This is part two of an exceptionally filthy guest blog sent to me by Justine. In part one of this story, she suffered a ruined orgasm at the hands of her boyfriend. Distracted by a seriously hot fuck, she forgot his order that she should let him know before she came. After coming hard around his cock, she realised she’d broken the rule, and he later exacted punishment in the form of a ruined orgasm: working her up to the brink of orgasm then leaving her panting and frustrated. Read the first half of this ruined orgasm story, then pop back here to see how Justine gets her revenge…
This story was written after someone asked me about making guys come in their pants. I’d tweeted about it recently, and they were curious as to how someone could make this happen. I think my answer is that it’s all in the preparation and build-up. So I wanted to write something which gives the build-up, and the context. Then I got a bit carried away.
This erotic story combines two of my greatest loves: making guys come in their pants and… Crossrail. Sure, it involves descriptions of masturbation and anal sex, and a secret hand job at the back of a lecture theatre. But at its heart it’s a love letter to Crossrail. The non-human love of my life.
I’ve never been a particular proponent of the idea that you have to come to enjoy sex, and if I’m truly honest I’d say the thing which matters most to me is that my partner comes. Which might seem horrifyingly subservient, until you realise that desire comes not from an old-fashioned desire to ‘satisfy’ him but because – not to put too fine a point on it – I like how it feels when he empties his balls into me.
Spaff, cum, come, jizz, whatever you want to call it, if you’re a fan then you’ll love Katrina’s guest blog…
Ten minutes after we’ve fucked, I cough. Inevitably, thick teaspoons of lukewarm spoodge dribble down into my knickers.
It is not for the physical sensation: a very similar effect is released when I’ve put my pants on after a bath. The wetness gushes slightly quicker, but as it seeps through my crotch the feelings I get are more annoyance than delight.
When it’s spunk, though? I am down with that: it’s like a souvenir. (more…)