Girl on the Net

Last week I was away for a couple of days at the sex industry trade show Erofame – I’ll tell you all about it in an upcoming post. While I was away, inevitably I started missing my partner. I missed him generally, of course: I wanted to be able to chat to him about all the cool new sex toys I was discovering and share stories from the event. But more specifically I missed his cock, and I looked forward immensely to coming home and sliding right down to the base of it.

This probably doesn’t come as a surprise to you. It didn’t come as a surprise to him either. I always miss his cock, and even trying out some of the free sex toys I’d been given didn’t dampen my urge to rush home, rip the bedcovers off his sleepy body, and sit down hard on the morning erection he’d inevitably be sporting when I returned home.

I texted to tell him this: that my flight would get in early enough that I could fuck him awake before he left for work. He replied with four words:

“Oh. My. Aching. Cock.”

Honestly, the hottest text I have ever received. All that drool-worthy filth, conjured in just four words! The man’s a genius.

So all the way home I thought about it.

I pictured the way his erection springs up when he rolls onto his back in bed. The fine vein that runs down the soft skin on the outside. The thick base and satisfyingly prominent penile raphe running straight from base to head. The way the head gleams wetly when I spit on my lips and wrap them softly round it to warm him up.

I had it all planned out in my head, and I replayed that plan over and over. In the taxi to the airport, on the plane, as I was waiting in the queue for passport control. When I sat on the train back to London my right leg jiggled in anticipation, and I had to remind myself not to moan out loud as I re-read his text for the fiftieth time.

Oh. My. Aching. Cock.

I reminded myself that for the last two day’s he’d have been wanking a lot. Edging himself over and over until his dick truly did ache: full of spunk and desperate for somewhere to squirt it. I ran over my plan again:

Run home from the train station, unlock front door quietly, drop bag and shoes and socks at the front door so I can tiptoe up to the bedroom on silent, bare feet. Gently open the bedroom door so as not to wake him too soon, then strip off my jeans, shirt, bra, knickers. Spit on my hand and wipe it on my cunt so I’m good and ready to fuck him.

Then slide into the warm bed and spoon up behind him – skin pressing tightly against his, breasts squashed tight against his back. One hand rubbing against his stomach and down to his cock.

Oh. My. Aching. Cock.

Having gone to bed alone he’d murmur and wake up to find me there behind him, holding him the way he likes to be held and squeezing him gently. Then he’d roll over, his erection would spring up straight and thick and rock solid, and I would straddle him as he was still blinking sleep out of his eyes.

Then I would slide, in one neat wet motion, all the way down to the base of his dick.

Honestly just thinking about it gave me pangs in the depths of my cunt – aching to feel him as far inside me as he could possibly get.

Every single thing on that journey home made me either horny or angry. Horny because nearly everything has hot associations if you let it: train toilets remind me that a wank is just one locked door away; airports remind me of dirty things I’ve done on holiday; men commuting remind me that men exist and some of them will let me sit on their aching dicks.

As for the anger, that came on in a surge whenever someone delayed me: I was rushing home to get back in time to fill myself with dick, so when a lady blocked the escalator in front of me she wasn’t just stealing seconds from my life, she was potentially taking away this fuck – one I’d planned and rehearsed and looked forward to for days. I fumed silently. Irrationally. Meanly. Then I’d be stuck behind a group of teenagers walking slowly and blocking the whole pavement, and I’d become enraged all over again. Honestly I was so incensed when someone pushed in front of me at the passport control queue, I even nearly said something to them! 

By the time I was on the last leg of my journey, my veins were singing with that combination of adrenaline and lust that you get before a shag you’ve really looked forward to. My skin felt more sensitive, and my clit was throbbing with the movement of the train. I wanted to barge everyone out of the way shouting ‘LET ME GET HOME AND GET FUCKED, GODDAMN YOU’, but I settled for simply dodging past as many people as I could, panting with anticipation, and trying not to think about how hard he would be for me when I finally arrived home to sit on him.

Oh. My. Aching. Cock. 

But reader: that is not what happened. If it were, I wouldn’t have spent so long talking about the fantasy and the build-up – I’d have got straight to the meat of the thing. But there’s no point having a sex blog if all you talk about is the stuff that goes right. I realised it’s been a while since I wrote about let-downs and disappointments: those frequent moments when your sex plans are cancelled or thwarted or just let down gently when you walk through the door and realise your sexy associate is simply not in the mood. If I fail to write about that stuff, you’ll end up with the mistaken impression that I never get turned down, or put off, or left crywanking in the spare room when my partner and I have a fight.

When I got home, he wasn’t curled up warm in bed: he was awake and dressed and making coffee. As he greeted me with a cheery ‘Hi! I missed you!’ I ran over. put my arms around his neck and pushed my crotch up against him, pressing to see if I could grind any hint of an erection from within his jeans.

He told me we couldn’t fuck and my face must have showed just how deflated I was because he laughed, and offered four deeply unsexy words by way of explanation: “the boiler man’s upstairs.”

Oh. My. Aching. Cunt.