Girl on the Net

What’s more satisfying – making someone laugh, or making them come? Don’t think too hard, just answer the question with your first instinct. Laugh or come? Which is more satisfying? I asked this question a while ago on Mastodon and the results were extremely close. Within a few percent of each other. I found this really surprising: I’d expected it to go a very specific way, with a dramatic win for one side. I’m not even like those people who tried to nitpick the poll by saying ‘why not both?’ (because the whole point of the question is that it’s an either/or, ya bellends, really obviously we’d all go for both if that were an option). Anyway. I expected the poll to go decisively one way, because to me there’s no contest whatsoever.

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We haven’t been able to fuck for three weeks, and I am hungry for him. Just fully obsessed with the idea of sitting on his dick.

It’s all I think about.

I am also going about my life, of course. Doing other bits and pieces of work like writing something for the lovely people over at FrolicMe, editing some incredible audio porn that I have lined up for the winter, or ordering a huge batch of smutty Christmas cards to send out to Patreon supporters (hint hint please give me your money if you’d like one). But if I’m honest, even while I’m doing these things, there’s a thudding rhythm at the back of my mind that reminds me of the pulse of his cock. It prompts me to idly daydream about how it will feel when I straddle him, position the head of it at the entrance to my cunt and just sit… down… slooooowly.

I think about him all the fucking time.

It’s excruciating.

Just absolute fucking agony.

When I wake up, the first thing I do is check my phone to see if he’s messaged me yet this morning. Sometimes to tell me what he won on the McDonald’s app or what he’s got planned for today. Better, if he’s WhatsApped drunk in the middle of the night to tell me I am hot or that he loves me.

I’m disgusting.

And so so horny for him.

Believe it or not, even his texts about the McDonald’s prize turn me on. Because he’s chosen to text me about the prize. Me. He wants me. He loves me. And that’s hot.

It’s hot that he loves me.

I don’t think I’ve ever found that specific thing horny before, but the fact that I do isn’t particularly weird when you consider the wider context: every single thing he does is hot. The way he walks, the way he smiles, the way he frowns a little at his phone while scrolling down it with (CAN’T BELIEVE I’VE NOT MENTIONED THIS YET) his beautiful beautiful hands (just stunning hands. So hot). The jokes he makes while we’re making out or drifting off to sleep. The way he talks, the way he smells, the perfect girth of his cock in my hand. Unngh. And it’s not just cool things that turn me on, but ridiculously mundane things too! I am aroused even by the way he puts his shoes on or makes scrambled egg (HOT). Probably bad things as well, to be honest: I fancy everything this man does. He could piss himself for fun in the middle of a Tesco Express and I’d still be like ‘unngh, TAKE me.’

I am sure I have felt this way about people in the past. I have, after all, been a teenager. And I definitely remember at the time being absolutely wracked with this urgent, agonising lust on a 24/7 basis. But still.

I’d forgotten how fucking painful it is.

And how fun.

How utterly, squirmingly joyful it feels to be trapped inside this full-body yearning for someone, unable to switch your brain to other things. Living your life in a haze of obsession – all angst and daydreams and wanking.

But unlike when I was a teenager, that yearning is reciprocated! I know this dude will actually fuck me at the end of the day! Or at the end of three weeks. In this moment, he may be Mad At Me or busy or unable to fuck for other reasons, but one day eventually – soon – this man will be mine.

Knowing that confers a powerful kind of freedom.

When I get my hands on you…

I knew that eventually circumstances would align, and when they did I’d be able to take my sweet sweet time doing whatever I liked. I didn’t have to shag him straight away, I could really luxuriate in it. Savour it. Over the course of many hours I could deliberately and carefully and urgently not fuck him. He’d still let me ride him whenever I chose, but I got to decide exactly how and when I would do it.

It was exquisite, this freedom. Delicious. All the denial up until that moment had been in the lap of the Gods. But now all that power came to me.

I decided initially that what I would like to do with it was tease him into a frenzy of horn and frustration to conjure in him the feeling I’d been writhing with for three weeks. Slow kisses. Gentle make-outs. Touching and caressing and nuzzling into his neck and telling him how good he smelt and everything. Straddling him on the sofa and frotting myself against his swelling erection through the fabric of both his jeans and my own – like we did on our second date.

So I did exactly that – kissed him and rubbed against him. Then at a certain point I pulled away, just far enough from his face that I could cup his chin in one hand and make eye contact, before asking:

“Do you want me to fuck you now?”

To which he replied:

“Yes.”

Obviously.

So I told him:

“I will. But not yet. Not for a long time. I’m not gonna fuck you for aaaages.”

He smiled at me in this slightly awkward way. He can sometimes be a bit shy and awkward (HOT), and this particular smile is a tricky one to read. I think it means he doesn’t understand what I’m doing, and he’s nervous that he won’t know how to join in with it correctly.

It’s OK though, he’ll get it soon.

I kiss him a bit more, tease him a little more too, and we move on to something else. Just chatting shit and messing around and revelling in the fact that we have the whole evening stretching out ahead in which to properly enjoy each other. And at some point later on I get him to the bedroom. Lying on his back on the bed, wrists spread because I’m pinning them there so I can grind against him. Occasionally letting him know that…

“I’m not gonna fuck you for aaaages.”

…and receiving that slightly awkward smile. Each one tinged with more arousal as it dawns on him that I might be drawing things out far more than I have in past fucks.

When he makes a silly joke, I accuse him of being a brat and we go back and forth a little on that (he doesn’t seem to understand what I mean by ‘brat’, which obviously I find outrageously hot as well), then I strap his wrists to the headboard so he’s pinned in place. Arms spread wide in that vulnerable way which suits every single man on the planet, but especially this man, with his shapely arms and delicate wrists and powerfully hot tattoos.

We’re still playing, so he’s making more jokes, and I’m responding and kissing him and being playful in return. Grinding against his erection, which by now is straining so hard to get fucked that I almost lose the will to deny him any longer.

But I’m strong. And I’m enjoying this power. So I say it again:

“Awww, do you think I’m going to fuck you? No. Remember?” Small pause, huge grin, eyes flashing with delight as I tell him one more time: “I’m not gonna fuck you for aaaages.”

And his face absolutely lights up as he finally gets what it is I’m in the process of doing. He turns his head to one side and laughs. Involuntarily, gleefully, beautifully. His shoulders shake a bit with it as he lets go. It’s not the same laugh he gives me when I say something funny (though I flatter myself that occasionally I do), it’s a laugh that releases tension. Marking a switch from awkwardness to genuine comfort. No longer nervous or worried that he has to perform, he now understands what I’m doing and knows he can just roll with it. Plus, of course, that laugh also means that he finds this denial idea fun.

The way he turned to the side and shook with laugher is hotter to me than the girth of his dick in my hand. Hotter than McDonald’s app texts or scrambled egg breakfasts or even the curve of his head.

In that moment, I don’t give one single flying fuck if he comes or not, or if I come either for that matter. Coming is the last thing on my mind. For the first time in three weeks of urgently lusting after his exquisite dick, suddenly all I want is to see him do that again. Laugh for me. Laugh because of me.

I want to make him laugh.

Making someone laugh, or making them come?

What is more satisfying – making someone laugh, or making them come? To me there’s no question whatsoever. I have come for men I’ve barely known and even for ones I’ve disliked. I’ve made men come through anger or sadness and as a casual ‘might as well’ gesture to round off a boring date. But laughter is a far more precious thing. Genuine, comfortable, let-the-fuck-go laughter from someone you love – that’s worth a hundred orgasms.

I don’t expect everyone to believe this like I do, but I feel it in my bones. There will be those of you who think that the face someone makes when they come wins hands down over a grin or a giggle, and I certainly won’t argue: this is something primal and personal so (as ever), to each their own. But for me, there’s no contest.

At one point earlier in the evening, I’d been testing out some dominant chat. I tried to prompt this man to say ‘please’ during casual conversation by raising my eyebrows and going ‘p-p-p-p…’. He made a face and told me not to infantilise him. An hour or so later, when I had him pinned to the sofa, another ‘p-p-p-p…’ caused him to make no such face. Instead he just obediently parroted ‘please’ in a voice that dripped with hope. That’s a level of sexy power I’ve not held over anyone in a while, and it delighted me. Yet when I had this – the ultimate fucky power – with him pinned to the bed and ready to do whatever I liked, what did I most want to do with it?

Make him laugh.

Making someone laugh is better. It just is. Laughter is one of the greatest things you can give. I adore what I do here, and am proud of making people come with my words and my stories, but fundamentally I prize laughter so much more.

Making someone laugh is better and more satisfying than simply making them come.

I should probably round out this blog post by telling you exactly how I fucked him, after he gave me that beautiful laugh. But remember what I explained earlier?

I’m not gonna fuck him for aaaages.

Part 2 – my Domme voice, The Socks, and the cloak of confidence – is up now.

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