Girl on the Net

This story is an addition to the ‘emotional fucks‘ series: jealousy fuck. With many thanks to the reader who suggested adding something like this to the pile! 

He’s never been a good dancer, she thinks bitchily. But then again, he’s never needed to be. When you’re a man it doesn’t matter how you dance, only that you do. That you aren’t just standing as close to the speakers as possible, nodding your head and shuffling your feet and spilling your beer on your trainers as the music thuds away.

What matters, for men, isn’t the ability to dance – just the fact that they’re showing willing.

When she’s in the club, she can’t get away with head-nodding and beer spilling. No trainers, either, come to think of it. She has to straighten her hair and paint on make-up and wear shoes that pinch so hard they make her feet throb and need to be slipped off in the taxi on the way home.

As they sit together in the cab he places a lazy, drunken arm around her shoulder and she fights the urge to shake it off. He whispers in her ear that “it doesn’t matter, babe. I was just dancing. There’s no big problem with dancing, is there?”

‘Dancing’ is a fancy word for what he was doing when she returned from the loo. Hands pawing at a stranger’s hips and stomach, hips grinding and swaying like it was the prelude to a fuck.

He’s right, it’s no big deal. It happens all the time. He shows willing, you see: will dance with women in a way that makes them feel special and important. Deep down, she believes every girl is like her: hankering after the attention of the boys at school discos, who’d stick resolutely to the wall and never ask her for a spin on the dancefloor. Not even when Robbie Williams came on.

When they get home, he pours himself another drink, and plays the same kind of music. The steady thumpthumpthump that was throbbing through the club.

“I prefer to dance with you,” he tells her, grabbing her wrist and twirling her round the kitchen. Dragging her closer so he can press his crotch against her arse and his wet lips to the back of her neck. All she can think of is the fact that she’s not the only one he’s danced with. He spent the night hopping from girl to girl – here a group of friends, there a hen night, over there a pair of giggling women who couldn’t be long out of college. And finally, the girl on her own. The one who didn’t appear to have friends – who was only there so she could sway her hips and bask in the flickering coloured lights, stretching her long limbs and grinning ecstatically at the thumpthumpthump of the music. Dancing with a man she didn’t know.

She knows that this feeling is jealousy. She knows it’s irrational. She knows it’s toxic and unnecessary and painful. That dwelling on the sight of him dancing with someone else will eat her up inside. But she also knows that he likes her jealousy, which is helpful because she can’t let go of it.

He grinds and sways in front of the glass doors looking out onto the garden, and in the reflection in the glass she sees that he is grinning.

“Have a good night?” she asks petulantly, to hammer home the fact that she did not.

“I did,” he replies, grabbing her hips and pulling her against him so she can feel the growing erection as it digs into the flesh of her arse. “Look who’s angry,” he adds, poking her teasingly in the ribs. “Look who’s jealous.”

They’ve had this conversation before. He rolls his eyes to play along, but he actually gets a kick out of her green-eyed strops. As one of the boys who’d always got turned down at school discos, he’s delighted to have grown into a man who can not only dance, but also make the woman he loves feel something other than indifference. Or scorn. Or disgust. He likes that she’s jealous because it shows him he’s worth something, so the more peevish she acts, the more he feels like he’s king of the whole fucking world.

But he doesn’t know how to articulate this, so instead he says:

“Stay angry.”

She turns to face him, plants one hand on each of his hips.

“How angry?” She asks, raising one eyebrow and seeking that flash of recognition that tells her he wants to play this game again. He may not be able to articulate the detail of this kink, but that doesn’t mean he can’t communicate at all. She knows that he likes her angry. Fighting with him like she owns him. Treating him like a naughty boy who needs correction when he strays.

Fucking him like he’s in trouble.

So she asks him ‘how angry?’ and when he tells her ‘very’, she spits.

Full force.

Into his face.

In the ensuing silence all they can hear is the thumpthumpthump of the music. He stands, vulnerable and chastised, with her saliva dripping down the left-hand side of his nose, from cheek to lips. As he sticks his tongue out to taste this token of her rage, she reaches forward to place one hand on his dick.

“Fuck. You.” She enunciates each word carefully – spitting out the c and k, making round, warm space in her mouth for the ‘you.’ Locking eyes with him, trying to push the rage out through her own gaze and bore holes into the back of his brain.

Her hand, on his dick, squeezes tight, until he lets out a mewl of pain. Maintaining her steady, tight hold, she asks him outright:

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

“I didn’t fucking think so.”

She uses both hands now, rummaging at his belt and with his flies, yanking down the fabric of his jeans and underwear until his cock bounces – thick and full and eager – into her hands. With one of them she tugs roughly at the shaft, the other clamps tight around his balls.

“This is what you want, isn’t it? You just want me to touch your dick. That’s all you ever fucking think about.”

He nods, not once but over and over. Staring at her hands as she squeezes and clenches and smacks at his reddening junk.

“You’re pathetic,” she continues, delivering a few gentle slaps to the meat of his dick, then a few more – harder – enough to make his cock twitch and his breath catch in his throat. “Did you do it on purpose, you fucking slut? Teasing me by practically fucking another woman in front of me?” She spits out the word ‘fucking’ the way she spat out ‘fuck you’, and in doing so reminds herself why the f-word is one of her favourites. Why fucking without talking holds no interest for her. She slaps his cock again and demands an answer:

“Did you want me to be angry?”

“Yes.”

“Then take your fucking punishment. Strip.”

As she takes a step back to lean against the kitchen countertop, she can practically feel the heat radiating from him as he flushes with shame and excitement. He takes off his clothes. First unbuttoning the shirt that still clings to him with club sweat, then dropping to his knees to fumble with his shoes and fully remove his jeans and underwear. She reaches for the crumpled mass of clothes as he discards them, and claims ownership of his belt.

“On your knees,” she tells him, gripping the buckle and wrapping some of the length around her hand, leaving just enough to create a short whip with which to beat him. Spreading her legs wide, she beckons him forward, enjoying the awkward way he shuffles, naked and on his knees, towards her. His cock throbs like it wants attention, but she won’t pay it any: not yet, at any rate.

“I want you to make me come with your mouth,” she orders him, using two fingers to hook her knickers to one side so he can bury his eager face in her hot, wet cunt. “The price you pay for making me jealous is that you have to make me come.”

There’s no need to explain, not really – he’s already nuzzling his face into her and lapping roughly at her clit, moderating his pressure to give her just the right shiver of joy. But she keeps explaining anyway: she loves to talk. Loves to tell him “Do it fucking harder” – that guttural ‘ck’ sound which makes her feel like she’s spitting with rage.

“Harder. Fucking harder,” she orders, pressing his head more forcefully between her legs. “And until you make me come, I’m going to beat you.”

She brings the leather belt down. Smack. One swift lash which trails a thick, hot line down his naked back. He twitches and whimpers, but keeps licking.

Smack. Another. Smack. And another. Whipping him and berating him for daring to dance with someone else. It feels good. It feels better because of the way he is responding – the harder she beats him, the harder he works with his tongue and lips to make her come. It’s like he needs her to be angry. And the angrier she makes herself, the more they both enjoy it.

So that’s it, she thinks: anger. I can be angry. And she lets loose with a torrent of rage – whipping him with her tongue as well as the belt.

“Show me how sorry you are. That’s it. The sorrier you are, the harder you’ll fucking work.”

Thwack.

“Bury your pathetic, slutty face in my cunt. Remember how hard you got when you were dancing with someone else? Say ‘sorry.’ What’s that? I can’t fucking hear you. Louder. Now suck my fucking clit. More. Harder.”

The harder she beats him, the deeper he buries his face in her. The harder his hands grip her buttocks and thighs. The more forcefully his shoulders twitch and shudder when she deals out lashes of the belt. She particularly enjoys it when he talks with his mouth full: mumbling muffled apologies and ‘forgive me’s through the warm flesh of her crotch.

“When I’ve come,” she tells him, trembling with the force of holding it back, “I’m going to take you upstairs and tie you down. Then I’m going to ride your fucking face until I’ve come again. I’m going to make you hold your breath while I suffocate you with my cunt. Until you whimper and claw at me and wriggle and beg me to stop. I’ll keep doing this…”

Thwack.

“… and doing this… over and over until your dick hurts so badly to be touched. Then when you’re hard enough to fuck me I will sit on you, and rub my clit while you watch, never ever letting you get close.”

She’s getting closer to coming as she speaks. Each image in her head – of her on top of him, suffocating him, punishing him – makes her feel more powerful. Tips her closer to the edge of orgasm. His muffled tirade of apology only brings her closer, and she pictures in her mind how it would be to make him beg for forgiveness while she rides him: babbling and breathless and deferential, begging over and over ‘please let me come’ as she rides herself to the first waves of her own.

Each time she wields the belt, that nudges her closer too – like a flint sparking, she knows it will only be a matter of time before the flame catches. She clamps her thighs round his head and pictures the way his face will look when she’s riding him: red and creased with the effort of holding back from coming inside her. Maybe she’ll spit in his face again. Maybe that’s what will tip him over the edge.

Thwack.

“You want me to be jealous?” Smack. “Want me angry?” Smack.

With one hand gripping a fistful of his hair and dragging his face into the crook of her trembling thighs, and the other raining down lash after lash with the belt, finally she shudders and starts to come.

“I’ll show you fucking angry.”

When her body has finished shuddering through the final waves, she pulls his head out from between her legs so she can get a good look at his expression. Earnest, pitiful, eager-to-please, he looks up at her with shining eyes and wet lips and chin.

“Open your mouth,” she orders him.

Then spits.

If you liked this you can read more of the emotional fucks series here. If you like sexy stories read aloud to you, some are available as audio porn too.