Girl on the Net

He puts my hand up against his crotch, tells me ‘press here – not too hard’ and twitches his pelvic floor. His muscles flutter at my fingertips and in the palm of my hand, his dick jumps. Throbs. I press my hand tightly against him and stare. Openly. Impolitely. Greedily. I look down his body, see my own hand cupping his cock, and feel the pulsing throb as he works those muscles.

‘Tell me,’ I ask him, ‘what it feels like to come. How do these muscles play into it?’ And he does. He explains in really glorious detail – about what those muscles do, how it feels, what the cum-twitches are like, and how satisfying it is to spit spunk when you’re achingly desperate. This leads us neatly into a conversation about how utterly hot the pair of us are for cum. Splattered onto someone, dumped into someone, shared around.

Later that evening, I’ll marshal my thoughts and my words and pour out a torrent of gratitude: for the chat, for the fucking, for the astonishingly good time he’s turned up and dumped in my lap. I can’t quite believe that it’s this easy to be open and free with someone you haven’t spoken to for years. Even for someone as horny as I am, ‘tell me all about your dick’ is usually more of a third date kind of question. But each question I’ve asked him so far has been welcomed reverently, sexily, so it gives me the confidence to indulge my curiosity for more. From ‘what do you consider to be the weirdest thing you’ve done?’ to ‘can you talk me through what’s hot about this specific shot in the porn scene?’

He takes these questions and dishes out answers which punch me in the cunt with lust, and which never make me feel pervy for asking in the first place. Then he turns to questions of his own: ‘have you ever considered live-blogging a fuck?’ ‘why does that particular angle feel so brutal?’ and ‘how far have you got in your gang bang planning?’

I grin and squirm, relishing the opportunity to answer in drooling, junk-twitching detail. Through this back-and-forth of conversation, we hit upon rich seams of mutual kink to plunder in future chats: giving head as service, being used, the concept of sharing. And later I’ll try to explain just how much I get off on these discussions. How they themselves are part of a fuck: a vital, powerful part. I cannot separate the talking from the fucking: the filthy words that come out of his mouth and the relentless, mesmerising twitches of his dick.

But for now I just touch him as he flexes those muscles, and we talk about cum. Thick, sticky, choking shots of it. Thudding onto or into someone, squirting hard and fast. Wet, copious, delicious, satisfying.

My hand is still on his crotch, with my fingers pressed against that muscle on his inner thigh. I squeeze and feel his cock growing hard through the fabric of his pants.

We keep talking. About cum. How hot it is, how slutty it feels to get covered in it. How desperate I am to have his in my mouth.

He continues to twitch those muscles, jerking his dick against the palm of my hand. Once. Twice. Again.

I focus on what he’s saying about cum and those tiny movements start to feel intense.

Mesmerising.

So thoroughly capable of absorbing all my focus that by the time he leans over with a wicked grin to kiss me, I swear my cunt throbs right along with him.