I’ve always been quite fascinated by the idea of a hands free orgasm. I once found a video of a guy twitching his cock so the head rubbed gently against his stomach, over and over again, for ages, until he came in intense and powerful squirts all over himself. I watched that video so much that if it had been VHS I’d have worn out the tape. This is a fictional story based off an idea that occurred to me while I was out for a walk, which just kind of hit me and felt so ridiculously hot I had to write it to get it out of my head. I don’t know if it’s actually possible, but if you try it and it turns out it is, let me know.
Hands free orgasm – silk handkerchief
It’s only when his dick starts to leak that she does it: holds a silk handkerchief two feet above his restrained body and lets go, allowing it to flutter gently down and land on his taut, shining erection. It twitches, he groans, but no more – no hands free orgasm. He isn’t ready. Yet.
She removes the handkerchief and gets back to work – one fist, lubed and smooth and silky, pumping away at his cock while he struggles against the restraints. He squirms under her touch, and makes agonised noises that catch in the back of his throat.
Then she stops.
She’s been doing this for thirty minutes. Touch, release, touch, release, whipping him into a frenzy of desperation. It’s fun. She likes watching the look on his face – eyes wide, teeth gritted, mouth twisted into a grimace of agony.
She watches him for a short while, until his cock starts twitching. Then she begins again. Pumping fist, tight grip, twisting and squeezing and yanking and letting the ridge of the head catch – ever so slightly – against the ring made by her fingers and thumb.
Occasionally she’ll pause like that – right there, with the head nestling in the crook of her thumb – and tug so gently that it doesn’t slide all the way through.
When she does that, he mewls, and she loves it.
During the next pause, she spots another droplet of precum glinting at the tip. She asks him if he’s ready and he begs ‘please, please please yes please.’
She removes the handkerchief again. Drops it again. His cock jumps but doesn’t squirt.
“Not yet,” she tells him. “You aren’t ready yet.”
She leaves him for an hour or so: trussed up and yowling and begging with desperation. Props the door open so she can hear him from downstairs as he calls to her.
“Please let me come, it hurts. It hurts so fucking much.”
When it’s time to return to the room she finds him twisted and squirming – he’s almost managed to slip the ankle shackles, and now he’s lying nearly on his side, thrusting awkwardly into thin air in an attempt to rub his cock on the satin sheets. Not quite the hands free orgasm she’d imagined, and certainly not what she’d ordered.
“Tut tut,” she tells him, and gives it a light slap. The slap only makes him harder, and he groans again.
He won’t get to come yet – not yet. After tightening the shackles she squats over his naked body, yanking her knickers to one side and looking down. The slit of her cunt glistens to match his cock, and she positions herself over it, with just the throbbing head of him inside her. He whimpers again, and she’s tempted to fully sit down. Longing to plunge down onto him, enveloping his cock that’s so hard and taut and eager.
But she won’t. Instead, she places one hand for balance on the headboard and uses the other to rub her clit. A quick glance up at him shows his eyes are still wide, and he’s biting his lip now as he stares at the plump head of his dick nestling inside her.
She wants to plunge it in, but can’t risk spoiling everything. She rubs harder and feels her thighs start to tremble, focuses on the sight below of his straight shaft twitching at the entrance to her cunt. Ready to spear her, if she’ll let him.
Mesmerised by the sight of his taut cock dripping with her own juices, she comes. Lifting herself ever-so-slightly off him as her cunt starts to clench and spasm.
As she comes, she drips wetness onto his stomach, and he moans again. Aching. It’s nearly time.
She uses her fist to beat him closer to the edge: fingers now wet from her own cunt, she grips so tightly that she imagines she can feel the pulse of the blood running through every vein in his dick.
He starts to beg. Please. Please let me come. I fucking need to come, this hurts so much. I’m going to go mad, I’m going to explode, I’m going to weep.
When she steps off him and reaches for the silk handkerchief, he cries out and begs her for her hand back.
“I need more, I need more, please please give me more than that!”
But she doesn’t think he does. And, as happens so often with these things, she is right. As she holds the handkerchief aloft and lets it flutter down to touch him, he jerks his cock to greet it. The head of it rubs gently on his stomach.
And perhaps it was that which did the trick, or maybe she’s really achieved the hands free orgasm she wanted: getting him to such a point that the gentlest touch would be enough to make him come. Either way, she doesn’t care.
Because when the fabric lands neatly on his granite-hard erection, at its first touch he squirts. Hard.
Hard enough that dark patches appear on the silk. His dick starts pumping faster, and the liquid seeps through the delicate silky threads, staining them with the spunk he’s been so desperate to let pour forth.
Mesmerised, she watches him drench the center of the handkerchief, observing every detail of his spasming cock as it finally lets go, and his face twisted in grateful satisfaction.
As she unstraps his trembling wrists from the restraints – and his ankles, and his waist, and his neck and everything else – she registers that his cock is still twitching. She places one hand firmly over it – pressing the still-solid flesh against the softness of his stomach. He writhes and squirms and continues to twitch at her touch, whimpering ‘thank you’ over and over, until she silences him with a kiss.