Girl on the Net

[Ages ago I did a tweet that included a silly joke about wanting to bundle men up in a blanket and give them a hand job and a stern talking-to. Someone messaged me to say there might be some smut in that, so I had a go at writing some. I don’t know how good it is, just that I had fun writing it. It hinges on eroticisation of sexual shame (specifically masturbation shame), so please note I don’t actually think it is shameful to masturbate, obviously: wanking is one of my favourite hobbies. But shame is fun to kink, so that’s what I’m doing here.]

You promised you wouldn’t come while you were away. I was looking forward to all the spunk built up during my seven day absence – that thick, powerful brand of cum that thuds from your dick after a long period of denial and frustration. You promised me you wouldn’t come. And yet the second my flight had landed, I received a text from you letting me know that you failed.

In order for this to work, I need you to be genuinely ashamed of what you’ve done. Awash with that heady blend of guilt and contrition. For this to work how it works in my head – in a way that makes my cunt throb with the need to pin you down and sit on it – I want you to be truly devastated that you didn’t manage to complete this simple task.

How could you have let this happen?

Maybe you’ve been edging yourself every day. Once, twice, three times on some days, when I send you little texts anticipating how much cum you’ll have for me to harvest on my return. And perhaps one day you pushed it just that little bit too far: one too many strokes of your fist on your thrumming cock. A squeeze just a little too tight around the ridge of the head on that final one, then as you release it realising – fuck, oh fuck – you’re going to come. Scrambling to catch the mess, the first waves of embarrassment start to hit you. Five or six days’ worth of stored-up spunk thumps from the end of your dick and you pull your t-shirt out to catch them, each sticky rope that shoots up your chest feels more disgusting for the fact that you know you have failed me.

You briefly consider not letting me know, then dismiss it. I would definitely be able to tell: I know what seven days’ worth of spunk looks like. Not just for the volume and the thickness and the power with which you fire it out, but from all the peripherals too. I know what seven days of abstinence looks like in the rigidity of your erection when I grip it in my fist. Even if we don’t take into account your boner: I can see it in your fucking eyes.

The desperation. The urgency. The need.

You fucked up, though, so there’s no need in your eyes. We’ll have to kink the other expression that darkens your face instead: shame.

The second I walk in the door, I let you know that you’ve disappointed me. Dispensing with smiles and greetings and hugs, I throw my suitcase to the side in the hallway and grip your cock through your jeans with one hand. I bring my face up close to yours, turning aside to dodge your lips which ache so much for a gentle kiss, and instead whisper in your ear:

“I got your text. You came when I told you not to.”

Gripping your cock and balls through your jeans in one hand and squeezing gently, I add:

“I am so disappointed in you.”

You whimper. I like that. So I squeeze again before issuing instructions.

“Go upstairs, take off your clothes, and think about what you’ve done.”

I pour myself a glass of wine while you do that, taking my time. Picking the best glass from the cupboard, selecting the least crap of the supermarket wine I have in the fridge. Pouring it carefully, taking a sip, adding mineral water for spritz. I sit on the sofa and take off my shoes while I drink the rest of it, revelling in the knowledge that you’re waiting upstairs for me, stewing in your own sense of failure.

When I get up there, you’re lying on the bed curled up in the foetal position. Everything about your body language screams ‘misery’, and I like that. In lieu of spunk, I’m going to milk you of your shame.

I climb onto the bed and cuddle up behind you. I’m fully clothed and you’re naked, and that’s exactly how it’s going to stay. I’m still wearing the clothes that I travel in, so when I wrap you in my body everything is warm and soft. Comforting. I snake one around beneath you so your head is resting on my upper arm, and wrap my other arm around you lower down. Squeezing your stomach and pulling you tighter into me. You’re the little spoon to my big spoon, and the cosiness of it makes you want to snuggle deeper in. You wriggle your bum against me, and I grip you nice and tight.

The more succour I can offer you in this moment, the harder it’ll hit when I press my lips against your ear and tell you:

“You’re fucking disgusting, and you should be ashamed.”

Insert whimpers wherever you like: in this fantasy I pepper it liberally with your moans and squeaks. Audible proof that you’re squirming on the inside, even as your outside cowers and trembles. My left arm, on which your head rests, is angled so I can easily pinch at your nipples, so I do that. Tell you:

“I want you to fully understand just how disappointed I am.” …then reach down and cup your balls in my right. Keeping my tone light, conversational, gentle almost, I start to berate you.

“I gave you a really simple task, didn’t I? I told you not to come. I expected you to do this one thing for me, but you couldn’t, could you?”

You reply. ‘No’ or maybe ‘no, miss.’ The doe-eyed, long-limbed, tremblingly subby man I’m thinking of when I picture the scene in my head would have called me ‘miss’. I get a kick out of it, though not as much of a kick as he used to out of wallowing in this kind of indignity.

“I know why you failed, of course. It’s because you’re a fucking pervert. You know that?”

Yes, miss.

“You couldn’t resist touching yourself.”

No, miss.

I can feel a shift in the weight of your cock against my hand as it stiffens and grows. I take it firmly and squeeze at the base, measuring how hard you’re getting as I tell you off.

“I’ll tell you what I think happened. I think you were watching one of those grubby little videos that you pull up on your phone when I’m not there. Dick in one hand, phone in the other, skipping through to get to the good bits because you can’t conjure the stories in your head the way I can. You need those videos to give you inspiration, isn’t that right?”

Insert your own ‘yeses’ from here, I’m on a roll. Gripping you tighter and stroking firmly and slowly, I tell you what I imagine you were doing. The scene I picture. You, lying naked in bed – sweaty, flustered, with a morning erection that’s so thick and hard and taut it’s crying out to be touched. Ignoring the explicit instructions I’d given you not to touch yourself, you – pathetic, weak, incapable of self-restraint – fired up one of your go-to scenes on your phone. Assuring yourself you just wanted to play, you wouldn’t come. Ignoring that teasing little voice in the back of your head that reminded you of just how weak you usually are.

“I’m so very disappointed that you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself,” I explain, rubbing harder at your cock while you cringe with embarrassment.

Perhaps I’ll make you tell me exactly what you were watching – does that sound like it might be a good punishment? Force you to explain in detail what happened in the scene. Who put what where, and which noises they made. Tell me: at what point did you come? Did you come when you watched her riding his dick, squealing in eagerness as she bounced up and down on it? Did you skip ahead during the part where he ate her out, seeking instead the part where she choked down his thick cock, drooling heavily from the sides of her mouth? Tell me. In your own words. I want you to give me a thorough run-down of everything that happened in that video.

I bring my right hand up to my mouth, spit on the tips of my fingers. Run those fingers oh-so-delicately around the head of your now-straining prick while you stutter and mumble your way through the ‘plot’ of the scene you were watching. You remember it, of course, you fucking pervert. You pathetic, horny little mess.

I want you to tell me the best part. Tell me the part that made you come. Explain exactly what caused you to disappoint me.

I start to beat harder at your dick, like the act of doing so is punishment. I know you’re enjoying the sensation but I also know that the physical feeling of having your cock wrung out is confused by the indignity of having to keep talking while I do it. Being made to tell me in detail exactly what happened to nudge you into the zone where you no longer cared about obeying me. The way you whimper and stammer your way through the account, stumbling over words like ‘tits’ and ‘cunt’ and ‘cum shot’ because saying them aloud is utterly mortifying.

With my lips against your ear I whisper both encouragement and disdain.

“That’s it, tell me every detail you sick little fuck. Tell me which parts made your cock twitch. I can feel it twitching right now in my hand. You want more? You want to come? Tell me what made you come. What caused you to fail me.”

That’s what I’m after, really. In the absence of your spunk, I’ll milk your shame. I’ll hold on to your dick and grip it as tightly as I can – hard enough that you couldn’t come like this, even with me beating it as fast as I can manage. It isn’t just for pleasure, it almost hurts like this. The way it’d hurt if I slapped you in the face five seconds before climax. And even as I’m doing it, I know you’re thinking back to the time, a couple of days ago, when you held your dick in your own hand and took things too far.

“Remember exactly how it felt when you ruined things like that. I want you to look down – look down, now – at your cock in my hand, and picture how it looked when you held your own. Feel the rush of shame you felt back then, when you gave yourself one too many strokes and it started to pump sticky, messy jizz all over your hand. Or maybe all over the bedsheets.”

A moan. A whimper. Maybe you bite your lip. You’re definitely eager to come again now, fucking forward into my tight-gripped fist while I call you a dirty boy.

“You’re expecting me to stop you before you come, aren’t you?”

Another squeak, perhaps a vigorous nod or a shake of the head. Some noise or gesture or – ideally both – that makes it clear to me how desperate you are for some sort of closure.

“You want to come now? I know, I know.” Gentle, still. All this time my tone is gentle. I’m not the kind of domme who barks orders, I prefer to sound nurturing – all the better to tease those deliciously humiliating emotions from inside your head and your heart. “You want to come because you think it will make you feel better. If you give me some spunk, after all, then perhaps I won’t be quite so disappointed in you for fucking up the first time. Isn’t that right? You want to come because you want to feel better. And after you’ve shot your mess all over the bed and my hand, you want me to hold you and gentle you and tell you everything’s OK.

“The end isn’t just about release. This time it’s also consolation. Absolution. As the first squirts of your cum thump from the end of your cock, you think they’ll help to wash away your sins. To ease my disappointment. To make it so you aren’t in so much trouble.

“But sweetheart, you’re still in trouble. You’ll be in trouble until you give me what I want: seven days of come. You’ve only got two day’s worth for me now.”

There’s a moment here (at least, I hope there’s a moment – that’s what I’m aiming for) where you don’t understand what I mean by that, and you continue to fuck forwards into my fist, desperately urging me to let you come anyway. I want you to really feel that pull towards getting the spunk drained out of you. Want it so urgently that it takes you a few moments to compute that if you come right now you’re back to square one. In trouble for the next seven days till you’ve built up enough that I’ll be satisfied later. I need you to understand that coming now isn’t a good thing, but a punishment.

Being a good boy now and holding off that orgasm means you only have to wait five days until you can fuck me again. But if you come now? In my fist? Letting a mere two-days worth of spunk dribble out and all over my hand and the bedsheets? You’re back to square one: seven days. And for each and every one of those days I will lie behind you on the bed like this, holding you tightly and whispering in your ear about just how pathetic you’ve been. How disappointed I am and how much you have to make up to me.

Feel it. Understand it. Register it. Because the moment I am sure you understand the plan, that’s when I will tip you over. Sighing:

“OK then, let’s see how much you’ve got for me,” as I beat a little harder and squeeze tighter.

“Show me your cum,” I order, before whispering “pathetic…” as you tremble in my arms, croaking anguished moans from the back of your throat before letting go a weak two-day dribble all over my fist. Shuddering like you’re sobbing. Coming like each shot of spunk is being dragged out against your better judgment.

Wiping the remnants on the top of your thigh, I give you a peck on the cheek. Tell you to clean yourself up, then put your dick away. I don’t want to see it for at least seven days.