The first time we ever had sex, eight years ago, he drove me up the nearby mountain.  We hiked up a trail, and went off trail, where we took off our clothes and lay down on them, making ourselves a forest bed.  I touched his body.  I rubbed his dick with my hand, and sucked it.  I didn’t swallow, back then.  I didn’t swallow for at least a year.  Then he made me come also.  I was glad we did it.  But there was a long journey to go.  That mountain is sacred to me.  I had no idea he would be extremely important to me, longterm.

I liked when he peed on me.   It didn’t feel like I expected.  It was warmer and with more force.  I liked peeing on him also.  He wanted me to spread my cunt open with my fingers so he could see the pee coming out better.  I tried to do it how he wanted.

I really needed to heal my PTSD and didn’t know enacting past trauma in a safe way would be the best possible thing for me.  No one told me to do that–I was just getting off on it.  That was a good two years.  I enjoyed him calling me names, hitting me mostly on the face, threatening me, telling me what to do, and hurting me physically.  I liked saying no and him pretend-violating me.  It was power play and pain play.  We slip into it very rarely now.  I realize it’s happening and feel excited.  But mostly I stopped needing that, and we don’t have enough privacy here.

I liked when we were helping a friend move.  She was leaving her boyfriend, and we were helping her pack and get her things out of there.  She and someone else took a load to her storage unit, and he and I were alone in her apartment.  He sat on her couch, and I knelt in front of him on the floor.  I sucked his dick, and I remember hurrying to the bathroom and spitting his semen into the sink, washing it down the drain.  It was the first year, and I still wasn’t swallowing.

Sex in the living rooms of friends when we were traveling.  Sex every day, twice a day.  The nights we’d set the alarm for every two hours, to have sex and then sleep, more sex, sleep some more.  Or specific things we were pretending.

I was thinking about all the teenage boys who pressured me for sex, the one who would stand behind me and rub his erection on the upper part of my ass.  I asked my love to lie behind me and rub his dick there, put coconut oil there, and I pushed back against him as he rubbed himself on me faster, holding my shoulders tightly.  I felt him come there, spasming against me.  It resolved something.

When I was a kid, sex was shame–the smell of my own cunt on my fingers.  Then when I was a teenager, it was pain of being pressured and duped, looking for love with people who didn’t know how to love yet.  Then as a young adult, my body didn’t feel like it was mine.  Now I can do what I want, know how to say no, and I’m not afraid anymore.

By Nest

Curious, disabled Earth Goddess, telling the truth.

2 replies on “mine”

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *