The Guy Who Knew Exactly How to Fuck a Trans Man

Hey everyone, I’ve been lurking on this forum for a while now, reading all these wild FTM sex stories that get shared, and damn, they’ve got me hooked. You know, the kind where guys like me—FTM dudes who’ve transitioned and are owning our bodies—dive into these raw, unfiltered encounters that make your pulse race and your mind wander to places you didn’t even know existed. I figured it’s time I shared my own FTM sex story, something that’s been burning in my memory for years. This isn’t some generic tale; it’s real, it’s messy, it’s erotic as hell, and yeah, it’s got that dirty edge because life ain’t always clean sheets and soft lighting. I’m writing this in first person, straight from the gut, as a guy who’s lived it. Buckle up, because this is gonna be long—I’ve got details to spill, and I ain’t holding back.

It all started back in college, when I was still figuring out my FTM journey. I’d been on T for about a year, my voice had dropped, my body was starting to bulk up in all the right ways, and I was feeling that surge of confidence that comes with finally seeing the man in the mirror staring back at me. But sex? That was a whole other beast. I’d hooked up with a few people before transition, but now, as an FTM guy, I craved something deeper, something that acknowledged my scars, my packer, my everything. I wanted a partner who saw me as the rugged, horny dude I was, not some curiosity. Enter Eaton—tall, tattooed, with that brooding artist vibe that screamed trouble. He wasn’t FTM himself, but he got it; he’d dated trans guys before and knew how to make a man feel desired without the bullshit questions.

We met at a dive bar near campus, the kind where the air smells like stale beer and regret. I was nursing a whiskey, feeling the burn down my throat, when he slid onto the stool next to me. “You look like you’ve got stories,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine with this intensity that made my cock twitch—well, my meta, but you know what I mean in these FTM sex stories; it’s all about that raw sensation. I laughed, told him I had plenty, and before I knew it, we were swapping tales of bad hookups and wild nights. His hand brushed my thigh under the bar, casual at first, but then firmer, like he was testing the waters. I didn’t pull away. Hell, I leaned in.

By the time we stumbled out into the night, the city lights blurring around us, I was buzzing—not just from the booze, but from the heat building between us. We ended up at his place, a cramped apartment filled with canvases and the faint scent of paint. He pushed me against the door as soon as it closed, his lips crashing into mine, rough and demanding. I grabbed his shirt, yanking him closer, feeling the stubble on his jaw scrape against my own. “Tell me what you want,” he growled, his hand sliding under my shirt, fingers tracing the binder I still wore sometimes for that extra flat chest feel. I smirked, my voice low and gravelly from the T. “I want you to fuck me like the man I am. No holding back.”

He didn’t need more invitation. We tore at each other’s clothes, my shirt hitting the floor first, revealing the faint scars from my top surgery. He paused for a second, not in pity, but in admiration, his eyes darkening with lust. “Fuck, you’re hot,” he muttered, leaning down to kiss along the lines, his tongue flicking over the sensitive skin. It sent shivers through me, that mix of vulnerability and power that’s so unique to FTM sex stories. I pushed him back onto the bed, climbing on top, grinding against him. My packer was still in my boxers, but I could feel the pressure building in my own body, that ache deep inside.

Eaton flipped me over effortlessly, his strength turning me on even more. He yanked down my pants, exposing me—my FTM body in all its glory. No pussy talk here; it was my hole, my cock, my rules. He dove in with his mouth, no hesitation, his tongue lapping at me like I was the best damn thing he’d tasted. I groaned, my hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer. “Deeper,” I demanded, my voice hoarse. He obliged, sucking and teasing until I was writhing, my hips bucking against his face. The wetness was everywhere, slick and messy, and he loved it, humming his approval as he fingered me open, stretching me with those calloused artist hands.

But I wasn’t just gonna lie there. I wanted control too. I pushed him off, rolling us so I was on top again, straddling his waist. His cock was hard, straining against his boxers, and I freed it, wrapping my hand around it—thick, veined, pulsing. I stroked him slow at first, watching his face contort in pleasure, then faster, making him gasp. “You like that, huh? Feeling a FTM guy jerk you off?” I teased, my own arousal dripping down my thighs. He nodded, eyes half-lidded, and pulled me down for a filthy kiss, all teeth and tongue.

We didn’t stop there. He grabbed lube from the nightstand—always prepared, this guy—and slicked us both up. I positioned myself, lowering onto him inch by inch, feeling that stretch, that fullness that made my eyes roll back. Riding him was euphoric, my muscles clenching around him as I bounced, my small cock rubbing against his stomach with every thrust. Sweat slicked our bodies, the room filled with the sounds of skin slapping, moans echoing off the walls. “Harder,” I panted, and he thrust up to meet me, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind my eyelids.

Hours blurred into a haze of positions—him behind me, pounding into me doggy style, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise; me on my back, legs over his shoulders as he went deep, whispering dirty praises about how tight I was, how masculine, how fucking irresistible. We came multiple times, him spilling inside me the first round, then pulling out to paint my chest the next. I orgasmed from his fingers, his mouth, his cock—each one more intense than the last, waves crashing over me until I was spent, trembling in his arms.

But this FTM sex story doesn’t end with that night. Oh no, we kept it going for months. Eaton became my go-to for those late-night cravings. One time, we snuck into the campus art studio after hours. The place was dark, lit only by moonlight filtering through the windows. He bent me over a workbench, surrounded by half-finished sculptures, and took me from behind. The risk of getting caught amped everything up—my heart pounding as his cock slid in, slick with spit because we forgot the lube. I bit my lip to stifle moans, but he didn’t make it easy, thrusting hard, his hand reaching around to stroke my cock, fingers circling the head until I was leaking all over the floor.

“Fuck, your FTM body is made for this,” he whispered in my ear, nipping at the lobe. I pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, the wood digging into my palms. We finished fast that time, adrenaline fueling us, collapsing in a heap of limbs and laughter afterward.

Another memory that sticks out: a road trip we took to the coast. We rented a shitty motel room with a view of the ocean, but we barely saw it. As soon as we checked in, clothes were off. He tied my hands to the headboard with his belt—consensual, hot as hell—and teased me for what felt like forever. His mouth on my nipples, still sensitive from surgery, sending jolts straight to my core. Then down, licking stripes along my inner thighs before burying his face between my legs. I begged, “Please, fuck me already,” but he just grinned, edging me until I was a mess, cursing and thrusting my hips.

When he finally entered me, it was slow, torturous, building to a frenzy. We went at it all night, switching roles—I strapped on my prosthetic and fucked him too, watching his face as I pegged him, feeling that power dynamic shift. FTM sex stories often gloss over the versatility, but damn, topping as a trans guy is empowering. His ass clenched around me, moans spilling out, and I came from the friction against my own body, grinding into the harness.

Of course, it wasn’t all smooth. There were moments of dysphoria, like when he’d accidentally touch a spot that reminded me of pre-T days, but we’d talk it through, make it part of the intimacy. That’s what made our sex so real—not generic vanilla, but layered with emotion, dirtied by sweat and come, elevated by trust.

As time went on, we experimented more. Toys entered the picture—a vibrating plug that he worked into me while sucking me off, making me see double. Or the time we role-played, me as the dominant FTM boss, him as the eager subordinate, on his knees worshipping my body. “Suck my cock,” I’d command, and he’d obey, his mouth hot and wet, taking me deep until I exploded.

One particularly filthy night stands out. We’d been drinking, inhibitions low, and ended up in the shower. Water cascading over us, he pressed me against the tiles, fingers plunging in and out while he jerked himself. “Come for me, you sexy FTM fucker,” he urged, and I did, squirting against his hand—yeah, that happens sometimes, and it’s intense. Then I dropped to my knees, water streaming down my face, and took him in my mouth, sucking hard, tasting the salt of him mixed with soap. He came down my throat, gripping my hair, calling my name.

Our story evolved beyond just sex, though. We shared vulnerabilities—me opening up about my FTM transition struggles, the injections, the surgeries, the highs and lows. He’d listen, then show his appreciation physically, making love slower sometimes, tender kisses contrasting the rough fucks. But even those tender moments had an edge; he’d bite my shoulder, mark me as his, while whispering how my body drove him wild.

Eventually, life pulled us apart—graduation, jobs in different cities—but the memories linger. Every time I read another FTM sex story online, I think of Eaton, of those nights where we pushed boundaries, got dirty, and embraced the erotic chaos. If you’re an FTM guy reading this, know that your stories matter; they’re hot, they’re valid, and they’re worth sharing. And if you’re not, well, maybe this gives you a glimpse into the passion we bring to the table.

But wait, I can’t stop there; this post needs to dive deeper because that was just the beginning. Let me tell you about the reunion we had a year later. I’d moved to the city, bulked up more from the gym, my beard fuller, my confidence skyrocketing. Eaton hit me up out of the blue, saying he was in town for an art show. We met at a hotel bar, the tension thick from the start. One drink led to another, and soon we were in his room, door barely closed before hands were everywhere.

This time, it was even more intense. He’d learned new tricks, and so had I. He stripped me slow, appreciating every change—the hair on my chest, the muscles in my arms. “God, you’ve gotten even hotter,” he said, pushing me onto the bed. He ate me out for ages, his beard scratching my thighs, tongue delving deep, making me soak the sheets. I pulled him up, kissing him, tasting myself on his lips—salty, musky, addictive.

We fucked missionary first, my legs wrapped around him, nails digging into his back as he pounded away. “Tight as ever,” he groaned, sweat dripping onto me. I flipped us, riding reverse cowgirl, grinding down hard, feeling him hit every nerve. Then, on all fours, he took me rough, spanking my ass until it stung, the pain mixing with pleasure in that perfect way.

We didn’t sleep much that night. Round after round—him coming on my face, me licking it off my lips; me fingering him while he stroked me; using a dildo on each other simultaneously, moans syncing up. It was dirty, sticky, exhausting, and utterly satisfying.

Reflecting on it now, these FTM sex stories aren’t just about the physical; they’re about claiming space, owning desire, and reveling in the eroticism of our bodies. Mine with Eaton was special because it was authentic—no scripts, just two guys losing themselves in each other.

And yeah, there were more encounters after that. One time, at a pride event, we hooked up in a bathroom stall—quick, desperate, his hand over my mouth to muffle my cries as he fingered me to orgasm. Another, in his car parked in a secluded spot, windows fogged, radio playing softly as I blew him, then he returned the favor.

But let’s get into the details of one epic weekend. We rented a cabin in the woods, away from everything. No distractions, just us. Friday night, we built a fire, but soon it was us heating things up. He laid me on the rug, firelight dancing on our skin, and worshipped my body—kissing from toes up, lingering on my scars, my cock, making me beg. When he entered me, it was slow, deep, building to a crescendo where I came screaming his name.

Saturday, we hiked, but ended up fucking against a tree, bark rough on my back, nature all around. Quick and dirty, pants around ankles, his thrusts urgent. That night, bondage—ropes tying me spread-eagle, him teasing with ice cubes, melting them on my skin before licking the trails. His cock in my mouth, then my hole, alternating until we were both wrecked.

Sunday morning, lazy sex in bed, spooning turning into penetration, his arm around me, hand on my cock as he moved inside. We came together, bodies synced.

These memories fuel my fantasies even now. If you’re into FTM sex stories, share yours—let’s keep the conversation going. Mine’s just one, but it’s packed with that erotic, dirty energy that makes life exciting.

So, that’s my FTM sex story—raw, erotic, filthy, and full of truth. Hope it got you going. What’s yours?