Girl on the Net

Sometimes I feel like part of my body still belongs to him.

Throughout my life I’ve been fucked in so many different ways: like I’m precious; like I’m trash; like they’re hungry and I’m the nearest hot meal… but only one or two men have ever fucked me like my flesh was theirs by right. Fucked me like they owned me. As if my body – my cunt, my thighs, my hands, my mouth, my heart – belonged to them exactly as much as their own. He was one of them.

He never demanded. Never compelled me to give more than I wanted to hand over, but he accepted what I gave with gratitude, and treated that gift with respect by making exceptional use of it.

Towards the end of our time together, in those bittersweet months after we’d broken up and were building new lives, he introduced me to the concept of ‘no wrong answers.’ There’s a scene in Rick and Morty where Morty is dreaming about one of his classmates – Jessica. At one point she lifts her top up to show him her boobs and tells him:

“Squeeze them. Manhandle them. Give them the business. See if you can shuffle them. I mean, really get in there and knock them around. No wrong answers.”

Around a month or two before the last time I saw this man, we were lying naked in the bed in his newly-single-person’s flat. A bed that he’d optimised for pristine, clean-sheet, cloud-soft comfort. I took one of his big hands and placed it on my right breast, turned my face towards his and whispered:

“Go on then: no wrong answers.”

That grin. I can still conjure it.

He touched me, then, with such radiant glee. Squeezing and nuzzling. Licking and kissing and pawing. Unlocking the bass part of his voice that resonated in his chest to moan as he got well and truly stuck in.

No wrong answers.

That man touched my tits like it was the first time he’d ever been allowed to play with any, even though he’d owned them – and me – for almost a whole decade.

He fucked me like he owned me

As I say, sometimes I still feel like part of my body belongs to him. It’s the part that wanders back to these memories during idle moments. When I’m ransacking my brain for porn because other things I could blog about seem too dark or serious. I don’t masturbate over my Big Ex very often these days – I reckon I’m down to between 2 and 5% (way to go me!) – but my mind does still linger on him, especially during times when I’m not being fucked by anyone else. It’s like a comfort blanket, almost. This visceral, powerful relic of the way we used to be.

I wonder if that’s at least in part because there’s something deeply physical about so many of my memories. My body still remembers how it felt to be pinned down by his full weight and fucked. The sensation of being folded in half and pounded till I couldn’t catch my breath. How warm it used to be, wrapped tight in his powerful arms.

The way he used to fuck me like he owned me: I don’t think that feeling of ‘being owned’ is an easy one to erase. It resonates, still, in occasional moments. The echo of his voice instructing me to move this way or that, to stand on tiptoes, to bend over the arm of the sofa. To ‘ssssh now, there’s a good girl.’

Sometimes he would fuck me like there truly were no wrong answers (and there weren’t).

“Point your toes”

One of the things I loved most was the way he’d issue instructions, just before he came. The way I would come – powerful and hard, my pulsing cunt clamping tight around his cock – would usually trigger him to get closer too. So as I rode out the waves of my own climax, I’d feel a corresponding tension in his muscles. An increase in speed. He’d push onwards with more vigour: fucking me deeper, faster, with greater intensity.

And sometimes during these moments, with my legs folded back against my body, ankles over his shoulders, he’d drop his full weight onto me – crushing me deliciously with the heat and sweat and power of all his precious atoms – and growl into my ear:

“Squeeze your fucking cunt for me.”

As I say, he never demanded my body. Never took what I wasn’t eager to give. But I was so eager for him to take my body and use it as his own that when he’d issue commands like this, I didn’t even need to engage my brain to decide whether to do what he told me. I just did it.

“Squeeze your cunt.”

Instinctively. Like a reflex.

I’d squeeze as he fucked me harder, and there’d be a corresponding throb in his dick as it responded to the taut force of my muscles as they gripped him firmly. I was proud of this – so proud. It was my favourite trick. Honed over years of us matching energy, learning signals, understanding exactly which details of any given fuck would help tip us over the edge.

That’s a thing you can do, when you have time. When you have a whole decade you can learn these cum-trigger details. Build the trust not just to use them yourself but to ask the other person to use theirs when you need. Ask and be confident that you will receive, because the other person’s body is – at least in part – yours too.

In that bittersweet period of time, on that cloud-soft bed that I’d come to see as a fuck-drenched home-from-home, he took my body one morning as if it were his by right. Folded me in half, plunged his thick cock inside, and growled into my ear as I squirmed with pleasure.

Panting, heavy strokes thrust deep inside me till I felt him bruise my cervix. Big hands grabbing and pawing at my tits because by that point he knew there were truly no wrong answers. The occasional gentle grip on my throat as he fucked nice and hard into the slick warmth of my eager cunt.

A “good girl”, emphasis on ‘good’, expressed through a grunt that triggered me to come.

With my legs over his shoulders, and his full body weight pinning me down to the bed, I rode out the pulses of climax and then kept them going, squeezing rhythmically like I could literally milk the spunk out of him (and I could).

But it was morning and we were hungover, and cum is harder to come by when you’re spent and shattered and tingling from lack of sleep. Especially when you’ve already dispensed it in ropes the night before. I didn’t expect him to get there – he wasn’t superhuman.

However. Remembering a conversation we’d had a few weeks previously – about high heels making my cunt tighter, and standing up on tiptoes providing the same effect – this time he whispered something different into my ear.

As he shoved himself vigorously inside me, his hands gripping my arse and my ankles thrown over his shoulders so the weight of his chest pressed my legs down to fold me more neatly, he moaned that I was a good fucking girl, and he wanted me to do one more thing for him now…

“Point your toes.”

The rush – I can still conjure it. Of knowing instinctively and immediately that this would work, of realising that my body had done it even before he’d finished forming that final word ‘toes’, and of understanding his rock-solid faith that my body was his to command…

I came again, myself, with pointed toes. As he shot the whole of his hard-earned load inside me.

Inside the body that he owned, without ever needing to demand it.