Girl on the Net

At one point, mid-fuck, with his wet fingers circling my clit, the man who knows how to fuck me growls something into my ear. I can’t remember the exact words and I hate myself for that, not least because I’m sure if I could conjure them precisely, that particular sentence would make for some truly epic wanks. Forgive me for paraphrasing, I’d fallen deeply into a fuckdrunk haze, but it was something like ‘aren’t you a dirty fucking girl?’, with extra resonance on the ‘girl’, just how I like it. Whatever he said and however he said it, it caused me to absolutely gush all over his hand. Yeah I’m a dirty girl: QED.

When I tell you that this man knows how to fuck me, I do not say that lightly. He can do it better than anyone else on this planet. Every movement he makes is both educated and intuitive – a gut feel for the hottest things to do, and a practised understanding of how to apply those to me.

I didn’t set out to shag him, I swear. I joked about it in a previous post, but that was written before we’d even had drinks. I’d vaguely hoped that if our hangout went well he’d let me tell you the story, perhaps join in with a laugh about my fuck-hungry pathos because he knows what I’m like. I didn’t set out to shag him, and I don’t think he intended to fuck me either.

But it happened, we are where we are.

Might as well fucking enjoy it.

The first time we shagged (there were many), I rode his perfect dick so hard I came almost instantly around it. I’d love to tell you it’s because we’re so well suited, like two pieces of a puzzle or something romantic like that. But it isn’t that, it’s girth. It’s being stretched and filled till every atom of my cunt knows full well that it’s getting fucked. There’s the emotional connection too, for sure, but the very first time that I come, it’s specifically because of his exact cock. The one I still picture sometimes when I’m wanking, attached to a man so in sync with me that when my own climactic spasms nudged him towards orgasm too, he knew precisely what to ask:

“Where do you want my cum?”

“Inside me,” I told him, with trembling, pre-emptive joy. “Please. Pleasepleasepleeeease.”

As I rode him harder I bent down to whisper a story into his ear. A little something to help tip him over the edge. Breathless memories from many years ago, tripping some mutual nostalgic horn. Nothing creative, just a feeling, more or less: the echo of a hot anal fuck, and a kink I used to have for him telling me that he was ‘sorry’. You can click that link for back story if you like, but I didn’t need to fill in the blanks for him: this man knows how to fuck me, remember? That means he knows how I think.

When I reached the climax of this sordid little tale, he didn’t just come in thick, noticeable squirts, he fucking poured that spunk out inside me.

The sex we have that weekend feels so instinctive, I struggle to capture direction when I’m writing it: did we do this particular thing because he likes it, or me? Or both? I can’t always remember how and when we transitioned from this part to that. My mind fills in the blanks with guesses based on the times I’ve wanked on it since, which are likely blurred by other memories of similar fucks in that same space, clamouring for a re-run as well: tearing into each other in his bedroom, catching glimpses of us at different angles in the mirrors by his bed. Flashes of him in various positions that could have been from this weekend or many other weekends long ago.

At one point he sucks at my left nipple, and I’m lying on my back looking down at him, stroking his head and the nape of his neck and relishing the thrill of someone paying my tits the attention I always crave. He knows to switch, to even out the sensation. Understands that if he doesn’t move swiftly from the first taut nipple to the next he’ll be greeted with a whimper of unfathomable need. He knows to pinch and tug upwards, never down. He knows there are no wrong answers when it comes to grabbing the flesh of my tits and squeezing till I bite my lip and beg him to please get inside me.

This man knows how to fuck me.

He knows how to fuck me so well that even things I would normally shy away from are utterly embraced. Remember all those blog posts I wrote about how I don’t tend to let men go down on me? Because I feel like I’m being too much trouble, and I worry that they probably won’t enjoy it?

He knows me well enough to dispense the cure for this particular brand of anxiety. And it’s this:

One palm flat in the centre of my chest, shoving me onto my back. Bam. Both hands gripping my thighs as he hauls me to the edge of the bed. Whoosh. A wolfish grin as he kneels on the floor, perfectly positioned to bury his face in my crotch before telling me:

“I really wanna taste that fucking cunt.”

And then stars. Tongue, lips, wetness. Strict instructions to “look at me, don’t look away.” Broad, firm contact with his mouth on my clit, and moans that prove what I need to know: he wants this. He loves this. He’s… eager. So very very eager. He tells me he wants to taste my cunt and I don’t nurture any shred of doubt, I instantly believe him. I trust him, so I trust that he wants this, and I don’t just let him do it, I beg him not to stop.

“Keep going, please, keep going. Do it. Fucking eat me. Please.”

He does it for as long as I can maintain eye contact-

“Look at me.”

-pulling the sort of faces that I rarely make for strangers. Gurning and moaning and gripping the bedsheets tight so I can yank on them with all my strength, willing myself to come on his tongue. I’m almost there, I’m so close. And I’m close not purely because of a particular movement or specific pressure or rhythm, but because this man knows just how to make me let go.

Give in.

Abandon myself to everything.

No shame, no performance, no uncertainty or guesswork: just instinctive, pure, powerful fucking.

A different ex boyfriend once told me I was a great fuck because I made him feel comfortable. What a superpower! I glowed. I love being able to make guys feel safe in the bedroom: helping them banish shame, dive in to self-acceptance, abandon themselves to the moment and simply let go.

When I tell you this particular man knows how to fuck me what I mean is that he does this for me in return. Building comfort, showing enthusiasm, banishing my shame like it is nothing. Diving face-first into my cunt and then, when I ask for his dick, having the confidence to pull back and tease me. Running the meat of his cock along the slit of my cunt, soaking wet and aching with the need to have him in there. He makes me feel so comfortable and safe that I babble incoherently, greedily begging for cock without caring which words might come tumbling out of my mouth.

He knows full well that the first stroke after all this build-up will have me halfway to coming already. So instead of giving it slowly and allowing me that release, he slams it in with a vigour that makes me gasp – it knocks me off course. He has the luxury of doing that because it’s easy to build me back up again.

When he shoves it in right to the hilt, he instinctively puts his full weight down on my chest, making me feel crushed and small beneath him. He has the muscle memory to know exactly how firmly to clasp my throat without squeezing. And when we switch positions, his gut tells him – correctly – that I won’t object if he nudges at a boundary we’ve crossed together before.

I’m on my knees on the bed – face down, ass up, just the way he likes it we like it. Wetting one finger and leaning in, he parts the lips of my cunt and slides it inside, observing and inspecting me in ways that make me feel so filthy and used I can’t tell where the panic ends and pleasure begins. That shivery-hot sensation of degradation pairs so well with the comfort I feel in his company.

I remember all the times in the past he told me: “you’ve got a really pretty cunt.”

I remember, too, how hot I felt getting fucked by him face-on in front of the bedroom mirror, so we do that too. I get to see the heavy-lidded, serious fuck-hunger in his face as he looks down at me and lines up to slide inside. Then, as he does it, we maintain eye contact in the mirror for the whole of that delicious entry stroke. He sees my mouth dropping open further and further till he’s buried so deep I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. Then brow furrowed, eyes wide as he withdraws and slams it back in with power and force, telling me over and over what a good fucking girl I am for taking it. All of it.

He doesn’t need to speak to give instructions because he knows exactly which gentle nudges will prompt the right shift in my position. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t speak at all – his words seem targeted and precise, though I suspect there’s little strategy behind them. It’s instinct and lust, not game, and I know this because I do it to him too. Just open my mouth and let the words pour out:

You’re so fucking good, that feels so good, hurt me with your dick please God fuck hurt me with it pour all your cum deep inside me.

I look him dead in the eye as I come, this man who knows how to fuck me.