No pain, no pleasure, all the joy – anaesthetic sex

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This post talks about anaesthetic sex – detailing a super-hot fuck I had while I was a bit ‘out of it’ and asked a guy to take advantage of that. It was fully consensual and negotiated between both of us before I took the anaesthetic, but if the idea of intoxicated sex makes you uncomfortable, please don’t read on. I have a toothache. No one likes toothache – only misery can come of it. Except in one case, when a particular toothache led to one of the weirdest, sexiest, darkest shags I ever had. “Please bring someone to accompany you home,” the letter said. They were going to anaesthatise me in a way I hadn’t experienced before – some sort of drip in the back of my hand that would apparently make me woozy and numb for a few hours. Technically a sedative, I think, it would leave me conscious but insensitive. After they’d administered this, they’d pull out the wisdom tooth that was giving me hell, but I’d be in that state for a few hours. I didn’t really know who could take me home from the hospital. I lived in London at the time, was vaguely single, and the idea of paying for a taxi through zones 3, 2, 1 then out again was as laughable as buying a ticket to the moon. But I really wanted a guy to take me home. I had an… idea. Anaesthetic sex fantasies I like the idea of being a toy. Sometimes I want to get fucked in the purest sense of that passive verb – I am not an active participant – just an object. Tied so I can’t move and used for someone else’s pleasure. There are plenty of ways to be used, but perhaps the most intriguing of all was one that hadn’t struck me until I got that letter about my wisdom tooth: fucked while my body is numb. Conscious, but unfeeling. So here goes, and at this point hopefully you realise that this isn’t going to be one of those ‘aww how cute’ stories, or one that ends with comedy. This was dark, but oh-so-hot. If you don’t like those kinds of stories, please don’t read on. If you do, I want you to enjoy it without feeling uncomfortable or nervous, so let’s begin with consent. In the fantasy, the guy who uses me is an opportunist: maybe the dentist, or a convenient orderly who slips in while I’m still trembly. In reality it isn’t that – it can never be that, because an opportunist wouldn’t know how far to push, what I want, and when to stop. Fantasy’s fantastic , but in real life I’d prefer to have someone who knows my needs and desires, and who can play-act ignorance with the confidence that he’s getting it right. So I enlisted a guy. I hadn’t known him for long, but I knew him well: we’d slept together a fair bit. And through a process of fucking, teasing, and fucking some more, I’d given him a taste of the kind of things I liked . Not everything, but enough. He knew how to tie me up, and in which positions I liked it. He knew how slick his dick had to be before he could get it into my ass, and exactly when to take his hand from my throat to let me take a gulp of breath before ploughing on. He’d heard my whispered stories about getting shagged by groups of strangers , and he knew that in real life they’d have to be true friends. As I say: I knew him. He knew me. I trusted him more than I’d trust almost anyone else – enough to tell him my fantasy about numb, anaesthetic sex. Nervously, I explained, and felt a thud of glorious, cunt-twitching agony when he said yes. The fantasy was just as interesting to him, but with a few overtones of ‘is it weird that I like this?’ I didn’t know, and I still don’t, but given that we both liked it there was no way I wasn’t going to try. We talked about how it would be, and what we imagined, and all the while we fucked – a slow, aching, spooning shag that had us both dripping with need. After the anaesthetic “It’s a bit odd,” I slurred as he helped me down the stairs at the station. It wasn’t what I expected – the dentist had had to add much more anaesthetic. Local injections to numb my mouth as I screeched at him that I could still feel – that the sedative drip hadn’t worked. So I drooled a bit from the extra… whatever it was that he’d injected directly into my gums. I probably looked shocking – slack-jawed and poking at my face with the curious sensation that a part of me belonged to someone else. “Can you feel this?” My accomplice gripped my arse, squeezing tightly through my jeans. I could feel a pressure but not much more. My legs weren’t working well, and I felt a bit fuzzy – dreamlike. How much was down to the anaesthetic and how much was placebo? No idea. But it was gorgeous. A kind of vulnerable cosiness that had him looking after me as if I would crumble at any second. Holding me the way he would if I’d had six margaritas and phoned him from the bus stop in confusion. He took my Oyster card out of my wallet and swiped it for me, guiding me gently through the barriers and onto the train. As I leaned my head on his shoulder, he gave me some exploratory pinches. Back of the neck, inner thigh, that bit near my ribcage that’d tickle if I were sober. Conclusion? Half-numb. I could feel what was happening but couldn’t register how strongly. He whispered delicious things in my ear – I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll feel it through this – and I whispered back, mumbling ‘touch me. Again. Wherever you like. Please .’ – desperately keen to get home and have the anaesthetic sex I’d fantasised about. The train felt slow, but then I felt slow too. When we hopped off and went to get a bus, he held my hand to keep me steady. I wanted to walk quickly, to get to bed before the stuff wore off, but he was worried I’d trip. I wouldn’t trip, though – I felt fine. I felt lucid. I worried that with every step I felt more so – that whatever was in my veins was dripping away and letting me down before we’d even begun to make the most of it. Anaesthetic sex – what happened when we got home I threw myself onto the bed as soon as we got in. The woozy sensation was still there, but it didn’t feel as different as I wanted it to. I was a bit fuzzy, perhaps, and a bit weak, but when he gripped the waistband of my jeans to haul them off, I could feel every slip and movement of the fabric. Fuck. Panic. Sadness. “We’re too late,” I told him. “I’m not numb. It’s ruined.” He stood over me, cock rock hard in his jeans, and a look of concern on his face. I so desperately wanted that concern to disappear – for me to tingle with numbness again so we could fuck like we’d talked about. Thing is, I was so busy worrying that the numbness hadn’t worked, I’d forgotten what had actually turned me on about it. When I’d made the suggestion, his eyes had lit up with curious interest, and I’d stroked his dick as I recounted what I wanted him to do – flip me over, push my face into the pillow, spit on me and fuck me like a rag doll. I’d wanted to be numb so I couldn’t feel what he was doing, but even more than the numbness I’d just wanted him to do it . The pure physical sensations weren’t as important as the game – him pounding me as if I couldn’t feel it. So what he did next gave me a surge of lust that rekindled the whole idea. It clenched my stomach and wet my cunt and did all the filthy good things that I’d wanted all along. What he said next was: “Shut the fuck up.” So I did. He hauled off my jeans, yanked my top up around my chin and just touched me all over – squeezing, pinching, and doing the things I knew he’d have shied away from if it hadn’t been for the ‘rag doll’ request. He stared at me, for the longest time – running his hands over the bits he wanted to, pushing my legs apart, roughly gripping the hem of my knickers and yanking them halfway down. He rolled me over onto my stomach, so my face was buried in the duvet. “Can you move?” “I… sort of.” “Don’t.” And to hammer the point home he pushed my legs as wide open as they’d go: shifting and positioning me until I was exactly how he wanted. Spreading my arse cheeks to spit in the crack, rubbing the tip of his cock against me and daring me to squirm. Fucking me with long, hard strokes followed by quicker ones. Changing angles and speeds until he got what he wanted. Making the kind of deep, low grunts I imagined him using when he wanks alone, he used me as if I were barely there. I felt slightly uncomfortable – awkward even – but every twitch, every squashed, pins-and-needles sensation wasn’t a disappointment – it was a delight. Because the discomfort pushed home the fantasy in a way the numbness might not have. It was delicious. And I want to tell you more – I really do. I want to tell you exactly how he fucked me, and for how long for, and in which holes. I remember at one point he came to the other side of the bed, lifted my head with a good yank on my hair, and pushed his swollen cock into my mouth. He fucked me like that for a while, as I choked and drooled onto him. He crooned ‘mmms’ and ‘good girls’ with a kind of distant, distracted air, as if he weren’t talking to me but to someone else. Because I didn’t really exist. I remember flashes of the sound of him lubing up, placing the palms of his hands flat on my arse and spreading me wide so he could push his dick into me. I don’t remember groaning, or asking for more, but I do remember biting my lip. Because what I wanted to say was ‘more, harder. Go harder – you can,’ but I knew that by speaking I’d spoil the pretense that I couldn’t. The main reason I can’t tell you more, though, is that I’ve forgotten. Partly because of time, I suspect – this didn’t happen yesterday. But mainly because when the drugs wore off, and I was dissecting what happened with this guy over toast and coffee the next day, he told me a fair few things that I couldn’t remember. Hot things. Filthy things. All the things I’d requested when we’d spoken about it before the event, as we lay masturbating each other into a froth of anticipation. Initially I’d asked him to film it so I could lock it down forever – the afternoon of numb-fucking – but understandably he wasn’t keen on that. Part of me had wanted not to remember, though, had fetishised that process of rediscovery. So when he told me the details afterwards I could slip my hand down my knickers and frig myself to things I’d done and forgotten. While I’m sad that I don’t have vivid memories, I can’t possibly have regrets. Because I got to fulfill one of my darkest, and most logistically tricky fantasies. Because I met a guy so strong, and kind, and trustworthy that he lived out my anaesthetic sex fantasies with me – and for me – exactly as I asked. Because right now I have another toothache, and I really hope it’s serious.