Girl on the Net

There are tonnes of things to mourn at the end of a relationship. Not least, in my case, a really awesome holiday I had planned for April this year. Lockdown put paid to that, but the ferry tickets still exist, and the rescheduled dates sit in my diary taunting me: a cycling trip with fondue and fucking and fun which will now likely never come to pass. There are infinite possible worlds in which we didn’t break up, or in which we broke up in far less painful ways, where some of this stuff might have occurred. But in this world, the one that exists for me, here are a few fucks that will never happen.

Note: the third story in this trilogy involves sex-while-asleep. It’s pre-negotiated and fully consensual, but I know some people aren’t into that, so this is just here to let you skip over it if you’d like to. 

DP with a fuckmachine

It was on our ‘to-do’ list – right near the top. DP with him and a robot. The awesome sex machine we got given fairly recently now sits gathering dust in the corner of my office, just waiting for an eager volunteer who’s willing to wield the dial. But it’s not exactly ‘first date’ material, is it? A fuck machine. You have to go a few rounds of hand jobs and suck jobs before you’re allowed to say ‘can you fuck me with a robot?’

I have no idea when this thing will next be used, but top of my list of fucks that will never happen is DP with the sex machine: him squatting over it while it ploughs my cunt, lubed-up dick nudging carefully into my ass. I’d need a lot of warm-up, for sure: butt plugs and lube syringes and dildos like we used to do on Anal Sundays before things went wrong. But the impossibility of achieving this now, when I’m back to square one, hangs in the air of my office like a creepy sex ghost. When I look at the machine, I remember the fucks we had planned, and my cunt aches with sadness that they will now never actually come to pass.

Rio’s

There’s a place in London where you can go to get naked in hot tubs with strangers. Obviously this is very much my thing. But we’d never done it together because over the years we’d known each other I’d grown shy. The spanking parties and school role play afternoons that I’d embraced in my early twenties felt like things I’d done to death, and the comfort of just staying home and getting banged over the edge of the sofa was far too much of a draw. So we never went to Rio’s, even though we’d probably have loved it.

As lockdown grew longer, and we started missing our friends and fun, I started fantasising about all the things I’d always felt I’d ‘get round to’ but never had. Hovering near the top of that list was ‘get naked in hot tubs with strangers.’

And sure, I could go to Rio’s on my own now, or with someone else. When the post-Covid world we’ve been promised finally rolls around, there’ll be plenty of opportunities that I’ll grasp with my naked, sweaty thighs. But the point of going to Rio’s wasn’t just about me, it was for him. He loved a hot tub, and he loved being naked, and I knew I’d get a glow of pride from showing him off to the people who’d be there. Acting nonchalant and cool on the outside, but glowing with excitement on the inside. Revelling in the joy of welcoming him into a world that used to be mine.

Midnight surprise fuck

As we were breaking up, in the beginning when things were calm and friendly, he made jokes about me using his cloned cock to crywank and told me snippets of tales from the wanks he’d had in the new place he was staying alone. It was hot. You don’t just immediately stop fancying someone just because you’ve broken up, so even knowing it was probably doing me harm, I drank down this information with a gleeful thirst: tell me about your jizz, tell me tell me tell me. 

Around that time, he also asked me if he could sometimes possibly text me for a fuck. If he could keep a key to the house, and let me know on a random evening that he’d be popping in at midnight to slip into bed, then fuck me with firm, slow strokes as I buried my head in the pillow to keep from crying out. That request hit me straight in the clit – thudding exciting, horny possibility right where the seam of my jeans presses satisfyingly into my crotch.

It reminded me of a fuck we’d had way back in the day, before we lived together or were even ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’: when he was away on holiday, and he’d left me with a key so I could let myself into his flat. I’d texted to tell him I’d be in his bed when he got home. Bleary-eyed off a 2 am flight, he’d tiptoed in through the door like I’d asked him to, making no noise so as to avoid waking me up. I, ready and prepped, was in bed wearing a slouchy t-shirt and no knickers.

Still asleep.

I’d given him strict instructions to try not to wake me up – not until he was inside me, at any rate. So when he climbed into bed, and pressed his erection into the warm, wet folds of my cunt, the moment I stirred he whispered ‘ssssh’ in my ear. I woke to the sound of him sssshing me, and the delicious sensation of his cock sliding in.

When we broke up, he asked me: how about I come round one night and slip into the house while you’re sleeping? I’ll text you beforehand so you know it’s gonna be me. I’ll fuck you awake. And I felt that kick-in-the-gut of lust, the same one I’d felt all those years ago, when I sent him the text and settled down to sleep, heart hammering and cunt throbbing, willing him to speed home from the airport.

This fuck will never happen now – it can’t – but that doesn’t stop me from imagining.

There are many many more of these in the back of my mind: experiences and fantasies and fucks that will never happen now. Not just new experiences, either, but extra opportunities to revel in fucks I once loved: using my favourite cock ring to get him taut and hard and shiny so I can sit on his cock; watching him wank in the shower; getting thoroughly fucked bent over the arm of the perfect-height-sofa-for-fucking.

I could be sad about it – and I have been – but I don’t tell you these things in order to wallow in that sadness. Because for each fuck that might have been there’ll be ten more that are possible. For each experience that fell by the wayside there were plenty of others that we did stop to explore, before it ended. The sex we didn’t have shines brightly in my mind, because in this moment the absence of it is raw and painful and all-powerful. But as time goes on, brand new experiences will bubble up, adding new memories that drown out the old ones.

The fucks that didn’t happen will mean less and less and less.

I think.

I hope.

I hope.