Girl on the Net

We love each other. We fancy each other. We live together. I think about his cock almost constantly, and I’m betting he does too. We are inside each other’s heads all the time, and in bed together every night. We touch on the sofas while Netflix is on, and we steal kisses on the tube on our nights out to go and meet friends. And we only ever really fuck on Sundays.

After the report that many Brits only have sex once a week, I considered writing a blog post about why ‘number of times you did it’ is a shit way to measure how happy people’s sex lives are, and how annoying it is that these studies usually only include a very narrow set of acts in their definition of what ‘sex’ is. But that didn’t seem as fun as what I’m about to do, which is write some erotic fiction about a couple who only fucks on Sundays. 

We only fuck on Sundays. Our digital lives get in the way of us fucking at any other point during the week.

Monday

Monday is Game of Thrones. We avoid all social media during the daytime, then when we get home from work and speed through dinner prep so we can launch ourselves onto the sofa for our next fix of dragons and tits. In between chopping salad, grating cheese and rinsing pots, I tease him with stories of what we did the day before: the fuck we had on Sunday, when it was time.

On the sofa, when dinner’s done, I reach one hand down the front of his pyjamas and squeeze life into his flaccid cock. He breathes calmly and steadily, on Mondays. He’s not yet ramped up into the frenzied state that he’ll be trembling in come Friday. Before we go to bed, I rub him down with both my hands. Sliding fingers into my own cunt and using that to lube up the head of his cock.

By the time I fall asleep, he’s panting. His dick aches. He nuzzles my neck and pokes me with it, but there’s no more for him just now. Because we only fuck on Sundays, after all.

Tuesday

Tuesday comes, and with it a new deluge of TV to watch. More emails to answer. WhatsApp groups to entertain. I order him to take off his pants while he does all this social admin. Slide a butt plug into his arse and perch uncomfortably on the edge of a hard wooden chair. Four inches too short for his grown-up-sized desk. I ask him how humiliating it is to try and look like an adult while he works.

He doesn’t answer, but his cock twitches, so I pinch the tip of it and grin. He could fuck me now, if I wanted him to: he’s hard enough. But I don’t want him to, and he’s obedient enough, so instead he fetches a strap-on that we keep for just this purpose. A thick, red cock attached to a single velcro strap.

I secure it around the middle of one of his thighs, and ease my cunt slowly down onto it.

We only fuck on Sundays: this is a wank.

I can feel his cock bouncing against the flesh of my arse as I ride his thigh. And I grin, because it’s only Tuesday.

Wednesday

On Wednesday we do nothing except watch TV. He nuzzles into my neck and tries to nudge at the buttons on my shirt. Pleading with his eyes for me to open them for him, but I don’t. Instead I order him into the other room, tell him to stay there until he’s as hard as he can get. When he returns to me – with his dick jutting delightfully from the opening of his flies – I reach for the two neat, simple cock rings that I carry in my handbag. One goes round the base of his cock, another includes the balls too. His dick goes from solid to granite to painful in the space of just a few minutes, and he looks at me with wet eyes as if he’s about to beg.

I lick the tip, call him “good boy” then order him to bed. When I’ve finished my Twitter admin, an hour or so later, I find him still awake upstairs – staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, dick pointing straight upwards. His hand is curved around it and he’s hot and bothered and angry. I take one of his nipples in my mouth, then bite. Goodnight.

Thursday

On Thursday morning he wakes to find my hand around his dick again. He smiles as me as if it’s Sunday, then I take my hand away.

I stand behind him as he makes me breakfast, one hand on the back of his jeans. I tug upwards gently, over and over, pulling the seam into the crack of his arse, nudging it against the plug I told him to insert when he got out of the shower. Each tug elicits a gentle moan, and he tells me he’ll be a mess by this evening. He’s right.

I spend the day texting him:

You are so pathetic you make me want to come.

Next time you go to the bathroom, use a stall. Take your dick out, get hard, then text me to tell me what it looks like. No photos, just words: use your words. Describe in every detail the feeling, shape, texture and ache of your cock.

I pissed through my knickers so when you walk through the door I can stuff them into your mouth.

When he comes home, I do none of this. I sit at the top of the stairs in a t-shirt and nothing else. My knees are together, my feet are apart, so they frame the perfect view of my wet cunt when he comes in. He falls to his knees in the hallway, and whimpers.

Friday

Friday is date night: we go out to a burlesque show. Every time I see him misbehaving I make a neat, straight mark on a napkin in biro. Making eye contact with a corseted waitress: one mark. Staring too hard at the jiggling performance on stage: another. Spilling my wine when he reaches for the salt: five. By the time the show’s over he’s racked up twenty-three points. Not quite a record, but it will feel like one later, as I whip twenty-three stripes into the flesh of his arse while he pretends that he is in any way sorry.

On the train on the way home, I sit opposite him. I play with the necklace he gave me two years ago, and I know he can’t help but look at the way my tits are squeezed tightly by the fabric of my top. When the train leaves London, and we’ve reception, I text him:

You want to paint these tits with come, don’t you? 

You want to watch drops of your thick spunk dripping from my taut nipples? 

You want to squirt all over me then have your face rubbed into the mess, like a dog? 

He stares at me, gulps, and then nods. When we get home he undresses like his clothes are on fire, and curls up on the bed beside me. I grip his cock tight and beat it till he’s pleading for me to let him come.

He doesn’t get much sleep on Friday nights.

Saturday

Saturday’s a busy day for us – one of few in the week where we have time to take photos which will liven up our Instagram feeds. Make our Facebook friends jealous. We go walking in a nearby park, taking photos of flowers and trees and each other. In just the right light we glow with energy that looks quite a lot like love.

When no one is looking, I yank down my top and let him suck hard on one of my nipples. I whisper disgusting things into his ear until he’s hard, then bite the back of his neck to punish him for being indiscreet. He grins and turns away from me, adjusting the weight and ache of his dick, revelling in disobedience because freedom is on the horizon. He knows as well as I do that tomorrow is Sunday.

When we get home, I am suddenly consumed with Saturday-night urgency. I won’t get to play with his erection tomorrow, because relief is coming and it will all be over. I want to make the most of my authority while it lasts, so I strap him to the bed and order silence as I work him over: flogger, belt, cane. Until his body glows red and his grin lights up the whole room. Then I strap the dildo to his thigh again, and ease myself down onto it. Gripping his cock with one hand, I angle it towards my clit, so every time I grind it jolts against me. The head of his cock, slick with juice from my cunt, becomes just another accessory with which I can wank.

I grind on him, faster and faster, rubbing the head of his dick against my clit until I feel like I’m about to tip over. Until he fails to smother a strangled moan from the back of his throat that tells me he’s close.

That moan gives me all I need to come, so I do – gushing over the fake cock that’s strapped to his leg, drooling my own come over the soft skin on the inside of his thigh. His jaw clenches and his muscles tense, and I pinch his dick one more time and tell him “Good. Well done. You can sleep now.”

He fidgets his way into a restless sleep, while I scroll mindlessly through the updates on my phone. I read drunk updates and look at smug holiday snaps, bookmark articles and TV shows to keep me entertained throughout next week.

And I reminisce about all the things we’ve done, in this week when we have not been fucking.

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