“Let’s get some dick in you.”
There are two ways I can tell this story. If you’ve not read the sexy version then pop over and read that before you look at this one – I suspect it won’t have quite the same effect if you read them the other way around. I’ve been wanting to do this ‘two versions’ thing for a while, because it’s as honest an answer as I can find to a very frequently asked question: is what you write true?
It is. But storytelling, like sex, is often about the angle.
Being used: the other side of the story
This version starts with an Apple Watch. Not – as I’ve been told repeatedly – an iWatch. An Apple Watch.
When you buy an Apple Watch you have to sign a contract that says you will use it for every conceivable task, even if that task could more swiftly and usefully be done with a notepad.
So when he bought an Apple Watch, I spent a happy week killing myself with laughter every time he tried to use it to set up unnecessary appointments, or make lists reminding him to pick up milk. I would try to keep a straight face while he frowned and ordered Siri to “find me a less twatty girlfriend”, then collapse into giggles again when Siri inevitably didn’t understand.
On top of the ‘personal assistant’ aspect, the iWatch also measures things. It measures everything: how many steps he takes, how much time he spends walking, how many cigarettes he smokes, you name it. The idea being that the watch nudges him to change his behaviour – vibrating to remind him to get up off the sofa in case he leaves an imprint, that kind of thing.
So: a watch which measures things. I suspect there’s even an app on it somewhere that would listen to conversations and record how many times his girlfriend has referred to it as ‘that fucking watch’.
I shouldn’t mock him, because he’s cute about it. But I do, because it’s fun.
After a few weeks of proud watch-ownership, we went away on a mini-break. A bit like those romantic mini-breaks people have in films, except instead of laughing gaily at a picnic in a sunny field, we mostly sat in pubs eating chips and hiding from the rain. On a couple of days we ventured out to walk, and naturally his watch was able to tell us how long we had walked for, what our average speed was, and probably how many trees we’d strolled past or something.
One night we went out. Dressed up. Him in a suit, me in a dress. It was like we’d been body-snatched by two genuine grown-ups. Proud of ourselves, and desperately horny, we drank, danced, and eventually wobbled back to our cottage with smiles on our faces and lustful need throbbing in our neatly-attired loins.
“Let’s get some dick in you.”
That was how the fuck started – a line I’d never heard before, but one which pressed so many of my ‘drop knickers’ buttons I could barely scramble to get my tights down before I dripped quim through the gusset. I settled in to some hard, angry strokes bent over the bed, before he ordered me into the lounge.
I’m fairly disobedient at the best of times, but when the order is a sexy one, and it comes from a be-suited guy with a rock-solid erection? I’ll do everything but jump off the proverbial bridge.
So. I crouched on the floor in the living room, arms and hands held tight behind me so he could grip them with his fists. He was pulling me back hard onto his dick like he was trying to actually impale me with it.
“Hold that position,” he said. Along with a bunch of other stuff tailored perfectly to make me want to moan like a horny dog. I held it, as instructed, and kept my mouth shut – again as instructed. What with my total obedience and intermittent whimpering, a passing voyeur could have mistaken me for a Crufts champion.
“Hold still like that for three minutes. No noise. No movement. Just stay and let me fuck you. OK?”
Can I say ‘OK’ if I’m supposed to be silent? Argh. No. That’s exactly the kind of backchat that’ll get me in trouble, so I’ll go for the safe option.
Assent via mumbling. I’m good at this.
And he went for it. Deep and hard. The kind of fuck that makes you worry you’ll bruise your cervix. Fast, as if he’s on a rowing machine in the gym, competitively matching or beating the stroke of the guy on his right. Pulling on my arms, pushing forward with his thighs and arse, and making me picture the sweat dripping down his face even as my own face is buried in the carpet.
Yeah. Like a workout. Like he’s using me as gym equipment and the squirt of jizz is the end goal.
For Three. Solid. Minutes.
They were spectacular minutes, of course. But they didn’t end with the spunk that usually puts a stop to these things. There was I, crouched on the floor, expecting him to groan and dump half a pint of jizz into the back of my cunt. But he didn’t. He stopped, tapped his watch, and told me to get dressed.
“I’m done with you now.”
“Three minutes is up.”
I looked at him, baffled, as I turned round and started to pull up my dress.
“Why three minutes, exactly?”
He tapped his watch, which was open at the exercise app: “Needed three minutes to hit my move goals.”