Girl on the Net

A few days before we’re due to hang out, he texts me a fantasy. Couched in the standard consent-focused caveats (“Only if that sounds hot to you…”) that I find extremely cute – they function essentially as the ‘no worries if not!’ of fucking. His request is neat, specific, and very easy to achieve: he wants to arrive at my place, have me greet him at the door with no words whatsoever, then as soon as he’s inside, drop to my knees and start sucking his dick. No words, just cocksucking.

The text doesn’t merely function to get us both horny before the date, it’s useful for practical purposes too. By which I mean ‘my front door has glass panels, so I can’t suck dick in the hallway.’ I explain that I’ll have to lead him through to the lounge, and then I make a mental note for future DIY projects. Hallway cocksucking is fun, after all – I don’t want to miss out on it forever.

Practicalities aside, though, I am in.

What is ‘vanilla’ anyway?

With this fantasy, as with other chats we’ve had, he tells me he might be ‘a bit vanilla’ for my tastes. He’s not into the kind of spanky stuff I get up to with kinkier partners, and I think he imagines that the rest of my sex life is all whips and rope and begging and struggle-fucks. There’s a bit of that, of course, but it isn’t the be-all and end-all. Besides, when ‘vanilla’ can encompass everything from ‘languid blow jobs’ to ‘intense, vigorous fucking’ I’ve never really understood why it’s seen as something ‘less’ than kinky sex. Or where the line between ‘kinky’ and ‘vanilla’ even sits. Perhaps with this, as with every other thing in life, it’s far less binary than we usually imagine.

Before he turns up, I’m doing what I always do: getting ready far too early then wandering round the flat aimlessly until he arrives. I never learn: I will never quite manage to nail ‘playing it cool‘. Thanks to my lack of chill, my flat is spotless and I’m looking pretty good. The best thing about dates at my place (other than, of course, the convenience of being able to fuck at the drop of a hat) is that I can wear yoga pants if I want to. You can never be underdressed in your own home, that’s just a fact.

He’d texted earlier that day asking if the plan was still on, to which I responded with textbook overeagerness. By the time he texts to say he’s in a cab, I’m already buzzing with horn.

He said ‘vanilla’ almost dismissively, like it wasn’t exciting, but blow jobs are exciting to me. They’re my favourite. Besides, even the most straightforward blow job can be elevated to new levels of hotness simply by editing the tone. No words, just cocksucking, the second he walks in the door? If that’s what vanilla looks like these days then scoop me a whole fucking bowl of the stuff.

I flick between songs on the playlist, trying to pick tracks that are vaguely horny but not overtly ‘fuck me’: something that sounds like I naturally had it on. Eventually I realise this is a fool’s errand, so I go back to the tunes I naturally had on before I started textbook overthinking.

Will he be hard when he arrives? How should I greet him – a nod? A gesture? Just eye contact and a grin? Fuck it, I’ll know when it happens.

Then it happens. A knock at the door and I jump six feet into the air. Run through the hallway to open it, and he’s there. Looking achingly hot – smartly dressed, top buttons undone, piercing dark eyes and the wicked smile of a man who knows he’s about to get his dick sucked.

No words, just cocksucking

I have to remind myself not to trill ‘HELLO’ – biting my lip instead, and gesturing inside. He grabs the back of my neck and kisses me deeply as I push the door closed, then I lead him to the lounge in silence, and motion for him to sit.

When I start sucking his cock, he’s already semi-hard, and it doesn’t take long for him to get fully erect. He does that horny thing where he takes my hair in his hands, scraping it back from my face and gathering it up, so he can watch me go to work with my lips and tongue.

No words, just cocksucking… but that doesn’t preclude noises, and he’s gorgeously communicative throughout: moans and sighs and lots of little sounds that almost tip over into speech. I start to let go with some noises of my own, just some ‘mmms’ of satisfaction at having his cock in my mouth, but still far more restrained than I’d be on a normal day. The silence was his fantasy, after all, and I’m keen to do what I’m told.

Despite his ‘vanilla’ protestations, there’s something intriguingly kinky about being told not to speak. There’s something kinky, too, about how much louder all the other sounds appear – the music I put on before echoes louder than it had before he arrived, and the wet sucking sounds of my lips on his cock seem amplified as well.

I spit on it: loads of saliva, to make it good and wet, but also because the sound of spitting, too, is enhanced by the enforced silence elsewhere.

He told me his fantasies were ‘probably a bit vanilla’ as if ‘vanilla’ means boring but it doesn’t. And they’re not. Is this ‘vanilla hot’ or is it ‘kinky hot that he’s just labelled ‘vanilla’ because it doesn’t include any physical pain’? Either way I don’t care because I’m having such an excellent time. It’s a struggle to not say anything, but the struggle is part of the fun.

Release is part of the fun too, though, so eventually he gives in to the need to chat and asks:

“You like that?”

And my cunt twitches.

As soon as he’s broken our mutual vow of silence I realise how much energy it’s taken to hold back from saying anything, and I spill the fuck over like I’m coming.

“Oh my GOD yes, that’s so hot. When you walked in the door all silent and sexy and just let me start sucking your dick it was… unnngh.” I tell him in a babbled rush, with his wet dick in my hand and my mouth hovering inches from the tip.

That quick release – that moment when he decides that we get to start talking – sets the tone for the rest of the evening. We take breaks to fuck a bit, and breaks to get drinks, but most of our time is spent with him sprawled languidly on my sofa, and me between his knees sucking cock.

After the blissful agony of silence, we both embrace the pleasure of talking: he asks me to tell him stories while I suck him off. Interspersing bursts of cocksucking with gentle, wet handjobs that I deliver while talking about this or that threesome.

And as you lot know, I love telling stories. It’s my second favourite thing besides sucking cock.

He asks for more detail sometimes, and occasionally tells stories of his own, but mostly he just lets me get to work on doing what I do best: telling stories and cocksucking. Occasionally he moans or sighs or offers ‘yeses’ of encouragement, asks ‘and what happened next?’ if I leave him hanging at a key point in one of the stories, or checking in to make sure I’m having fun.

I am. Of course.

By the time he books a taxi home, we’ve spent about four hours like this: chatting, cocksucking, and congratulating ourselves on an excellent second date itinerary.

Oh yeah, did I mention? This was our second date.

I still don’t really know what ‘vanilla’ means, but if this is it: pass me a spoon.