Opening the Gate; Or the Tantric Art of Pussy Stirring

Opening the Gate; Or the Tantric Art of Pussy Stirring

Almost always on weekend mornings in the year we have been together, Michael and I wake and roll toward each other, and soon we are groping and kissing and fingering and fucking and loving so deeply that we do not stop until an hour or two later when we are limp and exhausted and starving.

This morning begins no different, and he slips his fingers into my pussy, stirring me awake, as he often does to get me ready for him (Oh, he has such talented fingers).  Then he fucks me and fucks me, as he often does, only this time when he kisses me, he kisses me deep, deeper than he has ever kissed me, his tongue filling my mouth so completely that it forces my jaw to stretch wide wide open.  A submissive trigger, smooth brain, I am helpless opening and opening in my throat, and coming.  Then he holds my head still and thrusts his tongue into my ear, and oh I am opening in my head, buzzing buzzing excited.

Then his fingers go back in my pussy, stirring me, swirling me, thrusting, banging rough, then a delicious pause before he starts swirling me again, and he keeps going for so long that my whole pussy seems to transform into different material, softening, dissolving, becoming liquid.  It feels as if he can reach through that concentrated hot liquid to the very place my soul is connected to my body.  Blog25Quote1As his fingers keep stirring and swirling inside me, I feel as if he is touching the essential core of me, creating an opening, and the universe is pouring into me as my body pours out, expanding, filling the room, and oh jesus fuck, it is achingly exquisite.  I feel literally caught between heaven and earth, and I am hanging there astonished when …

An electric orgasm jolts me, then lifts me up on a wave.  Michael stops and lies next to me, but somehow the orgasm doesn’t stop.  I can still feel the wave of pleasure moving through me.  I keep shaking with that pleasure, tremble through wave after wave.  My body is animated, and my mind is riding the flow, there is nothing but pleasure, rolling waves, dancing waves and I can hear the sound of my own ragged breath and feel my Daddy beside me, holding me, and it isn’t going to stop.  I feel his lips around my nipple and the waves increase and I think I might be coming again, I sound like I am coming, I am moving as if I am coming, but orgasm energy builds and recedes and this is just a play of energy through me.  I am a harp being played by soundless music and it is wonderful and his hands are wonderful, and I know this is bliss and I am lucky …

When it finally subsides, I am stunned, how long was it?  Ten minutes maybe?  My mind turns itself back on, and I panic for a beat, what has happened to me, I don’t understand it.  For a moment, I feel like something diabolical has been done to me.  I start to flail with a feeling of panic.  But sweet Daddy, he grabs my neck, holds me still, and calm pours back into me.  And then I cry because it was so intense and I feel so rearranged and I am still confused.  I feel so different inside my body, I feel he did this to me, he put something in me that possessed me, it is still there, I can feel it deep in my belly, running up through me like a shaft of foreign energy.  No, not foreign.  His energy.

It takes me a long while to pull myself together enough to get out of bed.  I do not go far.  I walk twenty feet into the living to sit on the couch in a daze.  I am not entirely sure what just happened.  Did chakras open?  Did Kundalini arise?  How did that happen?  Ever since our Tantric explorations months earlier – and a class we took on “yoni” massage (a.k.a. pussy stirring) – Michael has been lavishing much patient time swirling his fingers in my vagina.  And it has given me enormous pleasure and satisfaction.  But nothing like this morning.  I need to understand.

By the end of the day I am watching a Tantric DVD that I bought months earlier but never got around to watching.  It’s called “Alchemy, Orgasm and Awakening,” and it’s a lecture in which two different teachers give their perspective on the Tantric approach to orgasm.  One of the teachers is the famed Charles Muir, who I remember hearing is considered some kind of sexual magician able to bring any woman to ecstasy.  And in this lecture, he talks briefly about men’s orgasms, and why they shouldn’t ejaculate too often.  And then he starts talking about women’s orgasms.  And here is what he says:

There is a difference between clitoral and vaginal orgasms, and it is good to have both, because erogenous zones need to be awakened.  Finding the clitoris is nice, but the energetic access point to the female psyche is inside the vagina, in what is called the yoni nabi.  It is also called the G-spot;  I call it the sacred spot – and when it is massaged and stimulated and held consciously, and energy runs through and into it – then her second chakra and her sexual psyche awaken, and a mind body connection happens.  There is vast consciousness in that chakra and it needs to be awakened by someone she can trust to hold her heart precious, someone who can touch her and open her …

I am nodding as I listen to this, I am in tears as I listen to this.  Muir goes on to explain that a woman’s clitoral orgasms are a nice release, but vaginal orgasms are different:

… For her to open up to them, to give up control, is to plug into the universe, where wave after wave of bliss runs through her.  And once a woman is awakened, usually as the result of some kind of sexual healing, she can plug into that energy effortlessly … That is the nature of the second chakra my sisters, and it is your job to bring it forth.  And to break through your conditioning that nice girls don’t, that spiritual women don’t.  You do.  And bring god into bed with you.

The audience listening to Muir in the room applauds wildly at that, and I applaud, too, sitting there on the couch.  That’s it! There it is, a vivid explanation of what happened to me this morning.  And not just this morning, but over the past months I have been with Michael, and all the time he has spent, stirring his fingers inside me, opening me, often 20 or 30 minutes at a time, sometimes even an hour at a time.  I have suspected all along, there is something so healing about it, some kind of physical/soul therapy, this reaching to the core of me, this unlocking me.

And just as Muir described, over these past months of pussy-stirring attention, I have felt a profound change within myself, my whole body has come to feel different to me, more alive to me, even more attractive to me.  Certainly, my sexual response has heightened, I am able to orgasm more quickly and deeply than ever before.  Maybe it is true my life source literally resides there inside the walls of my vagina, and my husband’s generous loving fingers have been awakening it, making me acutely aware of the connection between me and all of life.

And oh my God, when his fingers start swirling in me, my connection to him, to Michael, feels like this solid unbreakable rope of hot electrified love, like his hand is literally plugged into me and who I am, and his energy just flows into me. I am completely penetrated by him and his love for me, and taking it all in.

I am shocked that I am just now learning this at 50 years old.  By most any standard I would be considered sexually experienced, sexually educated.  I am no stranger to my G-spot, certain lovers have found it, and ingenious little swirling rabbit vibrators have found it.  And I have often heard the words “G-spot” massage, and even “sacred spot massage.”  But I don’t recall hearing why one should undertake prolonged caressing of it beyond a powerful orgasm.  Yes, a G-spot orgasm is incredible, but to be touched there for sustained periods is clearly meaningful far beyond the orgasms.  Blog25Quote2Nothing in my life, no physical activity, has ever been as life-changing as that one thing Michael does for me.  I lie there, legs wide open, whole body self open, and I am changed.  And oh, if he does it while I am face down across his lap, there is the added dimension of submission to him as well.  Body and mind are both transformed at once.

I want to shout it from the rooftops so every woman will know what is possible. And so every man will learn the art of pussy-stirring.

Later, I will discover Charles Muir again on another Tantra DVD, recorded decades earlier, in which he provides a detailed instruction and demonstration of “sacred spot massage” on his then wife, Caroline.  And as he reclines beside her and slides his fingers into her, he asks her, “Did I find it?”

She answers back to him, “You found me.  That spot doesn’t feel like an ‘it,’ it feels like me.”

Exactly, exactly, oh exactly.  That is how I have felt with Michael’s fingers inside me, like he found the real me.  And I want to fall at his feet in helpless love for opening the gate and setting me free.


Raw, Soul-Scorching Sex

Raw, Soul-Scorching Sex

In these early days of our D/s life, I am lucky I don’t have a lot of work on my plate, and after Michael goes to work I can just float in this new perspective on “us,” try to grapple with his change in our relationship, this change in myself.  The feeling of coming home to myself as a sexual submissive has been one of the greatest shocks of my life, and I am now obsessively curious about the entire subject.  I want to know:  How many women really live this way?

I google “dominance and submission” and find a blog on Tumbler which is nothing but gifs that show a muscled guy – we never see his face – manhandling different women during sex.  In short five-second clips, he pounds them mercilessly with his cock while they are tied up.  Pounds them while forcing their heads down on the bed.  Pounds them while slapping their faces, or while grabbing them by the neck and choking them.  I have never watched internet porn before, and I have never seen anything like this.  These are offensive images; abusive and awful images.  These are images in which people should probably be arrested, and laws prohibiting them passed.  And they turn me on intensely.

After all our attempts to “raise sexual energy” through complex Tantric exercises and visualizations, and feeling little but laughing discomfort, now the mere sight of a woman being forcefully dominated unleashes a torrent of sexual heat in me.  I go through image after image in a kind of sick fascination, appalled at myself for how excited I become looking at them.  Those images do not look like love.  What is happening to me?

That night, Michael comes home from work, again has me on my knees after he walks through the door.  The cock-sucking ritual is oddly calming.  Then he asks me what I did all day, and so I nervously show him what I found online.  While I cook dinner, he sits on the couch, going through the images of rough, dominant sex for a good 15 minutes, not saying a word, giving nothing away.  He is so quiet, I regret showing him the site.  I am embarrassed, I have just revealed how base I have become.  The whole relationship suddenly seems threatened.  I want to go rip the computer away from him. I want to cry.  What is happening to me?

“Come here,” he says.  I go sit on the couch with him, barely able to look at him.

He points to the images on his computer screen.  “Is this what you want?” he asks.

I can only shake my head, shrug, nod, all at once.  “I know it looks bad.”

“I think it looks hot,” he says.

I am surprised. And somehow even more unsettled.  What is happening to us?

That night when we get in bed, we are both in an agitated, over-excited state.  He reaches over in the dark to put his hand around my neck like in the images I showed him.  He squeezes tightly.  And after the first instinctual moment of fear, my brain goes smooth and flat and peaceful in a submissive “yes.”

I have just learned what a submissive trigger is.  Now I know how a female lion feels when a male clamps his teeth on her neck so he can mount her.  I know why she looks so hypnotized, so sedated.

Michael is breathing hard as he lets go.  “How did that feel?”

“I loved that.”  I turn to press my face into his neck. “But doesn’t doing that seem disturbing to you?”

He laughs low.  “It should.  But it doesn’t.  It just gets me hot.”

He then puts his arms around me, tells me in no uncertain terms that he is very comfortable taking ownership of my sexual will, that it feels good and right for him to dominate me.  I grab onto his hand and kiss it in gratitude.  My questions fade away, and I fall asleep happy.

Putting Sexual Submission to the Test

It is still deep dark and I sleeping soundly when I feel a hand wrap around my ankle and pull my legs apart, and I wake up to him looming over me, shoving his hard cock inside me.  I am startled.  Okay, now here is a true test of how submission really feels to me.  I have no time, no chance, to tell myself a story or fool myself about it.  Surprised awake, my true feeling is all right here, immediate, unfiltered.

And what do you know, I feel nothing but acceptance of what is happening.  I would have expected at least annoyance at being awakened from such a nice sleep, but no, I just let go into whatever Michael wants to do to.  It isn’t about me, or how I feel, or my arousal.  It’s simply lying here in sweet peace while my husband pleasures himself with my body.  And he is clearly feeling pleasure; in fact, he is working himself into a frenzy, fucking me hard, penetrating me to the core with hard relentless thrusts.  I lie beneath him, still and yielding, as if asleep.  Oh, it is lovely to feel this no-static peace, to feel my excitement slowly building, to revel soundlessly in the lust and love he pours all over me.

His mouth swoops down onto my neck, my breasts, kissing, biting my nipples.  It hurts, and I feel a struggle rising in my mind to lie still, to not resist, to not stop slap him off and say, “Too rough!”  He starts working his way down my belly, biting, like an animal devouring me; I don’t like my belly touched; I am self-conscious; he knows that, and I am tightening up more now, the word “no” starting to form itself.  Then again, I remember, I am submissive now, I have no choice, just allow, allow…  I let go into the “yes” and then whoosh, a powerful jolt of electricity shoots through me.  Suddenly I am thrilled by the little pulls of pain and over-stimulation, thrilled by the feeling of animal wildness in him.  And I am aroused even more by the uncertainty of what he might do to me, and knowing that I trust him anyway.

My trust in him is an alive thing now, flexible, accommodating, my “yes” repeating itself in my head, my body taking up its beat, yes, yes, hurt me, take me over the edge of what I can stand, please use me, dissolve my will completely…  His orgasm is loud, convulsive, I feel its echo inside me.  I feel elated by this glimpse of wildness in both of us, the catharsis of it, and the calm that follows.  I curl against him like a cat, it feels as if my nerve-endings have been completely restrung, I am all but purring.

As he is getting dressed for work, I am mesmerized by him.  His eyes catch me and I can’t look away, he is a god to me, a magician, the master of my body.  I also feel a delicious vulnerability, knowing I will do anything for him, share any part of myself he wants to gain access.

He kisses me goodbye, and disappears out the door to the garage, and I just stand there in the hall for the longest time, transfixed by the spell he cast over me.  Then I am overcome by a strange need to cry, a combination of desperate helpless love and being overwhelmed with “too much.”  Too much sensation, too much soreness, too much exposed-ness, I don’t know what exactly.  After the frenzy, I crave to be still within myself, absorb everything that has happened.  I start toward the bedroom to lie down again, and feel I can barely walk.  We have had a lot of truly passionate and meaningful sex since we met.  But we have never had raw soul-scorching sex like this.

Who’s Afraid of Tantric Sex?

Who’s Afraid of Tantric Sex?

Before my sweet husband and I discovered the joys of Dominance and Submission, we took a quick detour through Tantric sex.  Although perhaps detour is not the right word; Tantric experimentation might have been the actual road to D/s for us.

You see, it was love at first touch for Michael and me.  We met later in life, veterans of unsatisfying and often punishing relationships, our kids grown, not expecting much.  Yet, we found everything in each other, and with a feeling of great giddy celebration at discovering each other, we got naked and jumped into bed, very, very frequently.

Having just turned 50, I felt sexually seasoned and self-aware.  I was pretty sure there was nothing I had not tried, from threesomes and foursomes all the way to BDSM exploits (as the leather dominatrix outfit sitting in a wrinkled paper bag in the back of my closet could attest). I knew exactly what I liked and didn’t like, and would have rolled my eyes at the idea that I could be surprised in the bedroom.

Yet surprise me my new, supposedly less experienced lover did.  Or perhaps it is more accurate to say, we surprised each other.  My openness and “I want to try everything with you” attitude was unlike anything he’d experienced with the conservative, no-that’s-gross women of his past. And his lack of judgment toward me and my sexually varied history was unlike anything I’d known from the jealousy-based, how-could-you-have-done-that men in my past.  With such a sense of freedom and safety with each other, we felt spiritual stirrings in our lovemaking.  And we’d lie in each other’s arms in the afterglow, talking about wanting to hone that feeling, make it more explicit.

I had been introduced to the idea of Tantric sex in the past, but never really practiced it in a determined way.  But six months into my sex-soaked relationship with Michael, I became determined and bought a bunch of Tantric DVDs.  We watched a few of those, and gave some of the exercises a try.  Staring into each other’s eyes, and synchronizing our breathing was… sweet.  Yes, some of it felt slightly silly but it was also romantic. Why not go a little further?  I did a Google search for workshops.   I found an evening seminar called “Sacred Sexuality:  An Introduction to Tantra.”

“Want to try this with me?” I asked Michael.  I showed him the class advertisement on my laptop screen.   In answer, he grabbed my hand and put it on his growing erection.  My enthusiastic lover was game for anything.  I paid the $170 to register us for the class.

Bright Rainbow Blessings

When the teacher sent us a welcoming email that offered us “Bright Rainbow Blessings,” we laughed, entertained.  When the day arrived, we drove hours through Northern California traffic to get there, and an old hippie directed us down a long drive that snaked through thick foliage to park our car.  About thirty people were enrolled, most of them around our age. Almost as if not to disappoint the New Age stereotype, a large carpeted room waited for us, empty except for floor cushions, and Zen-like with the smell of incense.  A cat roamed in and out.  I was giggly and excited and nervous as we all sat in a circle on the floor.

The teacher, probably somewhere in her 60s, began by showing us how she could bring herself to orgasm with her mind.  She sat cross-legged on the floor, then said, “Here we go.”  She made puffing, trilling noises, rocking back and forth with her eyes closed, then claimed success.  The rest of the class, centered on loudly “raising” our sexual energy with the same forceful breathing and pelvic rocking, felt… decidedly unsexy to me.  And the breathless fake orgasm sounds struck me as absurd.  I could not take it seriously, and spent a good portion of the class hiding in the hallway, feeling vaguely threatened by the overzealousness of it all.

“Spiritual Sex”

Next, we attended a “spiritual sex” lecture based on the teachings of a writer I never heard of, named David Deida.  A lecture better suited me, the role of student, sitting in a chair, listening, detached.  But when the class leaders talked about the energy of sexual polarity, how the feminine “surrenders” to the masculine, how “equal 50/50” relationships lead to bland, uninspiring sex, I bristled.  First, Michael and I were having anything but bland sex.  Second, I considered myself a feminist, fiercely independent, and probably more on the dominant side than the submissive.  In fact, early in our relationship, I talked Michael into letting me tie him up and whack him with a paddle, a little BDSM game that had made a previous partner of mine melt in ecstasy and beg for more.  Michael thought it “kinda fun,” but never asked for a repeat.  I thought, too bad, he’s probably still a little too uptight to let go.  Not once did it occur to me that maybe he was not suited to be submissive.

Still, despite the politically incorrect description of raising sexual energy, I found the lecture interesting, and when I got home ordered several books by David Deida, which I put on my shelf without reading.  But I also found myself on the organizer’s mailing list and received an invitation to another Tantric class, this time on genital massage for a man.

“What do you think of trying this?” I asked Michael.  He grabbed my hand and placed it on his erection.

This class was held in someone’s living room, mostly empty of furniture, again filled with floor cushions, and taught by a warm, long-haired woman with a spacey air and girly laugh.  We were treated first to a live demonstration on a brave man willing to lie naked in front of us strangers while she “massaged” his penis.  The teacher spoke throughout, as would any anatomy teacher, and we all watched with studious looks.  At least there were no strange noises to send me scurrying into the hall.

After a break, it was time for the men to strip, and most of the women took off their tops off in solidarity.  I did not.  I stayed fully clothed, back against a wall, trying to pretend I did not notice all the other naked men around me.  I was impressed at Michael’s lack of self-consciousness as I covered his cock in coconut oil, then followed the instructions.  For the next half hour I practiced moves like “The Corkscrew,” and “Around The Clock” on his very, very hard cock.  His favorite was when I placed my fist under his balls and vibrated it. His eyes grew wide in surprise, he began to moan and writhe.  I knew he was on the verge of orgasm, but he kept control.  Afterward, we laughed all the way home, and had ourselves a good, hot time in bed.

We went back a month later to do the genital massage “for her” class, throughout which I secretly sipped vodka from a water bottle to help me get up the courage to strip down in front of strangers.  I can’t say I enjoyed being sprawled naked on the floor, my head only inches away from several other women, while we were being fingered by our lovers, the instructor calling “Good!  That’s it!  Let’s hear your pleasure!”  I felt more like the detached star of a porn film than anything.  (Although I admit that in the weeks that followed, the technique he learned, patiently stirring my pussy open with two fingers, would introduce me to unexpected bliss and transform my entire experience sex, but that’s another story.)

Entertaining, if a Little Strange

Overall, our Tantric explorations were highly entertaining, if a little strange.  Yet, after several months of the classes and watching DVDs and trying different exercises, the promise of transcendent sex remained unfulfilled for me.  (Well, except for that pussy-stirring revelation.)  Mostly, I felt like I was missing something which all the other Tantric explorers we met, with their easy nakedness and beatific smiles, seemed to get.  Slow, voluptuous Tantric union, while lovely to me in theory, just didn’t do much for me in actual practice.  The exercises felt forced, even a little boring.  And I was more disappointed in our explorations than I let on.

So that’s it, I thought, we’d gone as far as we could go into sexual experimentation.  Today I laugh when I remember that.  We think that by mid-life, we really know ourselves, know exactly what makes us tick.  Actually, we don’t just think we know, we are certain of it.  Even with dozens of sexual relationships and experiences behind me – including a BDSM relationship in which I acted as the top (acting being the operative word) – I had very little inkling of what might truly open the door to ecstasy for me.  Even after our little spanking role play, I still had no clue.  At least my conscious mind had no clue.  My subconscious sexual awareness, however, had just been smacked awake.