Girl on the Net

I am fuckdrunk yet again. My legs are limp and my muscles weak and my throat is parched and all I can feel is the throbbing satisfaction in my cunt. For a split second I wonder if I’m making poor decisions, then I realise that fuckdrunk me could not possibly care less. Thinking straight is not as fun as being high on dick.

I’m fuckdrunk when I ride him on the sofa – one foot planted on the floor for leverage, hands pinching tightly at his nipples, eyes wide open, all the better to see the flash of panic that comes over his face when he tells me: stop. Hold still. I don’t want to come yet. 

I’m fuckdrunk with my head on my arms on the kitchen counter, turned to one side so I can better watch him slamming his dick inside me.

In the haze I formulate a vague wish that I could pull out some better sex moves than just this babbling, eye-rolling, greedy-for-dick tipsiness. Crafted skillsets that I could roll out to impress him. A fucking repertoire. But I definitely do have a repertoire, when I’m thinking straight. It flutters in the back of my mind – flashframe ideas that I’ve been dreaming about in the bath, or old tricks I like to reuse time and again because they usually summon the sexy noises.

I’m just too fuckdrunk to remember them.

So all I can think to do is say yes, more, fuck, that’s it. Get your fucking cock inside me. Please please pleasepleaseplease.

There’s one type of fuckdrunk that comes afterwards. When I’ve been kicked into an orgasm so forceful and intense that I’m rolling on it for over a minute – gritting my teeth and moaning please don’t fucking stop, keep going, keep going, keep going. On that plateau, just before the waves crash, at the exact moment every nerve ending thrums and thuds. That kind of fuckdrunk is a post-shag giddiness, like too much whiskey or the first rush of blowback high. Fuckdrunk and lolling, mind blank and body limp.

Then there’s the other kind – in the moment. Where you’re crammed with dick and chasing more and you’re still desperately searching for something. Your release, their release, any kind of release. Like the way you get when it’s 2am and drinking just one more even though you know it’s time to stop.

I’m still the first kind of fuckdrunk when we shag for the fourth or fifth time. I can’t remember how many – it doesn’t matter. Maybe today isn’t lots of separate fucks, but one long drawn-out one that goes for 12 hours from when I arrive mid-afternoon, with short breaks in between for drinks and chatting and planning the next thing.

I really want you to make me… I’d love to watch you do… Do you have…?

And he does make me, and I do get to watch him, and he does have that thing but we forget to actually use it.

By the time we collapse onto the bed, I am too high on dick to make decisions. I’m all nerve endings and tingling nipples and twitching cunt and desperation. And all I can think to do is reach my hands back, spread myself open and tell him please.

Pleasepleaseplease.

He tells me to beg for his cum and I am too fuckdrunk to know what I’m saying, so I just spit out words – any words. I babble at him: please give me your cum, please please just fucking dump your spunk into me, oh God fuck I want to feel your dick pumping spunk nice and deep into the back of my cunt.

More harder more harder fuck yeah please just give me your fucking cum pour it into me fuck yeah do it yeah fuck pleasepleaseplease.

But on this occasion, the babbling and begging and keening gives way to a migraine: that flashing, sparkly crescent dancing on the edge of my vision. I am high on dick, but not so high that I don’t notice danger. It’s absurdly, perfectly, ridiculously apt: my punishment. My penance. The fuck-greedy hangover I so richly deserve. So I take some pills, climb into bed instead of lying spreadeagled on top of it, then roll over and pray that I’ll fall asleep before the hammering starts in my brain.

And I try not to think about how fuckdrunk I’ll be when we finally get to finish this tomorrow.