Girl on the Net

I roll on top of him first thing in the morning. He’s awake, but pretending not to be. As I grip his dick and squeeze gently just below the coronal ridge, it pulses hotter and harder in the palm of my hand. When I start to stroke it, a smile flickers briefly at the corner of his lips. He suppresses it, then feigns a still-sleepy half-stretch to make the angles easier for me to straddle him and hop aboard.

This post is not consensual non-consent. Everything that happens is extremely consensual. However, the fantasy I tell this guy while we’re in bed does have notes of CNC, coercion and fucking-as-punishment. I maintain that it is not a CNC story, rather it is a consensual story about two people who enjoy playing in this fantasy space. It’s a hill my career will probably die upon at some point, but for what it’s worth I think it’s more than possible to present these fantasies in an ethical way, and part of doing that means warning you that you’re about to read something in this vein. 

I grip his cock tight and play the head of it up and down the slit of my cunt. I’m not wet enough to fuck just yet, which is – quite frankly – an outrage. Sure, I’m quite hungover and dehydrated and yes, I am in my early forties. But the fantasy I’ve been nurturing in bed that morning is more powerful than most. It has my entire cunt aching with a need to be fucked, and that ache has now spread beyond the hole itself and has settled in to every atom of my body below the waist.

I’m thrumming with it. In squirming agonies of desire.

Why so hot? I’m not usually a morning sex kind of person. But while he lay sleeping beside me, I had a little idea. That idea grew into a fantasy, which swiftly became an obsession.

So I roll on top of him, rub his rapidly-stiffening dick against the slit at the entrance to my cunt, and then spit on my fingers to lube myself up before pressing the head of his cock nice and tight up against me.

That moment just before I sit down, I can sense him holding his breath. Tensing up. He’s still pretending to be asleep, or at least pretending to be on the verge of sleep, but his acting has been mostly set aside in the face of the excitement that’s now brewing.

I slide all the way down his twitching cock and press my lips against his ear. His hands move softly to caress the flesh of my hips – still lazily, sleepily, so he can take advantage of the morning fuzziness and let me do all the grunt work.

I sweep my hair out of the way, clear my throat, and tell him:

“Later today, I need you to fuck me in the ass.”

His body snaps taut.

He’s now on high alert, listening intently, head slightly cocked to one side – like Lassie picking up on the distant cries of a sad kid stuck down a well.

This man definitely wants to fuck me in the ass. He would like that very much indeed. He’s threatened me with anal as punishment many times before, but his cock’s fat and my body is weak right now so we’ve not yet got round to it. We play a lot in this fantasy space, though, and I’m pretty sure that if I tell him what I’m thinking it’ll be almost as good as if we managed the actual thing.

So as I ride his dick, I continue.

“Later today, I’m going to prep myself to get fucked, then I want you to bend me over and slide a butt plug into my ass.”

Still riding. Now his hands gripping tightly at my hips.

“Slather the plug with lube, use the syringe to pour more deep inside me. Then angle the plug just right to slide inside and…”

Still riding…

“…push.”

He groans. My mouth is right against his ear now, he’s leaning in to make sure he catches every word.

“Then I want you to fuck me a little. Slide your fat cock into my cunt and grunt with the effort of pushing it past the tightness caused by the plug. Fuck me hard and deep and brutal, so I can feel the strain in both my holes.”

He’s joining in now, arms wrapped around my waist, bear-hugging me tightly. There’s a way his breathing changes when he wants to register surprise and delight – a little higher and more frantic than usual, informing me that he’ll come like this if I let him.

I will definitely let him.

But first I slow down to make a meal of it. Readjust. Squirm my hips a little so I get to feel all of his dick. It’s not quite a pause, just a change in pace, because I haven’t yet got to the part of the fantasy that had me so desperate to be filled.

“I don’t want you to come in my cunt, though. That would be a waste. Instead I want you to pull out – rigid and twitching – and save your come for what we’ll do later.”

I love telling stories. Not just here on the blog but to the people in my life. I find it immensely satisfying to tell a story to someone I love, building it from components that I know will press specific buttons for them. When I’m doing this in the pub, I’m usually reliant on buttons that will make someone laugh or gasp in shock. And it’s important to remember that the audience – their willingness and attitude and engagement and connection – is at least as important as the skill of the storyteller or the plot of the story itself. The components weave together to create a little in-group: you’re existing in the same moment at once. Rooting for the punchline, or the payoff, or the climax, or whatever it might be. I like to tell stories, and I love having an audience who’ll not only let me know which buttons will work, but be willing to listen as I spit out the right words to press them.

In this particular case I know the perfect button combo, and that makes me feel powerful. I don’t care if I come, but I’m proud of knowing this man well enough that I can effectively talk him into coming if I want. That’s a skill far more impressive than just squeezing my cunt round his dick to milk the spunk out of him physically.

“Later in the evening, I’d like you to find some imagined slight for which I need to be punished.”

Groans.

“Bring me back in here to the bedroom and make me lie down on the bed – knees up to my chest, curled up naked and ready for you. Facing the mirror so I can see your expression as you slide in. More importantly, so that you can see mine.”

I’m fucking him faster by this point, and he’s fucking back. The feigned sleep and softness is gone, replaced by a full-body tension and urgency – he definitely wants to orgasm, but he won’t let himself do it till he’s heard the end of the story.

“I want you to look at me with slight reproach, and softly tell me ‘you know you deserve this’ and other things like ‘hold still’ and ‘I’ll be gentle’. I want you to show me that you’re simultaneously determined to fuck me in the ass and also very sorry that it has to happen…”

Just as in the pub, telling a good story relies at least as much on a willing and eager audience as it does on the storyteller. He knows how this will end, but he waits for me to spit it out. Listening intently, and fucking back with vigour, as I settle in for the final strokes…

“I want you to watch the expression on my face as you slide the tip of your dick inside. I’m anxious but eager – willing you to fit your fat cock into my tight, lubed-up hole. I want you to watch my eyes grow wide at the shock of it, and my face crumple in a pained frown as you ease yourself in, inch by inch. And I want to watch you in return: the way your expression changes from cautious to determined… as you shove the whole thing as deep inside as possible.”

More grunts. Harder fucking. A whispered… “I’m gonna…” that leads me to the final conclusion:

“I need to feel you pouring come as deep as you can possibly get. All the way in, right up to the hilt. Buried inside my ass. Taut and tight and pulsing with each thick, hot squirt that you pump out.”

I felt every drop of his spunk that morning.

Every. Single. Drop.

Occasionally I get people asking in comments about this fantasy-sharing thing, like ‘how do I make use of a kink in the bedroom if we’re not going to ever actually do it??’ which is why I wanted to share this particular piece. I’m not telling you all to go out and fuck like this, because you’ll all have your own different styles of relationship communication – and partners with varying degrees of willingness to leap on board with your ideas. As I say, telling stories relies as much on the audience as the storyteller. But if you want an example of how fantasy can play out during a fuck, here you go.

Since that morning, I have developed and built on this idea. I love it so much. It makes my cunt hurt just thinking about it as I edit this piece today, trying to come up with a good way to conclude that isn’t just a drool emoji and ‘I’m off for a wank’. The initial ramble that I whispered into his ear that morning laid foundations, but since then I’ve built a fucking cathedral to this fantasy. I’ve written more dialogue, developing the script into something akin to a Bible. Scriptures of fuck that I open and pore over late at night when I’m in bed. I’ve painted the ceiling of the chapel of this horny little tale so that every detail now shines in bright colour – from the tautness of the head of his slicked-up dick to the way he bites his lip with guilt just before he ploughs it in.

This fantasy has fuelled almost every single wank I have had since that morning.

We might do it one day, we might not. The world might end before I get the chance to watch his face as he stuffs it into me in punishment for being a wanton, desperate slut. But whether we act this out in practice doesn’t matter: fulfilling a fantasy doesn’t always mean ‘doing it’. Sometimes it means playing with it, exploring it, talking about it. Whispering details into each other’s ears while you lie together naked. Dreaming about it. Wanking about it. Writing about it. Having aggressively hot phone sex at midnight on a Tuesday about it (we did that too).

Fantasies aren’t always plans you draw up with the aim of following them through. They’re not cast-iron commitments you make to do this or that thing: they’re toys.

And how you choose to play with your toys is entirely up to you.