Girl on the Net

We used to do this thing, back in my old flat, where he’d lube his dick up and slide it between the cheeks of my arse. Just… thrusting back and forth, where my bum meets the top of my thighs. I love the way it feels, and the sense that he’s so horny he’ll fuck anything to relieve the ache in his dick. Sometimes he’d slip his dick forward and up a bit so it was tight between my labia. Almost-but-not-quite entering my cunt. Often this made me so wet we didn’t need to replenish the lube, and he’d fuck my ass with the stuff left over from before, plus all the quim I’d drizzled out onto him. But we never tried it like this before: me on my front, one hand reaching down between my legs to press the head of his cock tighter against my clit, until I felt him come with my fingertips.

It’s late and we’re both tired, my ex and I. We’ve spent a busy day shifting boxes and hauling trash to the dump. One of the last few days we’ll have an excuse to see each other before the house is sold, ways are parted, and each of us can go carve our own path. We never have to speak to each other again after that. No obligations, no ties. No excuses.

When we turn in for the night, in the bed we chose together, on which we’ve fucked so many times before, he asks me to pass him the lube.

His cock slides so neatly in between my thighs – slick and hard and like everything I’m missing. He wraps his arms around me and I feel tiny by comparison. I push back against him, get into a rhythm. Slide back, slide forward. Pressing my soft bum up against him, feeling him press back, jamming his dick further into the wet slit at the top of my thighs.

I ache for him to fuck me.

Sometimes when you’re desperate to get fucked, only not getting fucked will do the trick. That’s always been the best part of this kind of sex. Not how much pleasure I get from the friction and back-and-forth, but the anticipation. The need.

I roll over onto my stomach and he rolls on top of me – keeps his dick right there, jammed against me. Thrusting back and forward and moaning like this might almost get him fully and completely off. He’s agonisingly close to my clit, and I can’t resist putting a hand down between my legs to alter his angle slightly. Just a little bit, a tiny bit further and harder and the wet head of his cock will be rubbing right up against it. I want to feel it grinding slickly against me. Want the thrill of each thrust to zing up my spine and into my sleepy brain.

So I reach down, with one hand, and do it: use fingertips to press the moist head of his cock into just the right spot. It rubs against the left-hand side of my clit, and I let out a big, satisfied sigh.

He speeds up.

That was unexpected.

Turns out the pressure I’m putting on the head of his cock is doing just the trick to nudge him closer to coming. He’s never come like this before, not from non-penetrative frotting. Back in the old days when we did it a lot, we’d usually switch to fucking partway through. Or he’d beat one out with one hand while gripping my tits with the other, and I’d squirm in frustrated delight when I felt the first hot squirts of his spunk land right in the crack of my ass.

Not today, though. Today he can come. He tells me as much. Says ‘I think I can come like this’ and picks up speed.

I press harder against his dick. Making sure, of course, to angle my fingers so the nails are pointing away from him. His cock rubs against the soft pads on my fingertips, and it’s wet with lube and smooth and hard and glorious. He moans as he plunges down and along, and each time he nudges my clit I let out a little moan too. Faster and faster, until I can sense he’s close.

I felt him come with my fingertips

A long time ago, when testing out wank sheaths, we had a conversation about the sensitivity resolution on different parts of the body: could he feel the exact texture of this masturbation sheath as opposed to that one? Could I feel each ridge and bump of a textured dildo? Not really – not specifically. While a decent wank-sheath texture can make all the difference, and ribbed condoms genuinely do increase my pleasure, neither of us had genitals capable of feeling and understanding textural detail like fingertips could.

Which brings me neatly onto the climax. At the moment just before he comes, I realise the treat I have in store – how I’ll be able to feel each twitch and throb as his dick pumps out spunk. How I can change the angle ever-so-slightly after the first squirt and feel the jizz literally squirting directly onto my skin. Like putting a thumb over the top of a champagne bottle, making sure it sprays everywhere.

I felt him come with my fingertips.

It comes out thick and hot and copious. The sheer volume of cum feels far more dramatic than it does when it’s pumped inside me, or even splattered on my tits and face. Channelled neatly down the slit of my vulva to my fingertips, I feel every. Single. Squirt.

It pumps out hard and fast, and as he comes and keeps coming I realise I’ll never manage to catch it all – it continues to splatter, more and more, all over my cunt and the tops of my thighs. It pours out of his cock, into my waiting hand, then spills over and over and over to wet the sheets.

We used to do this thing, back in my old flat, where he’d lube his dick up and slide it between the cheeks of my arse. And then today – too late – we found a new way to do it. I was so proud of us, in that moment: even after ten years to try all the possible things, we were still capable of discovering something new.

“I can come like this”

When he told me ‘I think I can come like this’, I was elated. As if finding new ways to fuck would somehow magically fix things between the two of us.

The next day I remember that my ex ex said much the same thing – on the day we fucked for what turned out to be the very last time. We were shagging on the too-soft bed in the place he’d rented after we split up: me on my stomach face-down, him inside my cunt. He had two fingers in my ass, pressing down – rubbing the meat of his cock through the wall of flesh that separates it from my cunt.

A similar line, delivered with identical delight: I can come like this. Just like this. 

And he could. He did. It was hot.

It didn’t save us.

Fucking is great, but it will not save you.