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Free Erotica - Her (His)Story by K L Gillespie

Welcome to Free Erotica Friday

Today we have an erotic treat that is bound to make your mind boggle – what would you do if you grew a penis… Or should that be; who would you do?

For the very first time on our blog, please welcome K L Gillespie

HER (HIS)STORY By K. L. Gillespie

Be careful what you wish for, so the saying goes. Well I always was and I always wished for the same thing. For as long as I can remember, every birthday candle blown out, every shooting star in the sky, every coin thrown in the well was all about one thing.

I wished for it so hard one morning it came true…

Maybe The Gods heard and took pity on me, I can see them now, crowded round their crystal ball or whatever, scanning the earth for people’s lives to play with. They must have been bored with the usual miracles of life, death and lottery wins that day and when they saw me, wishbone in one hand, sprig of mistletoe in the other, they must have thought all their Christmas’s had come at once.

Maybe they’d been playing with me from the beginning, a cruel experiment conjured up for their own entertainment. I’m sure they do this a lot, you only have to look around you to see that. Why else would people be so screwed up, it’s not the devil making work for idle hands it’s The Gods finalising the line up for their ‘Holy Variety Performance’, headlining tonight – Kim Nicholson (that’s me by the way) and her all consuming penis envy.

I’ve always wanted a cock. I suppose it’s not that unusual, Sigmund Freud built a career out of labelling that desire and analysing it from every angle. According to silly old Sigmund this is quite normal and when I reached adolescence I should have replaced my desire for a penis with the desire for a baby, specifically a baby boy with a penis – this never happened. For me it was much more than just wanting to be a man and fit into a patriarchal society, it was an obsession that I just couldn’t shake. I still wanted one when I was thirteen, fifteen, eighteen, twenty nine… I can’t have children by the way and I’ve often wondered what Herr Freud would make of that.

There’s a story my Mum likes to tell every chance she gets, to her it’s like showing new boyfriends photos of me in the bath when I was a baby, but to me it was the seed from which my whole obsession germinated. Oh! If only she knew. Anyway, Mum’s favourite anecdote goes like this:

Mum: What do you want to be when you grow up?

Me: A daddy

Mum: Oh, honey, you CAN'T grow up to be a daddy. Daddy's have penises. You are a girl; girls have vaginas - not penises.

Me: I might grow a penis

Mum: No sweetheart, you won't grow a penis.

Me: Well, girls grow boobies, why can't they grow penises?

Mum: True. When girls become women, they DO grow breasts. However, they DON'T grow penises

Me: Then I'll BUY a penis!

And I did, by the time I was twenty-one I had a drawer full of multi-coloured vibrators. I never did like being told there was something I couldn’t have.

I’ve never been able to forge a lasting, loving relationship with any of my ‘sex toys’ and I’ve never been able to forge a passionate, wanton relationship with my husband. (Oh, did I forget to mention I was married, his name is Mick and it’s 7 long years since the happy day). Nevertheless between my bottom drawer and my bottom of the rung, bargain bin husband I had most things I needed but not everything as the smooth sweep of my pudendum kept reminding me.

I would lie in the bath until the last bubble had melted, just imagining what it would feel like to fuck and be fucked at the same time and thrusting my fingers in and out of myself until the water splashed over the edges and soaked the tufty carpet.

When Mick and I first got married I would make him stand naked in front of the mirror and position myself behind him so that my head rested on his shoulder. If I squinted I could block out his face and see only my own and his body became mine. I would reach round and take my cock in my hands and stroke it for hours. He wasn’t allowed to speak or move, he didn’t know why and never asked but it was the strictest rule and it had to be abided by or the illusion would be shattered.

Plato claimed that the original human was hermaphroditic. These two halves were sundered and cursed to go eternally in search of each other. Mick wasn’t my other half, the cock I didn’t have was.

Sex with Mick was usually strictly missionary and he was of the tender and loving school of thought that most men think women like. Oh how wrong he was, I wanted it hard, fast, thrusting and violent. Throughout the whole drawn out experience all I could think was if I had a cock I’d show him how to fuck, I’d show him what to do with it. This thought started infiltrating my mind more and more and I became obsessed with the idea of sodomizing my husband.

I have always had a voracious sexual appetite, like a man! Mick calls me rapey after a few drinks and I know what he means.

Anyway I bought a strap-on from a mail order company on the internet. They didn’t sell things like that in Buxton, we didn’t even have an Ann Summers for God's sake. I didn’t think Mick would have minded, in fact I would have bet my best handbag that he’d been secretly gagging for it. Most men are you know even if admitting it is the last thing in the world they would do. They give to receive, it’s in their nature. I know, I’ve seen it in their eyes when we’re fucking. I’ve seen into the very depths of their souls. I’ve tasted their fantasies every time they come in my mouth.

I badgered him for months, subtly introducing the topic at first, I told him everyone did it, all the celebs loved it, footballers especially (he was a big Arsenal fan, still is).

Eventually he agreed to let me fuck him on a Friday night when we got home from the pub but as soon as I’d strapped my rubber cock on it just made me more aware of my lack. I couldn’t feel anything when I touched it and it’s glossy red sheen just reminded me how synthetic it was. Of course he flaunted his, rearing it up in front of my face as it pulsed with life in front of my eyes.

Nevertheless I went through the motions, carefully applying the synthetic lubricant onto my synthetic cock. Mick kept his eyes closed the whole time and he never said a word. As if he had transported his mind somewhere else leaving only his body shell behind like I’ve read so many rape victims try to do when they are being violated. But this wasn’t like that, was it, this was within a marriage where partners make concessions for each other's happiness.

I have to admit I was surprised how much resistance he put up, even after three bottles of wine. He must have been nervous, after all this was a new and wholly unexplored territory for him and I was more than aware of the stigmas attached. So I took it easy to begin with but my patience soon began to wane and he looked so weak and pathetic bent over the bed that he made me want to hurt him, to punish him for having the thing I wanted most. So I steadied myself with my hands on his hips and with one solid swing I thrust my strap-on deep inside his arse.

He cried out aloud, from shock more than anything else, but within seconds my dirty little whore was enjoying it. He moaned and groaned in a cheap pastiche of the noises I made when he fucked me, a copy of an imitation – oh the irony.

There was no money shot, no earth shaking moments, no sticky mess to clean up afterwards, I just ran my strap on under the tap in the bathroom and we went to bed without looking at each other or saying a word. Him from guilt, me from disappointment.

While he slept I lay in bed, silently crying, mourning my lack, cursing Freud for labelling it and wishing until my head hurt that my sorrow be rectified.

That night I had the strangest dream, all black and white, grainy, as if I was watching a film. In the dream I was heavily pregnant, it was so real I felt the muscles in my back straining from the extra cargo in my swollen belly. My waters broke and I went into labour, alone on the bathroom floor in a pool of my own liquid. The pain was excruciating and I pushed and pushed like my life depended on it. Suddenly the pain stopped and I looked down to find a perfectly proportioned penis, complete with balls, the size of a newborn baby lying in a pool of afterbirth.

Then I woke up.

I thought no more about it, as you tend to do with most dreams that don’t involve the death of a loved one and got on with the morning as usual.

Anyway, that afternoon I was masturbating in the bath when I noticed my clitoris was bigger than usual. To begin with I just thought it was swollen from all the rubbing but the next day it was still peeping out from my labia and it had a foreskin. If I’m honest I knew what it was as soon as I saw it, I wasn’t even particularly shocked. It was almost as if I had spent half my life expecting it, waiting for it to appear.

I stayed in the bath for hours, caressing my new appendage, unbelieving my luck. I wanted to phone my Mother and tell her she was wrong, I did have a cock, my very own, perfectly formed penis, just like I told her I would one day.

I’ve always believed that gender was mentally just a linguistic construction, another pigeonhole to keep people in their place. Of course my beliefs were thwarted by the physical practicalities – until now. Isn’t it every man's fantasy to have their own breasts to caress while they jack off and here I was living that fantasy. I felt so powerful, so complete. Hermaphrodites have always fascinated me, they’re so exotic, so otherworldly, magical, everything rolled into one and now I was one too.

Within a week, if I stood naked in front of the mirror with my legs apart I could see it dangling between my thighs and it just kept on growing. Within a month it was 5 inches long, and yes, of course I measured it, wouldn’t you?

On the ninth day I had my first erection. I was driving into town, listening to the radio when the song that I lost my virginity to came on. Well you know how music triggers off memories and before I knew what was happening my cock was pressing against my jeans as the blood rushed from my head into it. I was so proud, like a new parent when their baby smiles for the first time or gurgles its first word.

I pulled over into a lay-by and unzipped my trousers, I knew the Gods would be watching and to thank them for the gift I decided to give them one hell of a show.

To begin with all I could do was look at it, straining its neck towards the sun, vibrating with life and begging to be touched. Who was I to refuse?

I explored every square inch of it, revelling in its pulsating beauty, just feeling the fullness of it all between my fingers. I ran my fingertips slowly up one side and back down the other, shuddering at the otherworldly intensity of it all. I teased the most sensitive areas, swirling my thumb gently over my glans, my corona, my cock. I twisted the foreskin gently and cried out in unforeseen ecstasy. I felt things I hadn’t imagined in my wildest and most hopeful fantasies and of course I thanked the Gods. Oh God, did I thank the Gods…

Suddenly I caught sight of my face in the wing mirror, flushed and on the verge of ecstasy. I was so happy, so proud – I wanted every car that passed to see, every driver to pull in and witness the miracle I was experiencing. I adjusted the rear view mirror so that I could watch myself from another angle and then an idea hit me. I slid my pants down and while one hand was thrusting the skin of my penis back and forth I slid the fingers of the other into my slit. It sucked them in, desperate for some attention and I revelled in the fact that I was experiencing the ultimate wank and, fuck me, it felt good, too good and within minutes both my sexes had climaxed in unison. I laughed to myself as my cock wilted and my vagina constricted. I felt whole, on top of the world and apart from the world at the same time. I was the luckiest woman alive and as I tucked myself away and readjusted the rear view mirror I felt like I had become.

From then on I would masturbate every chance I got, I wanked myself raw with both hands for the first few days, who wouldn’t if they could frig with one hand and jerk off with the other.

I even jacked off in the toilet at the supermarket. As soon as the thought crossed my mind I knew there was no point fighting it so I abandoned my trolley in the frozen food aisle and half walked, half ran to the Ladies loo.

I surprised myself at the things that made it grow. Oh there were the usual suspects, the boy in the dry cleaners – pert arse, tight trousers: memories of trysts long gone with men that weren’t my husband, my best friend's husband and Johnny Depp, of course. But some of the other things surprised me, women’s thongs peeping over trousers and the thought of where that string went, my own breasts, porn film clichés. Sometime I thought I was turning into a man but I went with it, I felt like a pioneer and I didn’t want to miss a second of this experience.

I even bought a porn mag from the newsagents, completely without shame even when I had to ask the assistant to get it down from the top shelf for me because I couldn’t reach. The cheeky scamp asked me if I was a lesbian and I smiled sweetly and told him I was much more than that. He didn’t say anything but I could see in his eyes that he wanted to know more. I paid for the magazine and left him wanting.

I never got over the novelty of wanking but I was desperate to fuck myself and as soon as my penis was long enough I bought a bottle of wine, slipped into something flimsy, lit some candles and set about seducing myself.

Gore Vidal once joked that the advantage of bisexuality was that it doubled your chances of a date on a Saturday night. Well I now had the third option of a good night in on my own. Mick was on a stag night and I knew he wouldn’t be home until the early hours so I drank the wine and began.

I bent my most prized possession back on itself and threaded it inside, I could feel it growing, the blood rushed from my head and it’s head gently nudged at my slick opening.

Zeus posed a question thousands of years ago that has been puzzling man (and woman) kind ever since – is sex better for a man or a woman. I was about to find out and I couldn’t wait.

If I’m honest it was disappointing, frustrating even, the mechanics just weren’t working with me but it whet my appetite for fucking and I waited in the dark for Mick to come home like a black widow spider.

He stumbled in, three sheets to the wind, at about half two in the morning and I was ready and waiting. I helped him into bed, undressed him, he was grateful, thought I was the adoring wife, concerned for his well being. He had no idea. He was drifting in and out of sleep as I turned him over, he tried to kiss me but I dodged his mouth, this wasn’t about love, this wasn’t about him – this was about me. I didn’t seduce him, I didn’t have the patience, my cock was burning and he felt so cold. Zeus wasn’t going to have to wait much longer for his answer.

As I nudged his opening he mumbled something along the lines of “oh no not this again” – he made a feeble joke about not being able to sit down for a week after last time. I whispered in his ear that it was different this time and let him feel my throbbing erection with his mouth. He tasted me and he liked it, his inhibitions were down and I made the most of it. I told him I was going to show him what fucking was about and I did. I fucked his arse until he was crying out for mercy and even then I didn’t stop, I fucked and I fucked until I thought my head would explode and he loved every second of it and I felt born again.

Of course, in the morning, Mick couldn’t handle it, a wife with a bigger package than him, what would his mates in the pub say. He felt dirty, he felt violated. He couldn’t see me as a woman any more, I was a freak in his eyes and the thing that upset him the most was the pride I took in it all. He decided to leave that morning and I haven’t seen him since, although I’ve heard rumours that he’s shacked up with his best mate, the stag, who called the wedding off the night before walking down the aisle. I hope he’s happy – I know I am.


 

K L Gillespie writes about masturbating surrealists, blind fantacists, sadomasochists - life, death, sex - lost minds, lost love and lost ways... In the dead of night she cultivates orchids... At dawn she talks to birds... Her work has previously been published in 3AM Magazine, Scarlet and The Erotic Review as well as several award winning anthologies.

Unlost, a collection of short stories by K L Gillespie. Sensual and flamboyant, revelling in the sense that life is stranger than we can imagine, this anthology will delight and unsettle in equal measure can be purchased on Amazon here and here.

Follow her on Twitter: @K_L_Gillespie



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