Gifts: “I love it when you touch me gently”

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

There are lots of things I enjoy about this time of year, but gifts aren’t one of them. I feel uncomfortable if people buy them for me (please don’t go to any trouble!) and I’m terrified of giving them. Although I occasionally have a flash of inspiration, or the time and ability to arrange a cool trip or activity, most of the time I end up panic-buying a present at the last minute that’s way over my tiny budget, because I didn’t have time to shop/think/make but I need this person to know that I care about them anyway. Even the cool things I do occasionally manage come with a hefty dollop of misery as I agonise over the fact that they will still fall woefully short. It never feels possible to buy a gift that is thoughtful enough, arrange an outing that’s fun enough, or write a poem in a card that’s meaningful enough to capture the weight of my love for this kickass person. But I tell you what I can do very well: gratitude.

I am very grateful for the life that I live. I am astonishingly fortunate that I get to spend time writing about sex for money. It’s not yet quite enough money: I don’t make minimum wage at the moment, but that’s my goal for 2024. Even if I do have to stop though, I’ve still had the privilege of doing this for nearly a decade – October next year will mark 10 years since my last ‘real’ job. I’m incredibly lucky.

On top of that, in 2023 I met a man I’m really excited about. There’s so much I want to tell you about him! So many little gems of pleasure that I’ve been lucky enough to discover each day we spend together. Every single one of them could be a post in itself. In fact, I briefly contemplated writing a series of posts that consist of pure bragging, just so I can get them out and allow myself to bask in their shiny glory. For example:

  • My lovely boyfriend traveled across town just to cook me breakfast one morning!
  • My lovely boyfriend reads my blog and engages with it by texting me compliments about each week’s post. “That was so hot” or “this week’s is great” and once, the sublime: “you are such a boss.”
  • My lovely boyfriend has a kink for… intimacy? (I’ll definitely blog about this in way more detail later – I am disgracefully excited to have the chance to play with a kink that fits so well with my own personality. I’m an intense motherfucker, and finding a man who is up for not just absorbing that emotional intensity but actively getting hard for it is… yeah, it’s a gift)

You get the idea. I could (and will) write essays about all the different aspects of the fun I am currently having. His very presence in my life is a precious gift, which I intend to treasure with my whole heart as well as (obviously) rinse every detail of in pursuit of the content that brings in my meagre income.

“I love how gently…”

The detail I am going to rinse today is summed up in the following line, which he delivered on our third or fourth ever shag:

“I love how gently you touch my dick.”

Now. As a general rule, I wouldn’t be as gentle with a cock as I was being with his in that moment. Obviously I’m not going to go in on anyone’s with an iron fist, wrenching it around like I’m piloting a fighter jet in a hurricane, but nor would I usually be as soft as I was being with his cock in that moment. I was touching the shaft and head so gingerly with my fingertips that he could have been forgiven for wondering if I were even making contact at all. I wasn’t aiming to please, but to tease and frustrate, so it surprised me to learn that he liked it, but he did. Loved it, in fact!

[Sidenote: please please please tell people what you like in bed. I know it can be hard to speak up if you aren’t used to doing it, and of course you need to tread carefully around feedback that might be seen as negative, but when it comes to communication during sex, you’re rarely going to go wrong with a well-placed ‘I love that’. A ‘yes’ or ‘that’s good’ or ‘I love how gently you touch my dick.’ Everything that occurs in the rest of this post happened because he spoke up back then.]

I take this precious knowledge – he loves how gently I touch his dick – and I store it away in a file marked ‘useful information for future fucks’. I let myself ponder it when I’m alone. It is fascinating to me, who’s previously been instructed to use blunt, brute force – grip tight and be firm – to suddenly have the opportunity to explore with a delicate touch.

Slow and gentle allows for more detailed perception: I can note and enjoy just how velvet-soft the skin of the shaft is, and how beautifully that contrasts with the tighter, smoother and more sensitive skin on the head. With this hyper-subtle touch, I sometimes imagine that I feel his pulse through the smallest capillaries that run across the foreskin. All the while, I am able to pay proper attention to the tiny movements and noises that could be lost in a more vigorous hand job: the way his cock jumps beneath my palm, or the way his voice cracks slightly in reply when I ask him ‘is that good?’.

Of all the gifts he’s given me, one of the ones for which I am most grateful is permission to take my time.

“I could come like this…”

A few weeks later, he expands on this generous gift. We’re talking about hand jobs, and I tell him how delighted I’ve been the (very very few) times I’ve made someone come with my hands. Most of my partners have been expert death-grip wankers, and I’ve never been able to match the powerful clench/lightning speed combo that’s required to fully get them off. When it comes to non-PIV sex, blow jobs are my comfort zone. After all, very few people can actually suck their own cock, and no one can suck their own cock as well as I can suck it for them. So I don’t get to make people come with my hands very often. You’ll remember the ONE SINGLE TIME I managed to give a guy a hand job to orgasm since I started writing this blog, yeah? And how I made quite a big deal of it?

So as we’re talking about hand jobs, I tell him all this and he casually drops into the conversation ‘I reckon I could come if you did that gentle touching thing for long enough.’


I would love to tell you I waited patiently to make use of this information, but the truth is I think I used it the second circumstance allowed. The next time we were lying in bed, sleepy and horny in the morning after a fun night hanging out, I stroked his dick with incredibly gentle fingertips – as if it were made of crystal. After a couple of minutes of doing this, it was certainly comparably hard.

I touched him so softly. So slowly. Like time was running at half speed. Meanwhile he moaned and sighed, occasionally nodding or giving a strangled ‘mmmyes’ if I asked him whether what I was doing was nice. He is naturally pretty quiet in bed, and occasionally requires prompting. So I ask: “is that nice?” because I love to make him say it aloud. Make him say “mmmyes” as I stroke his twitching, rock-solid erection.

I grab the lube and squirt a generous helping into my hand, warn him it might be a bit cold, then rub my fingers together and apply the now-wet tips back to where the head strains and aches to be touched. He’s already dripping wet with precum – he leaks so much when he’s horny! Another precious gift! And his pulse forces yet more blood into his already-taut cock as I start to move my fingers in soft-soft circles around the ridge at the bottom of the head.


Lying beside him, with his arm around me and my face resting on his chest so I can get a good view of what I’m doing, I can also feel the thrum of his heartbeat, and hear when his breath catches as I change the tiny movement to something he likes even more. This instant-feedback is subtle, so I have to pay even closer attention than I usually would to the delicate responses in the whole of his body. But pressed against him, and with permission to be as gentle as I possibly can, all the tiny things seem suddenly bigger and more significant.

Muscle twitches become huge gestures. The rustle of covers and schlick-schlick sound of lubed-up fingers echoes through the otherwise-silent bedroom. And with my ear pressed against his chest, his heartbeat appears deafening.

I stroke him like this until he goes from ‘twitching’ to ‘still’. But not ‘still’ like the surface of a pond on a calm summer’s day: ‘still’ like ‘absolutely rigid with urgent tension’. He’s quiet during sex, but he becomes even quieter at the very edge of climax. Eyes closed, lips pursed tight, every single muscle in his body as solid as the aching shaft of his prick. I hold his prick in my bare, wet hands, and as I nudge him closer to tipping over that edge I realise I am also holding my breath.

That quiet tension in his body causes me to switch it up a little, to see if I can prolong this delicious agony, and I go from gentle strokes up and down – where my fingertips just catch the coronal ridge – to firmer twists with thumb and forefinger which glide slickly over the whole head.

Firmer than I was being before, but still gentle. The key difference is that now, instead of brushing with fingertips, I’m enveloping with a gentle ring – thumb and forefinger, dripping with lube and precum, round and round and up and down. Aiming (as if it were possible) to touch each and every atom on the surface of the quivering head of his cock with each and every twist-and-stroke that I give it.

And I know I don’t always include cum shots in these blog posts, but that’s because they’re not always relevant to the story. What’s more, they don’t always happen. But when they do happen I like to take care with how I describe them. I want to really luxuriate in the act of making someone spunk, carefully selecting the perfect word to capture how an ejaculation occurred: spat; squirted; pumped. You get the idea.

So I hope it will be suitably evocative when I tell you that when my lovely boyfriend finally let out that guttural sigh of release, and his dick started pulsing in my hand with the first waves of orgasm, he fully unloaded a portion of cum into my eager hands.

Thick. Heavy. Sticky. Messy. Generous. Shot after shot after shot of it.


Like an Amazon driver dumping 12 parcels on your doorstep.

Like a surprising, satisfying, bountiful delivery.

Like a very precious gift.



  • Denis says:

    That was sooooo! Hot! I love being revered in the submission of an edging to non-ejaculatory orgasm. Then carrying that intimacy to ecstatic communion.

  • SpaceCaptainSmith says:

    Amazing! What a precious gift. :)
    (Another vote here for ‘gentle stroking’ over ‘death-grip wanking’, every time…)

  • Jamie says:

    I generally prefer (and give) a death-grip handjob – almost 4 decades of wanking have worn that groove into me – but you seem to share with my husband a rare ability to do a gentle handjob that goes on forever. And longer. Until I’m about to actively burst into flames, or crumble to dust, or have my skeleton burst from my body. And, yep, same result as with your BF: gallons of the sticky stuff.

    It’s fucking torture. And wonderful. More power to those of you with that talent!

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