on my belly. Being on my knees tends to give me a greater range of motion and less of a pain in the neck (literally). If you come in from the top or from between hir legs, you will get too much head and you want to pull the length of hir shaft into your mouth and as far down your throat as possible. Unless zhe has had surgery to release the tendon underneath the clitoral hood, you are better off coming in from the side. Trust me.

This is when I use my lips to draw hir boi-clit up into my mouth. Slowly…achingly slowly at first. I suck hir in until my mouth is filled from the base of hir shaft to the head and then I slowly…achingly slowly, let it go again. I tend to repeat this process a few times before I really start sucking. I love the feeling of hir in my mouth, hir fat flesh against the inside of my lips, my tongue caressing the side of hir shaft, my mouth watering and my pussy wet, dripping. If you have ever had any experience giving a blowjob to a cisgendered male then you can truly appreciate the finer points. Treat hir boi-clit as a penis. That same up-and-down motion on hir hard shaft is going to generate the same results. Stop and lick the underside as you would the frenulum. Eventually you will find a rhythm that suits hir. You may also find hands tangled in your hair and pushing your head down while lovely nasty things are said about what zhe is feeling. It may take a while. Don’t give up in frustration. A little stiff neck is worth the reward. Just before zhe cums, you will literally feel hir harden in your mouth. Zhe will swell and when zhe cums I slow down and suck. Hard. I suck every drop of cum I can possibly get out of hir.

And then, sometimes, if I don’t get pushed away, I start all over again.

Once again our dear Ang, the Sweltering Celt, has charged us with a challenging theme. I was lying in bed with a much different scenario playing out in my head but the minute I got out of bed to write it down, lest I forget, I was struck with a very different piece. I hope you enjoy this little lesson in etiquette.

She stood perfectly still. Weeks of training had taught her perfect posture. Head held high, shoulders back. Not a hair out of place; her pearl necklace (a gift from her father upon graduation) graced her creamy white neck; her white blouse starched, one delicate button left undone, her bountiful cleavage chastely covered.

Her teacher, regal in a Chanel suit, knelt at her feet. This was the final test although she had passed her course with high honors. Honors that were rewarded for all of her hard work. Soon she would be feted at Atlanta’s largest Cotillion—her coming out party. But now, she acquiesced to the ministrations of her mentor.

She dared not look down as her slim pencil skirt was pushed up to her waist, her garters securing silk stockings with seams running a straight line down the slender curve of the back of her leg and calf, disappearing into proper little closed-toe pumps. As ordered by the Head Mistress, the girls were never to wear panties. It was the one secret that they and they alone knew. They must be ready for her touch at all times. Her beckon call. And now she felt the white-gloved hands part her lips, already glistening with the illicit intentions bestowed upon her.

Her thighs quivered slightly and her Mistress’ hand slapped her lightly to quiet the small shiver and tiny moan. Her legs were urged apart—she never lost her balance. She remained poised, but her tongue darted out and lightly touched the perfect bow of red lipstick. Her eyelashes fluttered as she felt the woman’s mouth on her most private part. Her clitoris jumped at first touch. She faltered and this time the slap was sharper causing an almost inaudible gasp. The Mistress’ tongue worked fervently and even as she tried to focus her concentration on standing ever so still…she became lost in sensation. Her legs turned to jelly, her wetness poured forth, her muscles contracted and she came with a moan while she bent over, grabbed her teacher’s hair and shoved her face deeper into her raging vagina.

A pure white, monogrammed handkerchief gently caressed her slick thighs. Her skirt pulled carefully down. Her blouse adjusted. She returned to her seat and primly crossed her legs at the ankles, folding her hands in her lap. The Head Mistress dabbed gently at her mouth, smoothed her hair, and turned to the class. “My dears,” she addressed the three rows of young ladies, “who would like to be next?”