You know those meditation apps which show a circle increasing and decreasing in size, which encourage you to breathe in and out in time with the animation? Sometimes I like to fuck like that.
CN: drug use, minor references to panic attacks. But broadly this is a super-hot one, I promise.
In fact, I’ll be honest and admit something that many of you will find extremely vanilla: some of my most intense fucks are the ones which work like meditation. Extremely measured, usually slow-paced in-and-out. Like breathing. Strokes that are firm and regular and predictable. Just as the meditation apps make you aware of all the details of how you breathe – the inflation of your lungs, the movement of your chest, the opening of your ribcage – so these fucks make me aware of the exact stretch of the entrance to my cunt at each different increment of girth on someone’s cock. They allow me to sense the different pressure caused by a curve or a bulge or a ridge as that feature presses more firmly on a specific point inside me. And it’s not just the shape of someone’s cock that I have heightened awareness of, either: it’s also the occasional twitches. The placement of someone’s hands. The weight of their body on top of me. Their breath warming that exact part of my neck. The kiss of the flesh of their hips against the inside of my thighs.
The man who’s about to feature in this post mocked me recently for never telling you one key detail about our dates. By which he means I don’t tend to mention all the drugs. So for the record, and because this time it’s relevant, what I’m about to tell you comes after a lot of drugs. Drugs are bad for you, and you probably shouldn’t do them, and I’m ashamed of how often I let myself fall into their sexy embrace – that’s why I don’t tend to mention them very often here. But drugs also feel amazing, and I adore them. I love fucking when I’m on them. I love the way they smother the baseline anxiety of my life, while turning up the dial on the nerve-endings in my body – allowing the kind of fucks that represent genuine abandon. And although certain drugs can make it harder to come, they nearly always allow for a more potent experience: layering one intense sensation after another, absent the worry that usually brings me crashing back down to sober, miserable Earth.
So there you have it. This hot, hedonistic, confident guy and I: we do drugs. A lot of drugs.
MDMA to start this particular night, more in the middle, then a well-packed spliff for the comedown. We pass it back and forth as I casually suck his dick: alternating gentle, wet, enveloping kisses to the head with languid tongue strokes from base to tip. I ask him to blow smoke back into my mouth as I inhale, then hold my breath as I suck his cock again, letting each molecule of THC fully penetrate my bloodstream before I run out of air and come up, exhaling in one blissful foggy breath.
I’m high and light-headed by the time we reach the end of the joint. He’s hard as granite and his eyes have taken on a slightly hazy gaze – one that makes him look even more casually stunning than usual. That is the point at which I ask him to fuck me.
We lie on the sofa, missionary-style. He puts on a condom and I ask him to give it to me slowly.
So I can savour it.
Those meditation apps give you a circle you can use as a visual cue to time your breathing. But during this fuck I time my breathing to each stroke. In as he slides out, then vice versa. So that when he plunges inside it’s like his cock is shoving the breath right out of me. Then inhale as he slides out again, taking oxygen into my lungs and knowledge of the details of his dick into not just my brain but the muscles of my cunt. Inhale on the out-stroke, exhale as he slides back in. In/out, out/in. And each breath takes me higher and higher. Shifting my focus more intensely onto the sensations that are happening in my cunt.
I have spent a lot of time with his dick, but it isn’t until we fuck like this that I fully appreciate the variation in girth at different points along the shaft. While lots of dicks will have a curve in one direction or another, his is mostly straight, with a bulge partway down – about one third of the way between the head and the base. A gentle swelling outwards that is easily overlooked when you’re pounding rapidly away.
Earlier that evening, when my sober brain had simply been greedy for cock, I was just urging him harder harder harder as he shoved my face into the sofa cushions and fucked me from behind until I came. Back then I barely noticed that bulge, because the style of the fuck was the main event, not the specific shape of the dick with which he delivered it. The headline was the sensation of him fucking deep into me until my cervix felt it, and the way he gripped my hair and yanked it when I asked him to.
But now? New headline: the bulge. I can focus, and I can feel it. Now I’m high, and we’re missionary, and he’s giving it to me slooooowly. In a patient, firm, measured rhythm.
Metronomic. Fucking hypnotic.
At one point I become aware that my hands are scrabbling at his back. Fingers stroking and squeezing and reaching down to grip his bum so I can tilt my hips to the perfect angle. He fucks in and I breathe out. He slides out and I breathe in.
In/out, out/in. In/out, out/in.
Sometimes when I’m fucking, I struggle to come. So desperate am I to make it to climax that I find I am trapped inside my head: fluttering around in there trying to calculate angles and rhythms so I can give the guy I’m with some direction or instruction that might help. Not so this time, rarely ever so when I’m this high. When I’m high, and we fuck like this, orgasm or no orgasm, everything’s pure instinct. I let my hands wander where they want to wander and tilt my hips, as I say, to the perfect angle.
I know it’s the perfect angle because the firm, meditative rhythm with which he’s fucking me shows the way. It only takes a few minutes of this tempo-driven, basic-as-fuck, perfect-beyond-words fucking for me to understand exactly where I need to direct the pressure and friction from his prick. It’s not a calculation any more, it’s innate knowledge – unlocked by being high and calm and fuzzy. Something that I can only comprehend because all my other thoughts have been hypnotically ground away.
He doesn’t realise that I come, and I’ll feel bad about that later. But in the moment I just forget to do the things I normally would: make some extra noise, or grip tighter when I’m close, or breathe thank you as the last few waves shudder through my chest. I’m high, that’s my excuse. And an orgasm doesn’t always have to mean ‘full stop’. If I just stay exactly as I am…
And just let him keep doing this and doing this…
Maybe I can simply come again.
The sensations layer one on top of the other, and the focus intensifies. Like you’re watching that meditation app and the world really has gone fuzzy and unreal around you. It’s just you and the screen and that increasing/decreasing circle. You breathe in and then out, in and then out, over and over and over until you’ve lost all sense of time. You could have started ten breaths ago, or you could have been breathing all steady-calm like this since the dawn of time itself.
Likewise with this fuck: I do not know how long it’s lasted. It could be seconds, it could be forever. I came, and I shuddered. I forgot to say thank you. But I keep on breathing in time to the cadence of his thrusts. And my mind, which was so focused on the feeling of the specific section of his cock that swelled with girth, gets even more locked-on. The softness of the skin of his back on my fingertips becomes sharp like the world is in focus. And my breaths are no longer something I’m controlling, they’re genuinely being pushed from my lungs by the force of each stroke of his dick.
In/out, out/in. In/out, out/in. Inout, outin. Inout outin inoutoutininoutoutin… until…
“Oh fuck sorry please can we stop? Sorry sorry sorry. This is all just far too intense, I’m so high, oh fuck. I came I’m just so high, we need to stop.”
And we stopped.
Although I’m still an anxious little fucker, it’s been a while since I last had a panic attack. But although I know this lovely guy was gutted that we had to stop, I hope that on reading this post he’ll be pleased by how beautifully he fucked me. How precisely and intensely and powerfully – layering sensation with patience and rhythm and his breath on my neck and the delicious, rock-solid, swollen girth of his dick – he fucked me right to the edge of panic.
A place so precisely balanced between coming and screaming and bursting into tears that I had to call a halt before I found out which way I’d fall.
“This is all just far too intense,” I told him.
But ‘too intense’ does not mean ‘bad’, sometimes it’s the best.