Girl on the Net

I’m a big fan of build-up and anticipation. This period of time just before Christmas is often more fun than Christmas itself for me, because while it exists only in my mind it can pretty much always be perfect. The coolest Christmas presents look brilliant under the tree when they’re wrapped, but in the afterglow of the opening frenzy there’s always the worry that the amazing thing you picked out to give your special someone will end up disappointing them. Without the shiny paper it’ll be mundane and obvious. Potentially even embarrassing. The same is true of sex fantasies.

Having spent many years dreaming of forced orgasms, then a few happy hours building a custom mount for a Fleshlight Launch to help me achieve the exact dynamic that I wanted, when the time actually came to turn my thoughts into action, I was more than a little bit nervous.

My first attempt was a wash-out. I’d gathered a collection of sex toys and restraints in the living room, and scrambled around to set things up exactly how I wanted. In my head I’d pictured my willing guy sitting on the edge of the sofa, with a small coffee table in front of him onto which I could put the Fleshlight Launch and custom mount that I’d made. I would blindfold him, cuff his ankles to the legs of the table and his hands behind his back, effectively strapping him in place so there was nothing he could do but submit his cock to the relentless back-and-forth stroking of the machine.

But even I – a wildly horny sex blogger – sometimes get stage fright. And I’m especially prone to it when my fantasy is something dominant, because dominance is not my natural state. The joy of being submissive is that you can give up control to someone else: they’re the one taking the risks and directing the fantasy. You rarely have to put yourself out there and say ‘hey, there’s a thing I’d like to do and I know it’s a little unusual but would you be game…?’

So I got nervous.

Even though this dude had told me he was up for it. Even though his face had lit up when I’d asked if I could milk him. And even though he’d been keeping a close and enthusiastic eye on the weird thing I’d been building for exactly this purpose.

Once I’d laid everything out exactly as I wanted it, he came into the room, said:

‘Where do you want me?’

And I burst into tears.

What can I say? Girl on the Net might seem pretty badass, but the real woman whose life she’s usurped is an oddly emotional twat, and sometimes she just can’t make it work.

So he took me by the hand, led me upstairs, and held me while I had an anxious panic and a quick weep, and we resolved to try again another day.

Spunk-milking: Take 2

There are two reasons I faltered, I think. Firstly because he hadn’t quite got to grips with the fantasy. I’d explained to him that I liked the idea of using a spunk-milking machine to bring him to orgasm, but I hadn’t quite managed to elucidate why. That what I needed to see was him sitting helpless and out of control, biting his lip and moaning as something mechanical and impersonal dragged an orgasm out of him. Secondly, he was simply too keen to make me happy. He wasn’t horny specifically, he just wanted to understand what it was that I would get out of this. He wasn’t being controlled by a dominant badass, he was trying to help a friend out with an experiment. Kind though it was, it felt like he was humouring me. And that didn’t quite gel with the idea of forcing an orgasm out of him while he squirmed and tried to resist.

It wasn’t that I wanted to see him in pain, exactly. I just wanted him to come without really trying to. The key word, really, was ‘involuntary’, and it’s hard to get that atmosphere when someone is offering you their dick with all the kindness of a neighbour lending you a cup of sugar.

That’s quite a lot to explain to someone when you’re used to being the submissive one, who just revels in doing what she’s told (or ‘being a lazy fuck’ as my other half would have it). But it’s easier for me to write things down sometimes than to say them out loud, so I wrote this forced orgasm blog post, told this dude to have a look when he was ready, and waited for a sexy moment to try again.

The moment came one night after a few pints in the pub, when he was looking more casually sexy than any human being has the right to be. He was wearing a tight(ish) T-shirt, baggy jeans, a watch, and was staring at his phone with a frown of intense concentration. When he’s looking this awesome, it’s almost impossible for me not to want to do things to his cock.

“Fancy a blow job?” I asked.

“Always.” He unzipped, leaned back on the sofa, and pulled his dick out as I knelt down and got ready to suck him hard. He leaned back and put his hands behind his head, occasionally making eye contact as I looked up at him, working to get his dick as wet as I possibly could. He nudged his foot between my legs so I could grind my clit against him through my jeans, and as his cock got harder he let out one or two moans at the back of his throat.

“Good girl,” he said, putting me back in that submissive frame of mind that’s always a little easier for me. Then he grabbed my hair and pulled my head up so I could kiss him – the taste of his dick and my saliva mingled on his tongue, and he whispered “Take off your jeans and sit on the sofa – I want to eat your cunt.”

So I did.

Spread wide open for him, with my hands resting on the back of his head, I closed my eyes and let him go to work on me as I’d been doing to him. He touched himself as he licked and sucked at my clit, all the while rubbing his solid, wet dick with short, quick strokes.

And that was when I realised how I needed to do this thing. If I wanted him to show me the kind of desperate, lip-biting lust that would make the fantasy work, I needed to edit what I’d originally intended to do.

In my original fantasy I wasn’t fully present. I would hook him up to the dick-milking machine then sit back and watch from a distance, frigging myself as he was brought closer to an involuntary climax. But it’s going to be hard for him to climax at all if there’s no warm up other than “I built a thing – can I use it on your dick?”

Long time readers will be aware of how bad I am at foreplay, and I think that was the trap I’d fallen into. For me, lovingly crafting a mount for the Fleshlight Launch counted as foreplay, but for him… well, he needed a little something extra. Like five minutes with his face buried in my cunt while he rubbed at his cock and anticipated what I was going to do to him next.

When he was warmed up, and had achieved that perfect granite-hard erection that was so central to the fantasy itself, I made him sit naked on the sofa and open his legs wide, holding his cock straight out in front of him.

I put the Fleshlight Launch and the mount on the table, lubed him up until his dick was so wet he couldn’t help but slide inside, then I took off all my clothes and sat on the sofa behind him, wrapping my arms around his chest and my legs around his thighs to keep him firmly in place. He could open his eyes and move his hands, but he couldn’t move back away from the Launch, or wriggle his dick out of it. He was trapped tightly against it, ready for it to work its magic.

When I turned it on, he let out an “oh fuck” of surprise. He’s tried any number of cool sex toys for me, including vibrating masturbators like the Tenga EV and oscillating wonders like the PULSE. But he’s never been held still while his dick is stroked by a robotic machine.

Sitting behind him, I could see things as he saw them: the black casing of the Launch pressed up tight against his groin, and the end of the Fleshlight moving in and out as it rubbed back and forth along the length of him. I could lean forward and adjust the settings – one press for longer strokes, another for quick ones. Even better: I could pinch his nipples, bite his neck, press my naked tits against his back, and whisper in his ear that he was a fucking good boy.

And he was. He was incredibly well behaved, doing exactly what I needed him to do which was stay still and let my spunk-milking machine do its job. Moaning occasionally to let me know that he was getting closer to the edge, and whimpering slightly if I changed the settings to slow down the pace and keep him from coming.

Was it everything I’d anticipated? The spunk-milking fantasy of my dreams? No. Because nothing ever is. But this was better in many ways: it included him in a way that my individual fantasy hadn’t. His quirks and kinks, and the things he loved, like feeling my naked flesh sliding against his back, or my fingernails digging hard into his nipples. Hearing and feeling me rubbing at my clit so I could come to the smoking-hot scene of watching his spunk get milked by a robot.

In my fantasy I’d imagined a guy moaning in agony as he got close-but-not-quite-close-enough to orgasm… but in reality, I was too desperate to watch him orgasm to try and hold off the inevitable. I turned up the machine, leaned round to suck hard on one of his nipples, and listened to his guttural moan as he gushed deep and hard into the Fleshlight.

I watched the base of his cock twitching over and over as he pumped spunk into it. And I let it run for an extra minute, sitting tight up against him, to draw out the pleasure and turn it into a shiver of ecstatic pain. I could watch him like that forever: being pleasured and tortured by a machine designed to rip orgasms out of him whether he was ready or not.

The fantasy was all about that moment. But the reality was made better by combining what I wanted with what I knew he loved – tweaking and editing my fantasies until they made him hard and desperate to come along with me.

Sometimes, when you open your presents on Christmas morning, there’s a twinge of disappointment as the shiny paper reveals something less fun than you were expecting. But this fantasy was different in a better way. Like receiving an amazing gift you never even realised you’d wanted.

My gifts were his face when he came. His startled post-fuck analysis during which he told me “that was definitely involuntary. Robotic, impersonal, weird and super-hot.” And above all his praise for the fact that I’d go to such lengths to fulfil this.

“You made a spunk-milking thing, and you used it on me. I didn’t even think that would be hot until you did it.”

And it’s weird, I know. But exactly the kind of weird that drives me to do this shit in the first place.