It’s late, and I’m tired. So tired, in fact, that I’ve just slept through the last twenty minutes of the film we were meant to be watching. You can’t blame me: it’s not often I get to snuggle up on a sofabed with my head in somebody’s lap, sinking into the duvet and enjoying the gentle, rhythmic stroke of their hand on my bottom and thighs. It is blissful. Beautiful. Like stepping into a shower that’s set to the perfect temperature, or hugging a loved one when you meet them off the train. I am safe, cosy, happy. This scene is tranquil as fuck, so you can’t blame me for falling asleep. I am also a horny bitch, though, so I hope you can also understand what happens next.
First, some backstory that is even more important than the story itself, so pay attention: I like it when he fucks me while I’m asleep. Note closely the words ‘he’ and ‘me’. Right now I don’t consent to anybody doing this to me except him, and I certainly don’t condone anyone doing this to people who aren’t ‘me’ without their express, sober, wide-awake consent. The only reason he has ever felt comfortable touching me, and sometimes full-on fucking me while I’m either asleep or pretending to be is because I have told him how much I enjoy this. Me getting fucked in my sleep is not something he does to me, as if I’m an object, it’s something he does for me, because he gets off on making me come. Even if I am not going to come right this minute while I’m roleplaying Sleeping Beauty, he understands that 99% of the time when he’s fucked me like this, I’ll masturbate so frequently and vigorously to the memories of it that it’s well worth investing in the charade. Sometimes orgasms don’t happen during the sex itself, they happen when I’m ruminating later on how it felt when I woke up to the sensation of the bed shaking while he beat his dick over my naked arse, or when I forced myself to stifle a moan of pleasure so I could still feign unconsciousness as he spat on it to more easily slide it in. Unngh. I want to be fucked in my sleep, and that is why he does it. In exchange for fulfilling my perverted desire, he gets to come in my cunt – which I’m reliably informed is quite pleasant.
Anyway. Some people might content note this story as ‘CNC’ but they would be wrong to do so. I would argue that the strength of my feeling on this horny issue, and the reasons why he ends up doing this, take this out of ‘consensual non consent’ territory and into just pure ‘consent’. I don’t think it would be possible for me to write this piece effectively without any of the consent cues, it just wouldn’t be hot. My consent raging thirst for this particular sexual activity is so powerful that – to this specific man – me deliberately slowing down my breathing and feigning unconsciousness is not a ‘stop’ sign, it’s a bright green light.
This story doesn’t work without consent. I don’t think it is hot without consent. Without not just consent but enthusiasm, this story wouldn’t have a punchline.
Let’s go.
He stirs me with kisses and gentle shakes when the credits start to roll. Whispers playfully:
“I can tell you enjoyed the film.”
I make a sorry face, and murmur that I’m just so exhausted. I think I have to go to bed soon. There’s a pause for a few seconds. He continues to stroke me softly. I squirm a tiny bit – it’s all I have the energy for – and hope that he’ll keep on stroking.
“You definitely need to go to bed,” he says in lilting tones. “But perhaps not until I’ve slowly pulled your knickers down and roughly used your cunt?”
A smile creeps across my face, and I keep my eyes closed.
“OK,” I tell him, “but I’m so tired I might just…”
“That’s OK,” he reassures, taking the waistband of my yoga pants in his fingers and slowly peeling them down, “you don’t have to do anything – just lie there and get filled up with my cum.”
And oh God. I cannot think of a sentence that better sums up how I – a lazy, jizz-hungry submissive – would wish to spend eternity if I got to choose. ‘Just lie there and get filled up with my cum.’
OK fine, if I must. Maybe I’ll also buy a lottery ticket, cos it feels like my lucky day.
So I lay there and got filled up with his cum. And let me tell you it was a huge struggle to maintain the calm, slow-breathing demeanour of a woman who is meant to be on the verge of sleep when actually she’s positively thrumming with horn. But I did my absolute best.
Firstly, I gave a semi-real-but-partly-exaggerated yawn, then squirmed a little to raise my hips off the bed so he didn’t have to struggle to finish removing my pants. And also because, if it isn’t for these tiny gestures to show him that I definitely want this, he’ll probably lose his boner because he’ll worry that I’m not really into it. I can play-act sleepy sex because I like doing that, but his consent matters too. In order to keep him eager I must occasionally – gently, briefly – knock on the fourth wall to reassure him that I’m enjoying myself.
By the time he’s got the yoga pants off, I’ve successfully settled the top half of my body into ‘sleeping girl’ pose, even though my feet are still clearly awake. I’m wriggling them a bit to help him get my knickers down over my feet. I open my eyes a crack as he takes his own pants off too, so I can watch him through my eyelashes as he rubs lazy strokes up and down his cock from base to tip. Wanking over the sight of me: spreadeagled and sleepy, and now naked from the waist down.
He grunts when he shoves it in.
After positioning himself carefully between my legs, spitting on his hand to lube up the head, and lifting my thighs to open me for much easier access… he grunts when he shoves it in.
Grunts.
He doesn’t usually do this when we’re fucking with a different tone, or power dynamic. The noises that he makes during sex don’t just reflect the way he’s feeling, they also reflect the feelings he wishes to conjure in me. He understands in a way that many people don’t that sex noises aren’t always involuntary: sometimes, perhaps more often than not, we make them on purpose. He makes noises on purpose because he knows I love noises, and he understands exactly which sound will make my cunt flood in this particular moment.
The grunt he emits as he enters me – pushing against my hole with force as if he’s struggling a little to get his cock inside – is not an involuntary expression of his pleasure, it is as precisely and carefully curated for my pleasure as his most well-written sext.
Once inside, he fucks me like he’s wanking. Firm strokes at a rapid pace, each smack of his crotch against mine rattling the sofa and causing my body to jerk. I open my eyes a little, let out a sleepy sigh.
He continues fucking at exactly the same pace. Brutal. Intentional. Goal-driven as fuck.
I sigh sleepily again, in case he didn’t hear me the first time. He hears me now, and responds exactly how I want him to:
“Ssh.”
A stern order that comes mid-stroke. Staccato, swift. Because right now most of his breath and energy is focused on the act of trying to drain his balls into my cunt. Not despite this, but because of it, that ‘ssh’ does exactly what I need: it floods my whole with a wave of arousal, causing my cunt to pulse and tighten around him.
“Ssh.” Like I’m nothing. “Ssh.” Like I’m a dog. “Ssh.” Like he genuinely needs me to be silent.
As much as I’m pretending to be sleepier than I am, so he’s pretending too. Acting like he needs me to be quiet if he’s going to make it to orgasm, even though I know he prefers it when I ‘involuntarily’ moan and sigh to show I’m wide awake. The noises we make are key to the hotness of every single aspect of this. The noises are the way we do not just the role-play itself but the meta-aspects too: the parts that show we know it’s a game, and we understand the exact cards the other person wants us to play.
When my cunt clenches, his strokes speed up, so I clench it again – on purpose this time. This is another way I communicate that I’m into this: even as my face flies the false flag that tells him I am dozing, my cunt sells me out by squeezing with a power that he knows is only there if I consciously summon it. A power that is very very effective if I want to get filled with his spunk.
My heart is beating powerfully now, and his strokes are getting faster. There’s a selfish energy to the way he’s slamming the head of his cock against my now-bruised cervix, and that ‘selfish’ tone is exactly what I want, so paradoxically it shows he’s fucking me as a mostly selfless act. By way of thanks, I’ve allowed myself the odd squeak when he gets that deep inside, to show him that it hurts and hurts good. These sounds don’t gel well with the pretence that I’m sleeping, but I throw them in because he adores them, and I’m a generous lover who likes to please him in return.
So I squeak a little, but keep my eyes closed, and clamp my cunt around his cock. And although I’m not fucking my hips back or telling him ‘oh yes that’s good’, we’re well-practiced in each beat of this particular drama, so to him way more of my body is saying ‘hell yes’ than ‘no’ in this moment. So he fucks harder, and deeper, and with vigour, until I almost have to break role so I can tell him how desperate I am to get a hot load of his spunk when his whole body tenses up and I can tell he’s about to come.
Just before he reaches orgasm, he lets out a longer, deeper grunt that alerts me to what’s about to happen and lets me tense every fibre of my body to better appreciate the spasms as they rip through him. Then he comes. In fucking buckets.
Each pulse of his cock stretches the aching hole of my cunt slightly wider, and each shot of cum pours against my cervix until I almost want to tell you I can feel it gushing down the sides of his shaft – as if I’m about to overflow with it. Almost. Maybe. Perhaps. Doesn’t matter. The point is that he put so much cum into me, so deeply and with such satisfying force, that my entire body – though still trying so hard to feign slumber – physically throbbed with the need to come myself.
It was astonishing.
That isn’t even the climax of this story, because after he’d dumped his load inside, he sat back a little, pulled his cock out, trailed the head of it up and down my slit, whispered as if to himself ‘fuck, there’s so much cum it’s pouring out of you’, before using the spunk-slicked head of his engorged cock to stuff a little portion of it back up inside.
I almost lost my fucking mind.
At that point I opened my eyes a little, stirred as if I was waking. He grinned at me and I grinned back – the immediate aftercare that he requires so he can be sure I am still fucking delighted. Which obviously I was.
I think I told you at the start that this story wouldn’t be a story without consent, but also that it wouldn’t have a punchline if it weren’t for my outright enthusiasm, so here goes.
When he asked me in a gentle voice if I enjoyed that fuck, I suddenly realised I couldn’t contain my joy any longer. My eyes snapped fully open and I leaned up on my elbows to get closer to him.
Grinning like a cat that just got a whole pie’s worth of cream, I blurted out:
“Can I please go upstairs immediately and have a wank about how hot that was while all your cum is still gushing out of my cunt?”