Girl on the Net

“I fucking nailed it. I am awesome.”

You are awesome. And something about the way you carry that confidence is beyond sexy. When you’ve nailed something you’re proud of and you carry yourself with a certain kind of swagger… unngh.

I’m not talking about arrogance – the misplaced narcissism that comes when someone’s pleased with themselves for no apparent reason. Arrogance says ‘I’ll fuck you well because I do everything well,’ and no one ever does everything well. Arrogance might charm me into bed, but if it’s misplaced it’ll flop disappointingly when it gets there – all the pleasure’s been taken in the promise and the build-up, there’s none left for the actual act.

Confidence, though? Confidence is slightly more subdued – a raised eyebrow, a sly smile, a long, hard look that says ‘I will do bad bad things to you,’ with the self-assurance that it’ll hit just the right note of badness that I want.

The other night I looked into his eyes and he stared straight back – unblinking and calm. Saying nothing at all. Earlier that day he’d done something he was particularly pleased with – a win at work that made him feel good. It was something he’d done – something he’d achieved with a casual, quick demonstration of just how skilled he is at his particular job. He didn’t need applause or thanks – he just needed to crack his knuckles, smile quietly to himself, and revel in knowing that he’s exactly as good as other people say he is.

He doesn’t always think this. Usually, like most of us, he worries that he’s a fraud- that someone will run into the office one day and shout ‘that guy doesn’t know as much as you think he does! Your confidence in him is misplaced! Throw him out before he brings the company down with him!’ Most people who’ve worked will know the feeling – can I really do this? Am I a proper grown-up, or am I just pretending? Because it feels like I’m just scraping through each day.

So on those rare occasions when he actually understands that he’s amazing, he comes to me with a sexy, hard stare and a confidence that makes me melt, and he has the courage to look at me without speaking. To turn his eyes on me and wait for me to grin, or giggle, or whisper ‘is it bedtime yet?’ in his ear.

As he stared at me the other night I could practically feel his hands on me. The look ran straight through me to my spine, and in it I knew that the fuck we’d have that night would be exactly the one I wanted. He’d waste no time giving gentle strokes to turn me on or kissing me like we were making love: this would be hard fucking – he’d grip me, flip me over, and take exactly what he wanted, safe in the knowledge that it’d hit the right mark.

When we got into bed I felt small, vulnerable, precious. Like I was special because this guy – this confident, awesome guy – was with me. And every moan and intake of breath, every grunt or muttered ‘good girl’ was a bonus gift. He stripped off his clothes without breaking eye contact – just watching me slipping naked into bed, appraising me with the same level of self-congratulatory pleasure he’d had earlier that evening. I felt like a project that he knew he could complete – another tick on his daily ‘win’ column.

He told me to grip my ankles and lie on my stomach. And with the same nonchalance with which he’d stared at me earlier, he looked down at me and pushed his cock into my mouth. Fucking my throat like it was a reward to him for a job well done. And when I’d choked hard on it, wet spit dripping out of my mouth and covering his dick, he gave the order for me to turn around.

And it make me thud with arousal. It made me more eager than ever to bend over for him to fuck me. To arch my back and push forcefully against him, and feel the extra-thick hardness of him slide into me. That itch-well-scratched satisfaction as his dick filled me up, and the comforting pleasure of his growling murmurs in my ear. He didn’t try to make me come – he didn’t have to. He had the confidence to know that I would, because I was so horny for his badass self in the first place. Just as he knew he’d nailed the work project, he knew he could screw me into a quivering, whimpering heap. Everything was inevitable, he was confident it would be. He knew he’d see my hands scrabbling at the bedsheets to get purchase enough to fuck back against him, that I’d let out strangled half-cries as I tried not to wake the neighbours, and that I’d plead for him to fuck me harder.

He knew that I’d come in a rush – tight and hard around his cock.

There is nothing hotter in this world than a shy, nerdy, mostly-self-conscious guy who comes towards me riding a rare wave of confidence. The guy who usually looks down in humility and says ‘well, I’m not that great,’ but who for one shining moment understands his potential. Knows just how perfectly he fits, and how much I love it when he fucks me.

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