It is very rare for me to have an acoustic wank these days. By which I mean ‘be able to orgasm without either getting fucked by an actual human, or using a sex toy’. Gone are the days when I could make myself come using one finger and a tiny rubbing motion on my clit – subtle so as not to disturb a roommate. And we’re decades away from me being able to come with one hand in the shower – kneeling in the bath rather than standing, so I didn’t fall over at any key moments. These days, unless I have a Doxy or a Zumio, ideally with a dildo to accompany it and give me something to clamp round, the chances of me coming before my hand cramps up are slim to fuck-all. Fingers alone are no longer enough. I need more stimulation. And recently I realised that when I say ‘stimulation’, that doesn’t always have to be a sex toy or a cock. It turns out words work too.
We’re lying side by side in bed. I think this is the first fuck of the day, but who knows? When you cram so much dick into yourself that the next day it hurts a bit to piss, the order of events becomes hazy. I’m bragging, I know, but allow me: 2025 has been a clusterfuck of a year so when life is willing to serve me a portion of happiness, I’m licking the plate for every last crumb.
He’s beside me, and there’s porn on the screen. One of his big arms is wrapped tightly around my body, hand positioned perfectly to pinch at my left nipple. I feel at ease in his arms: that’s important. A detail you should remember for later – I feel truly, completely comfortable. I’m not wondering if my head is at the wrong angle or if my shoulder’s digging into his ribs: he’d let me know if it was, and we’d re-tesselate. Knowing this gives me permission to settle into this warm, solid hug and relax every muscle in my body.
Except for the ones in my right arm, which I’m using to begin a lazy wank.
He said he wanted to watch me touch myself, and fair play. I watch him touch himself all the time, but he rarely gets to observe me when I masturbate, because usually we’re shagging at his house which – barring one trusty Doxy – doesn’t have the same array of toys.
But we’re taking our time with this one so I’m happy with a manual wank as a prelude to something more energetic. There’s a fun, hot scene to watch while I do it and he’s enveloping me in a warm and solid hug, which makes me feel safe. What’s more, he’s gripping his cock in his right hand and lazily stroking, which helps me feel a little less exposed. Observed. Something about masturbating together rather than wanking as a performance means I can tune in better to my body. I’m not doing this for him, I’m doing it with him, and somehow that makes all the difference.
It also makes a difference that he’s very vocal in his appreciation. Remember what I said at the start? In the absence of sex toys, words work too.
He calls me ‘good girl‘ while I’m touching myself. Then, when that definitely lands (I tell him ‘more, please more’), he expands a little on the theme.
I’m not just a good girl, I’m a filthy girl. Watching porn and touching myself, being a grubby little slut. Enjoying the sight of the woman on screen getting ruined in a way that makes me envious, because I’m a filthy bitch.
Filthy bitch. That comes up a lot. And ‘slut’. He’s tapping in to all the things he knows I love to hear – the script I’m running in my own wank fantasies when I want to tip over the edge.
Sex toys are amazing, but words work too. And the words he’s whispering into my ear – dark, eager tones that resonate with danger and promise – are starting to do something inside my body. I feel a kick of potential that I don’t normally get when I’m having a manual wank.
This is a tricky one to describe without just telling you that ‘you know what I mean’ but… you know what I mean, right? It’s almost as if there’s a nerve somewhere inside me that needs to be stimulated just right, and when it does a sensation hits somewhere between the pit of my stomach and my lower back. Maybe around the spine. It’s the difference between surface-level pleasure, of the kind you get when you touch your own clit, and deep-rooted orgasmic possibility. Like the kick-in-the-gut of lust that turns a fun first kiss into the start of actual foreplay, the one that comes when I’m fantasising and I hit upon a really good cum-trigger line, or the moment during a standard wank when I stop warming my clit up with fingers and instead apply the Zumio.
Zing.
This is working – his words are working. The combination of his whispered words and the porn on the screen and the connection that he’s making between the two: highlighting parts of the scene that he thinks I like; telling me what he’d do if he had me in that particular position; admonishing me for being so filthy as to enjoy the especially dirty bits. All this builds to create that internal I-just-might-come sensation that usually only happens with dicks or sex toys.
I want to encourage it, so I start talking back. Saying ‘yeah, I know I’m a filthy girl, keep telling me’ or ‘I really love seeing how hard she’s getting fucked.’ I contribute to the story he’s begun to tell. ‘Yes, and’-ing his suggestions for what might come next, or how we’d fuck if we were in a similar scenario.
In the exact same way that I felt comfortable in his arms, so I also feel comfortable opening my mouth and letting the filth pour out. I’m not worrying that I’ll make him awkward by saying the wrong thing. I am as confident as I have ever been with anybody that the fantasies I have – about the porn on the screen, my body, his body – will tesselate neatly with the things inside his own head.
So I talk, and he talks back. And as he does it he pinches my left nipple and rubs at his dick and growls into my ear. Responding to me, one-upping me, encouraging me, connecting with me in a way that is open and trusting and… I almost wrote ‘vulnerable’ but fuck ‘vulnerable’, this is raw.
By the time he lets go his dick so he can pinch my other nipple at the same time, I’ve spat three more times on my fingers and am working my clit with an urgency he knows is astonishingly rare. My core is tense and I’m lifted slightly out of the hug, as every muscle in my body strains towards what I think is about to happen: an orgasm from an acoustic wank. Making myself come using only my hands.
And words and fantasies too, of course.
He’s gripping me so tightly now that I think I can feel his pulse through his bicep beneath my neck. I flick my gaze between the frantic, brutal fucking on the screen and the urgent, twitching rigidity of his cock, and I tune my body in to every single sensation as I let his words pour over me and into me. Shoving imagery and ideas and promises and threats deep into the back of my horny little brain until at last, with one great heaving pant, I tell him:
“I’m gonna fucking come. I’m gonna come. I’m such a…”
“Fucking slut,” he completes the sentence for me. “You’re a filthy fucking bitch and you’re gonna..”
…come.
As with so many of my wank fantasies, it was the word ‘bitch’ that tipped me over the edge. The blood flooded my body, the waves crashed, and I clenched into a solid ball of pinprick pleasure as he held me tight in his arms.
I’m not saying this man’s words are as good as a Zumio, but I am revising my opinion on what makes acoustic wanks possible. I used to think it was just ‘not being able to pack my sex toys when I take my tine tent to a festival’, or deliberately abstaining from intense stimulation for a few months to reset my clit.
Turns out it’s is also ‘words’.
With the right words, a lot of encouragement, and a connection that feels safe and comfortable… maybe a man can talk me into coming using only my hands.