Girl on the Net

I’m riding his cock. It’s the end of a very long night, and he’s built up plenty of spunk. Not only do I really want that spunk, I also really want to come myself. So just before I hop onto his dick, he hands me one of the toys that I wish every guy I banged had in his bedside drawer: a Doxy. Grinding my clit against it while his rock-solid thickness stretches out my cunt is a proper treat, and combined with the porn that I chose, which is playing in the corner of the bedroom, I’m sure I’ll come in no time.

I love that my body lets me orgasm more than once in a session. I know this is true of some be-dicked bodies too – I was once with a guy who could reliably orgasm once every couple of hours, like a magic spunk dispenser – but broadly for the man I’m talking about here, it’s one shot then we’re done until tomorrow. So we eke out each shag over a period of many, many hours. Dipping in and out of horny times like we’re lounging by the fuckpool in a villa dedicated to hedonism.

But there’s a notable difference in the way our bodies work once we’ve come: I can keep going, and he can’t. This means there’s a particularly beautiful thing that I get to experience but he doesn’t…

“If you don’t stop…”

As I say, I’m riding his cock. Grinding myself against the Doxy while I do it, casually flicking my gaze between the porn and his face, because each of those things helps contribute to building me towards an orgasm.

His hands are on my hips – not guiding me, just clinging tight the way I like it. And I can see from the change in expression that he’s trying to hold himself back. He’s tense and alert, and for a brief second I wonder what he’s thinking of to try and stave off the inevitable.

It tugs on my heartstrings a little, and my cuntstrings a lot, when I see the obvious signs of a man who is trying not to come. The nurturing-dominant side of me feels pity: you poor boy. Must be hard work if you look this tortured about it. The evil-dominant side of me feels unadulterated glee. She rubs her hands together and goes: fuck yes, that’s it. Show me your sweet, sweet agony. 

Right now I really want to come, but that want will usually take a back seat in favour of the desire to watch him fall over the orgasmic edge involuntarily. I can always have a wank, after all, but it’s not every day I get to see the grimace of pleasure/pain as a guy fails to hold back the torrent, and spunks uncontrollably into my cunt.

I could take pity on him, I guess. Let my nurturing side win. Pause for a second and hold him inside me until the torment passes and the storm clouds clear…

…but I won’t do that, have you met me?

I fuck harder. Squeeze my cunt tight round the satisfying girth of his diamond-hard prick. Press the Doxy harder in between our bodies, to see if I can make myself come before he does.

And here’s the first part of the gift that he gives me: his eyes grow wide with panic. His shoulders tense and fingers grip more deeply into my flesh.

“If you don’t stop,” he gasps, “I’m gonna come.”

I can’t remember if I grin, but I probably do. Pause briefly, as if I’m about to grant him his urgent request…

…then keep fucking.

Same rhythm, same grinding, but this time with a heightened awareness of each and every twitch of his body. I briefly abandon the porn so as to better take in the flicker of panic that crosses his face when he pleads to me again:

“Stop or I’ll come.”

And although it might have looked to an outside observer like I didn’t want him to come – that my own orgasm would take precedence – at this moment in time I truly could not give a fuck. I can always have a wank, after all, orgasms are cheap and easy and plentiful for me.

But the expression on his face as he realises that I am about to keep going is priceless.

The look in his eyes as he realises I’m intent on draining him of cum and ending our evening right this minute is rare, precious and hot.

So instead of pausing, I grind down harder. Petulantly bucking my hips as I continue to ride, taking his cock all the way in, right down to the base. Using him like a toy as I wank to porn.

He’s too turned on by that to keep his cum inside and let me continue – feeling both taken advantage of and, weirdly, like he’s about to let me down. I turn briefly back to the porn on the telly, and the thrum of the Doxy, as if I either hadn’t heard him or simply didn’t care, before making sure to observe his face for the final part of this gift.

Here’s what I wish I could give my own lovers, but will never quite manage: the pleasure of watching someone’s face in that split second they realise it’s all over. That the orgasm they’ve tried so hard to stave off is now utterly inevitable.

That tipping point when pleasure turns to shame, as I ignore his pleas to pause and his cock starts to pump spunk anyway.

The involuntary moan of relief and resignation as he loses his grip on restraint. Dumping shot after shot of hot cum deep inside my still-grinding body.

Shuddering. Gasping. Panting.

Spent.

It will never be the same when a guy forces me to come, because I’ll never be able to fake the panic that I see in his eyes when I do the same to him. If I tell him “stop or I’ll come”, the stakes are never as high as they are when the roles are switched.

This experience is a precious gift. And although I’ll never be able to return it, I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, just how much I appreciate it.