My last boyfriend broke up with me because I was “too aggressive.” Our society expects women to be passive during sex. I have never wanted to be a woman who just lies there, passive and moaning, spread-legged like a frog on a dinner plate. I love to be on top. I always straddled him and put my hands on his forearms so I could pin him down, and then I pounded my pussy into his crotch. When he got close, I’d slow down and go up and down in long, teasing strokes to finish him off. I loved to watch his face as he came. Once, he even moaned a little, and I was over the moon. Sadly, he broke up with me soon after.
In my post-break up horniness, I browsed the Internet for porn. I searched for “women in charge,” and I soon was looking at bondage and dominatrix sites. This isn’t what I like. Who would want to cause her lover pain? I want to cause him pleasure. There is an amazing power in that, gently forcing him to rapturous pleasure, gently making his body respond to my commands. There is plenty of porn where the man does this to his lover. I just wanted to see a normal, loving relationship… where it was the woman who did her man.
I was just about to give up when I saw my first pegging video. Pegging is when a woman wears a strap-on and anally penetrates a man. I had never heard of this before, and I was mesmerized. In the video I saw that first night, a brunette was naked except for a bright blue dildo. He was on the couch, doggy-style, and she was behind him. She clearly enjoyed stroking into him. He was clearly enjoyed himself, too, but he wasn’t touching his penis. Then they switched positions. He lay down on his back, spread his legs, and brought his knees nearly up to his chest. She slid in, and you could clearly hear the slurp, slurp, slurp of a cock penetrating a wet orifice. She increased her speed until she was just slamming into him, and you could hear the slap of her crotch up against his ass. And then the most delightful sound: it started off soft but grew in volume, a plaintive moan of deep pleasure, very submissive but unmistakably baritone. “You like that, don’t you?” she said, possessively. She thrust more rapidly, he moaned louder, and I started masturbating like a woman in heat. Without ever touching his penis, he came thickly onto his own chest, and the sight of it made me come.
How had I never known about this before? It clicked for me in a way that no other sexual act, real or fantasized, ever had. I knew that I must experience this. I made up for lost time. Over the following weeks, I did all the reading I could. I joined online groups, solicited advice, ordered equipment, and continued to masturbate to my new fantasy. I chose a Share silicon double dildo, so that I would be directly stimulated. The Share came in a light rose color that was roughly my skin tone. As much as possible, I wanted this dildo to look like “my” cock. On the advice of people on the message boards, I knew that although the double dildo would give me a lot of pleasure, it needed more support, especially during vigorous thrusting, so I also ordered a harness.
In the meantime, I imagined what having a cock might look like. Just for curiosity, I rolled up a sock and stuffed it into my panties. Looking in the mirror was surreal. Is a man’s package really that big? In truth, the sock made for a pretty modest endowment, but I was shocked at how far it distending my figure. Let me be clear: I don’t want to be a man. I like being a woman. I like clothes, shopping, and shoes. In almost all aspects of my life, I may even be girly. So why is it incongruous for a feminine woman to want to spread her man’s legs, grab his hips, thrust into him, and hear him moan in pleasure? Is it only because a woman isn’t born with the right equipment? Biology shouldn’t be our destiny. I didn’t want to be someone else’s sex object anymore. Looking at myself in the mirror, the bulge in my underwear made this desire clear.
A few days later, the Share arrived. I scarcely drew a full breath as I opened the box. There it was: pink, almost my flesh tone; a shorter “pony” bulb for me; and long, firm cock for some new beau’s butt. I put the shaft through the cock ring of the harness, slid the harness up my legs, closed my eyes, and spent a minute slowly penetrating myself with the bulb. I was already wet. Once it was in, I adjusted my harness until it was snug, stepped in front of the mirror, and opened my eyes. I nearly fainted. Given the similar skin tones, it almost looked like a real penis coming out of the harness. A woman looks in the mirror every day and sees a smooth, curvaceous body. Now there was a pointy, meaty finger poking jauntily out of my crotch. It looked so powerful, lust embodied. I touched it. Just a tentative tap at first, but even with that light touch, I felt some vibrations. I tried stroking it several different ways until I found that a firm grip and a lot of in and out transmitted vibrations right to my clit. Watching in the mirror, it really looked like the technique a man uses to jack off. I came. Hard.
I jacked off with the dildo every night for a week. What turned me on the most was a mental picture of a man’s face in the moment that I penetrate him. Even when I had been on top, even when I had pinned him down, I wasn’t really fucking him. It was still my body that was entered. My antics were really a distraction, an attempt to forget that he was inside my body, that I was the one being fucked. Now I can have what I have always wanted: to be the fucker. I want to know that he is completely vulnerable to me, opening up his body to me. I want to make him moan at every one of my loving thrusts, rapturous gratitude on his face.
The next week, I decided to go out looking for my new beau. I planned every detail. I might normally go out with my girlfriends, but they would slow me down tonight. Likewise, I needed to find a man who was alone; if he were with friends, then my attempt to pick him up would probably seem desperate. But I didn’t want someone who was out on his own trying to pick up women, either – some douche-bag flying solo, looking to score. I needed to find a regular guy, just hanging out by himself. An airport bar might have done nicely, if there were a way to seal the deal, so I settled on a pool hall. Guys go there to relax, not to meet women. How many single women have you ever met at a pool hall?
I dressed casually: jeans and a nice blouse. No reason to attract too much undue attention. When I got to the pool hall, I ordered myself a bourbon sour and sat at the bar. As I sipped my drink, I looked over the pickings: two frat boys playing at the back table, the coed threesome on the left table, an old man at the bar watching the baseball game on TV, and a well-muscled man chatting up the hot bartender. I might have just finished my drink and left, but a good-looking guy walked in and asked for a table. He had sandy blond air, a lean and trim body, and a cute face, but I wanted to watch him for a few minutes to see if he was alone. I ordered another drink and tried to act like I was into baseball while I peeked at him. Ten minutes later, he was still alone. I decided to make my move. I needed to play it cool. No guy is going to say no to sex, but guys are skittish that any girl hitting on them is emotionally needy and acts as if she’s looking for a serious boyfriend. There was a real risk of striking out. I strolled up to him and casually said:
“Are you playing alone?”
He looked up at me, and then flashed a quick smile. He had brown hair and soft green eyes, and there was something gentle about his face. “Yeah, I guess. I was meeting a friend here, but he just called to say he was bailing. Traffic.” He paused.
“Well, I’d like to play you, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Another smile. “Baseball not doing it for you?”
“No, not really my game. Well, shall we?” I asked. “I’m Megan.”