I Woke Up With A Vagina (But I'm Still All Man) [vaginoplasty] [cunnilingus] [tribbing] [squirting]
I love this community - thank you for all of your continued support. This is an extract from my second novel, I Woke Up With A Vagina (But I'm Still All Man) - the full version can be found here! xoxox
----------
After dinner we move to the sofa. She tucks her feet beneath her and wraps her hands around her wine glass and looks at me with the look she has — warm and slightly considering.
"Can I tell you something?" she says.
"Yeah," I say.
She looks at her wine for a moment. Then back at me. "I want to tell you a secret," she says. "Something I've never told anyone. Or — almost anyone."
I wait.
"When I was at college," she says, and something shifts in her voice — softer, more careful, the way you talk about something you've kept somewhere private for a long time. "I was with a woman. Her name was Diane. She was in my year. Law, same as me. Dark hair, olive skin, these incredible green eyes that you just — you couldn't stop looking at. She was beautiful. Genuinely, absurdly beautiful, the kind of woman who walks into a room and changes it. She also had the most spectacular breasts I have ever seen in my life. Honestly. Ridiculous." She pauses. "We were friends first — good friends, the kind you study with and eat with and end up spending most of your time with without quite deciding to. And then one night, somewhere toward the end of first semester, it became something else."
"How long?" I say.
"The rest of the semester. Four months, maybe a little more." She tilts her head slightly. "It ended when she transferred to another school. Not badly — just the way things end when the circumstances change and you're twenty years old and neither of you quite knows what you have yet." She looks at her glass. "I've thought about her a lot over the years. Wondered what would have happened if she'd stayed."
"Did you sleep with her?" I say.
"Yes," Claire says. "We were inseparable."
"Did you like it?"
She looks at me, and the corner of her mouth does the thing. "Better than most of the poor excuses for intimacy I've experienced since," she says. "Not that there have been many."
I look at her.
"There have been a couple of others since Diane," she says. "Nothing that went anywhere — a few fumbles, an interesting evening in my early thirties that I don't regret. I've always known, I think. That I'm bisexual. I just never — it never felt like something that needed saying out loud. Or I never found the right person to say it to." She looks at me steadily. "That's the first time I've ever come out to someone."
The room is quiet for a moment.
"Thank you," I say. "For telling me."
"It seemed fair," she says. "Given what you told me last week." She sets her wine glass down and turns to face me properly. "I want you to know that I don't think of you as a woman, Frank. Not even slightly. You're — you're the most male person I've met in years, in all the ways that matter. What you have — that's just a fact. A fact I'm not remotely afraid of."
I look at her for a long moment. "Diane was a long time ago," I say.
"She was," Claire says. "But some things you don't forget how to do."
She kisses me first. Leans across the sofa and takes my face in both hands and kisses me — slow, deliberate, the kind that has been waiting all evening. I kiss her back and my hand finds her waist and it builds the way it always builds between us, her hands moving into my hair, mine pulling her closer, the kiss deepening into something with real weight behind it.
And then her hand moves. Down from my shoulder, across my chest, over my stomach, and then her fingers find the waistband of my jeans and slide beneath — warm against my skin, moving downward with the slow deliberate certainty of a woman who has decided — and then her fingers are inside my panties.
She stops.
"Smooth," she says, against my mouth. "Wasn't expecting that."
"No?" I say.
"No." She moves her fingers slightly, feeling the bare skin. "When did you —"
"A while ago," I say. "Practical reasons."
"Mm," she says, which seems to be all she needs to know about that, and then her fingers find the right place and I stop being able to think about anything else.
Her fingers move with complete confidence — finding the clitoris without searching for it and applying exactly the right pressure, slow circles that tighten incrementally, reading every response and adjusting. I make a sound against her mouth that I didn't plan to make. She feels that and applies slightly more pressure and I grip the back of the sofa with one hand because I need to be holding onto something.
She varies the pressure, the speed, the direction of the circles, and I'm wet almost immediately, properly wet, the slickness of it spreading and building as she works — not just at the clitoris but throughout, the inner lips swelling, the entrance to my vagina softening and opening, my whole vulva warm and full and responding to her fingers with a thoroughness that I can feel in my thighs, in the base of my spine, radiating outward with every movement she makes. She feels the wetness on her fingers and uses it, spreading it upward to the clitoris, using my own arousal as lubrication, and the slickness of it under her fingers changes the sensation — smoother, more immediate, nothing between us — and she makes a quiet sound against my neck that goes straight through me.
"God," she says, soft against my ear. "You're so wet."
I can't answer. I just breathe and grip the sofa and let her keep going.
She moves lower — her finger tracing down from the clitoris, following the slick heat of me, pressing between the inner lips — which are swollen now, engorged, fuller than I've felt them before — and finding the entrance, and she doesn't enter, just presses there, circles there, her fingertip pressing against the opening and releasing and pressing again, and the sensation of it is completely distinct from the clitoris — deeper, more interior, a pressure that my body pushes back against without my permission, my hips tilting toward her hand, my body trying to take what it wants.
"Okay?" she says.
"Don't stop," I say.
She brings her finger back to the clitoris — slick now with my own wetness, moving easily, no friction — and her other hand finds my breast through my shirt and I arch into both at once and the sound I make is not quiet.
The panties are soaked through. I can feel the fabric clinging, heavy and wet, the cotton saturated, the discharge and arousal indistinguishable now, both of them mine, both of them running freely, and there's a warmth spreading through my whole lower body that I know and have learned to not fight and am absolutely not fighting tonight.
She pulls back slightly and looks at me.
"Bedroom," she says.
She undresses me first. Shirt, then jeans, unhurried, her hands certain. Then she kneels in front of me — kneels properly, dropping to both knees on the bedroom floor, her face level with my hips — and hooks her fingers into the waistband of my panties and looks up at me.
"Okay?" she says.
"Okay," I say.
She brings them down slowly, her eyes on my face, and I step out of them and she stays where she is, kneeling, and looks at what's there in the low light of the bedroom. I stand and let her look.
The wetness is visible even from where she is — the smooth bare skin between my legs slick with arousal, the inner lips parting slightly, everything swollen and pink and present in the low light. The clitoris visible at the top of the folds, slightly protruding with arousal, the hood pulled back. The entrance to my vagina glistening, visibly wet, a small trail of arousal fluid running down toward my inner thigh. She takes it all in.
"Frank," she says quietly.
"Yeah," I say.
"It's beautiful," she says. And then: "It's so pretty."
I absorb the sentiment and let it land the way it lands — gratefully, mostly, with one small interior note at pretty that I register and put aside. It's a word that still catches somewhere in me, a word that belongs to other things, other people, and hearing it applied to part of my anatomy hasn't fully settled yet. But she means it as warmth and I take it as warmth.
She stands and I undress her — the dress, her bra, her underwear — and I take my time the way she took hers, looking properly. Her breasts first — full and heavy, the nipples small and neat against tight, dark areolas, the skin unmarked and smooth in the way of a body that has never fed anyone. I put my mouth on her immediately, my tongue finding her nipple, taking it between my lips, and she makes a sound that presses through my chest and her hand finds the back of my head and holds me there. I take my time — tongue circling, lips pressing, feeling her nipple harden against my mouth, feeling the small sounds she makes against her own control — and then I move to the other, the same attention, the same patience, until her hand in my hair is gripping rather than guiding.
I work my way down. Stomach, hip, inner thigh. She opens before I get there, her legs parting naturally, her body already knowing what's coming.
I'm close enough now to see her properly. The hair neatly trimmed, dark against pale skin. Her inner labia extending slightly beyond the outer — a soft pink protrusion, delicate but present — her color deeper than mine, a darker richer pink shading toward a deeper rose at the center where the wetness is already gathering, glistening in the low light. The clitoris visible at the apex, slightly hooded, a small firm nub that I can see clearly from where I am. And the smell of her — close like this, face level with her, the heat radiating upward — strong and warm and unmistakably female, a deep warm musk that is entirely her, rich and insistent, and in the state I'm already in it goes straight through me like a current and takes any remaining hesitation with it.
I go where I'm going.
My tongue finds her clitoris and I work it — broad strokes first, feeling her respond, her hips tipping toward me, a sharp intake of breath above me. Then tighter circles, the tip of my tongue, more precise, tracing around the hood and then underneath it, finding the exact point that makes her thighs tighten around my head and her hand press the back of my skull. I stay exactly there. I add my hand, a finger at her entrance — feeling the heat of it, the wetness already pooling there, the opening soft and yielding — pressing without entering, circling the rim of it, and she makes a sound that isn't quite a word.
She gets wetter as I go. I feel it against my lips, my chin, the heat of her spreading, coating my face, and I stay with her — reading every shift, every tightening of her thighs, every change in the sounds she makes — varying the pressure, the speed, the technique, suction on the clitoris that makes her hips rock forward, then softer, then harder again, until her thighs clamp hard around my head and her hips rock forward and don't stop rocking and her breath breaks completely apart and she comes — long and deep and unguarded, her whole body involved in it, her hands pressing my face into her while it moves through her.
When I come up she pulls me to her and kisses me — deep and immediate, tasting herself in my mouth without hesitation, her hands pulling me close — and then she rolls me onto my back.
I tense immediately. I know it the moment it happens and I can't stop it. This is different from everything so far tonight. This is her between my legs, her face close to me, the full sensory reality of it — she's going to smell me, see everything, put her mouth on me in the low light of this room — and the gap between knowing she's done this before and being ready for it is wider than I expected.
She feels the tension.
"Hey," she says, her cheek resting against my inner thigh, her voice warm and unhurried. "I've got you."
"I know," I say.
"Relax," she says.
"Working on it," I say.
She doesn't go straight there. She presses her lips to my inner thigh — soft, unhurried kisses working their way slowly inward — then the other thigh, the same slow approach, her hands spread flat on my thighs holding them gently apart, and I breathe and let her take her time and by the time she gets there I'm not exactly relaxed but I'm present, which is what I've got.
And then her mouth finds me.
Her tongue finds the clitoris immediately — no searching, just there, exactly right — and the first contact of it sends something through me so sharp and immediate that my hips come off the bed before I've registered it. She holds them down — both hands pressing firmly on my inner thighs, keeping me open, keeping me where she wants me — and begins to move her tongue in slow deliberate circles that build gradually, reading every response with complete attention. The flat of her tongue first — broad, warm, covering the whole of the clitoris and the folds around it — then the tip, more focused, tracing around the hood, pressing underneath it, finding the exact point and staying there.
"You smell so good," she says, against me, her breath warm on my wet skin. "God, your pussy smells good." And then she goes back to what she's doing without waiting for a response, which is good because I don't have one.
She adds a finger. Pressing at my entrance first — feeling the slickness there, the heat of me, the opening soft and ready — and then slowly, steadily inside. The sensation of her finger inside me, the fullness of it, moving in the same slow rhythm as her tongue on my clitoris — is something I have no frame for and no words for, just a building wave that starts somewhere deep in my pelvis and expands outward, my inner walls closing around her finger, my body gripping her, the wetness of it audible now in the quiet of the room. She adds a second finger and I make a sound that I feel in my chest, my back arching, the sheet gripped in both fists.
She keeps going. Absolutely focused, varying the depth and angle of her fingers, curling them slightly inside me in a way that finds something I didn't know was there and presses it and my whole body responds — hips lifting, thighs shaking, sounds coming out of me that are nothing like anything I've made before. Her tongue on the clitoris doesn't stop. Her fingers don't stop. She reads every response and stays exactly where she needs to stay and does exactly what she needs to do, and the wave builds and builds and I'm gripping the sheet and my thighs are shaking against her hands and I can feel it coming from a long way off and arriving with everything it has.
It breaks. Full body, everywhere at once — my back arching off the bed, both hands gripping the sheet white-knuckled, a sound tearing out of me into the quiet of the room that I couldn't have stopped if I'd tried — and with it the ejaculate, clear and warm, releasing in a rush, and she doesn't stop, she stays with me through all of it, her mouth and her fingers continuing to work me through every wave of it until my hips drop back to the bed and my hands release the sheet and the room slowly comes back.
She lifts her head. There is semen on her face — on her cheek, a trail of it — and she touches it with one finger, just briefly, just noting it, and she looks at me with something open and warm and entirely untroubled.
We kiss. Deep and slow and long, tasting each other — her mouth carrying the scent and taste of me, the musky warmth of my arousal mixed with the clear saltiness of the ejaculate, mine carrying the deep warm musk of her — and I pull her close and hold her and let that be what it is.
We lie there for a while. Her head on my chest. Her hand on my stomach. Both of us still breathing harder than usual.
After a while she shifts. Her leg comes over mine, her hip against my hip, and she moves — adjusting, repositioning — and I feel what she's doing and I move with her, following her lead. As a man I fucked. Here, at best, this is equal — in truth she is directing, she knows this landscape and I don't, and I follow because that's honest and because it's right and because my body wants what she's offering and I've stopped pretending otherwise.
Her body against mine, both of us aligned, and she begins to move. Her softness against my softness — her wet, swollen vulva pressed against mine, the heat of both of us together, the slickness of our combined arousal making every movement fluid and immediate. The friction of it builds between us, her clitoris against mine, both of us feeling it, and she sets the rhythm and I match it, her hands gripping my hips, mine gripping hers, both of us pressing harder as it builds.
The sounds we're both making fill the quiet of the room. Her breathing ragged against my shoulder, mine against her neck, and the slick wet sound of us moving together, bodies pressed close, everything open and present and working toward the same thing without either of us deciding to, just finding it.
I come first. The orgasm arriving harder and faster than I expected, my body pressing into hers, and with it a second release of semen — smaller than the first, clear and warm, spilling against her inner thigh where we're pressed together. She feels it and presses closer rather than pulling away, and seconds later she follows — her rhythm breaking, her breath catching sharp, her body shuddering hard against mine, a sound into my shoulder that I feel long after it fades.
We lie still.
After a while she lifts her head. She looks between us — at the wetness on her thigh, at the combined slickness of our bodies pressed together. She touches her thigh where the semen is. Then she touches her cheek — the dried trace of the earlier ejaculate still there — and she looks at me.
"So," she says. "You're a squirter."
"Not exactly," I say.
She looks at me. "Frank."
"I have a prostate," I say. "Still intact. Still functioning. No sperm — but fluid. Semen, essentially, just without sperm. I found out at my last OBGYN appointment. I didn't know how to work it into conversation."
She looks at her thigh. She looks at her finger, at the trace on her cheek. Something moves through her face.
"Claire," I say.
"I'm not laughing," she says.
"You are," I say.
"I'm genuinely not," she says, and then she is — quietly, her face pressed against my shoulder, her body shaking with it — and after a moment, against every expectation, I am too. The laughter is real and warm and nothing like the kind I've been carrying around since the accident, and I let it happen.
When it passes she settles back against me. Her hand on my chest. The room quiet.
"Stay," I say.
"I was going to," she says.
There's a sound from the doorway. Judge pads in, considers the situation, and climbs onto the foot of the bed with the serene authority of a dog who goes where he pleases. He circles twice and lies down.
Claire doesn't move. "He does that," she says.
"I figured," I say.