Girl on the Net

There’s this big house that I’m wandering around, and occasionally I stumble across people wanking in different rooms of it. It’s full of sofas, and cushions and huge-screen TVs. What’s playing on the telly is almost-porn: one of those films which features tits and fucking, but also just enough plot that you’re not quite sure if it was pitched as a broader release. I am horny as fuck, and I desperately need cock.

I walk around, itching to sit down on one of the many sofas and get stuck into some wanking of my own. But I’m shy about doing that in front of all these strangers and besides: I want to get fucked.

I could ask a stranger, of course, but they’re all very gym-toned and intimidating. The kind of people I’d swipe past on a dating site because they look far too much like hard work. The men have six packs and eight packs, and shoulders that look like they could knock down castle walls.

I don’t fancy them, any of them, so I just keep on wandering.

The ache in my cunt goes from ‘pleasant tingles’ to ‘painful throbs’ and I really really really need some dick in me.

Then I bump into him. Him. He’s wearing shorts and nothing else, smiling and sipping a can of Coke. He makes a comment about the porn-that’s-not-quite-porn, asks me what I think and whether it was the right choice. I realise this is his house, his not-quite-porn. His sofas. His TVs.

I am painfully aware of the memory of his cock.

I can’t remember what I say or do, I can only remember the cunt ache. How desperate I am for him to bend me over one of these many sofas. Slide it in. Ease the pain. Grab me by the hips and just fuck me fuck me fuck me till the pain stops.

He knows I’m horny, and I can see how hard and fat his cock looks through those shorts. Like everything I’ve always wanted. Like the only thing that will cure me of that ache.

I slide off whatever I’m wearing – can’t remember what it is, yoga pants probably. Soft, easily-removable loungewear. I slide them down and yank my top off and unhook my bra and just perch on the edge of the sofa.

He pushes me back with big hands, commenting on my hipbones – usually buried under comfortable flesh, now exposed and hard from weeks of cycling and panic and not being able to eat. He tells me I look hotter, and I can’t work out if I’m flattered or miserable or angry.

The pressing emotion is one of lust. I really really really want his cock.

And perhaps it’s because I’m smaller now that his dick looks bigger by comparison. That when he holds it at the entrance to my aching cunt, I feel dwarfed by its size. It is harder than I’ve ever felt. A monster cock, hard like granite. My cunt and mouth are both wet with need and I know this is a bad idea. He knows it’s a bad idea, too, but we both need for him to stuff it in me anyway.

When he slides it inside, I clench around him, coming almost instantly my cunt’s at full stretch. Full and satisfied and squirming on the solid, complete reality of him.

It feels so fucking good that it takes me five seconds to realise that as I came, I woke up.

I’m alone in the bed and he isn’t here with me. There’s nothing and no one but me and my dreams.

But oh, what dreams they are.