That Time I Over Pumped My Hormonally Diminished Penis
Or how to make a skin donut where you don’t want one!
I am an assigned male at birth Gender Fluid Femme. Despite mostly preferring to be penetrated rather than penetrating others, I want to maintain the manhood between my legs.
Ages ago, when I lived as a male, I had a penis pump. It was one of those midrange numbers with the caliper-style pump trigger and a suction gauge to help ensure you don’t hurt yourself. It was just nice enough in quality to not seem like a toy, but not nice enough to make a skeptic want to believe it could be effective.
I used it sporadically and eventually forgot about it as it sunk into the unruly depths of my closet. When I finally decided to try it again the rubber suction seal had dried and shriveled up (the irony is not lost on me), making the pump useless. I’m sure I could have replaced the seal but I tossed the pump figuring I would never use it frequently enough to prove or disprove the permanent peewee enlargement myths.
Truth be told, I was also a bit embarrassed to have a penis pump. That and my now amicably estranged wife said she didn’t like me using it. She was skeptical of its mystical powers but maintained that on the off chance it could work, her erogenous zones weren’t going to play host to my resulting monstrosity.
In the years since disposing of my zucchini enhancer, I have seen a handful of enormous flaccid pricks that I am convinced were artificially enlarged “test-tube babies” hanging between men's’ legs (where I saw them is another story for another time — probably less salacious than you’d think, though). Their appearance seemed to me so similar to the brief yet glorious gains I experienced each time I used my pump way back when.
Millennia later, I am an AARP card-holder on female hormones. And I’m more sexually active than I’ve ever been. When I started taking hormones I was certain I wasn’t having another child and as I said early, I was happier being on the receiving end of my lovers’ levers than I was wielding mine.
Sadly, I primarily attract AMAB sexual bottoms and AFABs with no desire or experience to peg me. Don’t get me wrong. I have had some incredible erotic experiences with the darlings fate has brought me. I just found myself missing out on intimate encounters too often because too many would-be coital companions wanted me to pound on their back door and I had an increasingly deficient knocker.
Not only had advancing age and increasing weight robbed my staff of its ability to get up and keep going, now my just-big-enough-to-be-noteworthy member was beginning to lose mass! If I were up past my ass in hosting hard-ons I wouldn’t care so much. Instead, I was simply sending horny swains home alone unsatisfied (or with someone more adept at laying pipe!).
Worse than that, my BFFWB (Best Forever Friend With Benefits™) had become enthralled with younger, less skilled lotharios with greater spontaneity, stiffness staying power and endurance than I had. My ability to ensure BFFWB orgasms by any means necessary took a back seat to multiple command performances per date from her young, could-be underwear model studs.
If I wanted to find enjoyment beyond my own hands I’d have to take matters into my own hands!
I decided to invest in another pump. I figured, even if the promised growth potential was nothing more than a marketing scheme, a pump could at least help encourage my blood to flow more readily into my miniaturizing man bit.
I was drawn to a water-based pump. It claimed to be more effective than the air-based pumps I was used to. It made sense to me and seemed like it would be at least as effective as my old air pump at making my junk swell. Briefly anyway.
I used my new pump for a while and could swear I was seeing results. My bone felt bigger and heavier when flaccid. I just needed to stick with the program (no pun intended) long enough (2nd unintentional pun) to achieve lasting gains, according to the pump purveyors.
Before I could take my seemingly beefier beef out for a test run, I discovered I had brought home an unwanted party favor from an amazing weekend of debauchery in the desert. The kind of “treat” that gestates for a few months before letting you know you brought it home. Worse still, I learned I could “infect” my sex toys, including my new pump! Quelle horreur!!
I stashed my pump and every toy that had been in me or that I had been in into a pair of paper shopping bags. Not exactly quarantined but easy to stash without direct contact.
Even after a literal shot in the ass that got me back into co-ed cum commission, my erotic artifacts remained dormant for months.
It wasn’t until my ED and Estrodial teamed up against me, making me almost completely impotent (and on a number of occasions, embarrassed and sad), and my only remaining dance partners were all pokees, not pokers, that I decided I had to give my pump the chance it needed to prove itself.
I cleaned my cylindrical sausage sucker and a batch of my other contaminated playthings with 1 part bleach and 10 parts water like my endocrinologist recommended (I wondered, “if the bleach is concentrated, should I use less than 1 part?” Then shrugged it off). I prepped my warm bubble bath and slid in with my disinfected dick doubler (yep, I’m an alliteration addict).
It had been so long since I used this pump that I could not recall the directions clearly. And I wasn’t about to get out of the tub and start digging for the instructions that came with the thing.
I knew there was a 5-minute interval and a 15-minute interval involved and that you repeated the process 3 times. I mentally summoned up enough about the valve mechanism to get the pump to start sucking me in and stretching me out.
I pumped until the suction reached my limit. For the first of my 3 sets, I was dismayed to see I topped out at a length of 4.5 inches. And I didn’t swell to fill the circumference of the chamber as I had before hormones. My journey toward my nonbinary femme truth had taken a considerable toll on the above-average length and girth I once possessed.
I had a brief moment of torment and panic when I realized the suction pressure was quickly becoming unbearable and I couldn’t remind myself how to release it! Fortunately, I figured it out before exploding my love muscle inside the suction chamber (I always imagine in horror that is the extreme price for using this dubious product).
For the second and third sets, my tip managed to reach 5.5 inches without pain or strain. And I smiled.
When I completed my 3 sets of prong “pawmping” (said in a ridiculously overblown Schwarzenegger accent) I was slightly concerned because my lil’ buddy looked botoxed from tip to base. A look that’s less appealing than you might think. That didn’t stop me from “decompressing” afterward.
I decided I owed it to myself to give my post-pump stroke session the royal treatment. So, after drying myself off, I foraged for a self-satisfaction aid that I was reasonably certain I had not gotten cooties on (or more precisely, in). I chose a ribbed, rubber masturbation sleeve as my short term sweetheart. I cleaned it with soap and water, lubed up, and rubbed one out.
After oozing my pungent load (lady hormones diminished my cum capacity and intensified that wonderful cleaning powder smell. Ewww!). I chilled in my bed naked, basking in the short-lived afterglow.
Once I was completely flaccid, I realized I had a puffy ring of foreskin around my kielbasa. Which would be disconcerting even if I weren’t circumcised!
“FUCK! What happened? Did I use too much bleach to decontaminate everything? God, I knew I should have checked whether to use less than one part when the bleach is concentrated!! Was the masturbation sleeve contaminated after all? No. Slick, swollen skin is not a symptom of my previous affliction. Even if it were, it wouldn’t reveal itself this fast.” My imagination was obliterating any stress relief I had achieved via my impromptu tug fest.
“Don’t panic. It’s gonna be alright. I bet it’ll be back to normal in the morning,” I reassured myself. “And if not, I’ll race to whichever medical facility isn’t overrun with Covid patients.”
Thankfully, by morning my little guy was back to what I now call normal. In fact, 4 months into my transition to less-masculine-hood the new normal means my flaccid rod pulls into itself like a turtleneck. And yes, that is disquieting to me! But totally worth it in exchange for my moobs turning into boobs and the subtle forming of a figure (I got hips, y’all!! Well, “hip-ettes”). But I digress.
Where had I gone wrong? Undaunted, and eager to diminish the chances of shame and embarrassment when next the need arose for me to arise, I prepped another bubble bath two days later and prepared to pump my puny parts. This time I was sure to look up the instructions online. Thank Al Gore for the internet!
Remember I said I vaguely recalled that this pump is supposed to be used three times per session and that 5-minute intervals and 15-minute intervals are a factor? Well, I was right-ish.
On the night when I pumped myself smooth, I had done 3, 15-minute suction sessions with 5-minute breaks in between.
The internet reaffirmed that you are not supposed to exceed 15 minutes of pumping per day! That’s the 15-minute interval I was thinking of. So I had pumped my goods 3 times the recommended daily allowance. Yikes!
The upside? My BFFWB, with whom I am in isolation, got horny around 3 am the night after my second swell session and woke me to do something about it. Call it coincidence, confidence, or validation of a sound investment but my Johnson was ready to rock her world!
My eggplant was all too eager to dive in and do work. And with the help of a cock ring, I stayed hard long enough to give her a proper pounding. Admittedly not a lengthy one, but powerful nonetheless! Don’t worry. She ensured me that she enjoyed multiple orgasms between the use of my resuscitated rooster and my never wavering mouth and hand to coochie coordination. She doesn’t lie to me about that sort of thing. I don’t think…
Now that I have reinforced in my mind the proper timing for my long dong exercise I intend to reinforce my rigidity ability so I can switch between bottom and top roles as each encounter dictates, as a good Verse Valentine should. Though I’m still longing for long ones lingering inside me, I will relish the opportunities to return the favor.
Regarding the efficacy of penis pumps, I’ve got a long way to go before I can say definitively how mine has or has not delivered for me. If I am able to maintain consistency, and that’s a big if, I will surely write about it, so feel free to follow me and please stay tuned. Regardless of my findings, please know that I cannot guarantee results or safety related to the use of penis pumps. Please, Baby, Please, Baby, Please use your best judgment (even if I’m not) and stay safe. I don’t want anyone suing me for a busted boner!
No penises were harmed in the chronicling of this factual event. Just shrunken and stretched a little. The penis in question is real. Any similarities recognized by the reader will be expressly denied to protect the author’s M2F ego.
