Don’t make love to me. Please.
I’ve seen the films, where the guy enters her gently and she gasps with delight. He strokes her face and her hair and their bodies melt together in soft focus. They smile, and whisper, and beautiful music plays – something soulful and deep that you’d put on a mixtape.
This might just work if you’ve been together for years, if you know each other well after nights spent chatting and bonding and bringing each other grapes and tissues when you’re ill. It definitely doesn’t work for an early shag. Here’s why:
If you’re doing it slowly you’re not that keen. By the time you’re in my bedroom (or my lounge, or my bathroom, or the car park of the local McDonalds) I want you to be so hot and hard and desperate that you’ll frot against my thighs when you get close enough. Don’t peel my clothes off slowly while you kiss every inch of my delicate skin; moan and swear and writhe as you tear off your trousers, wondering why it takes as long as 6 fucking seconds to get your cock out and into me. If we’re shagging for the first time (or the second, third, fourth, or twenty-second), you need to be lustful, and hot, and focused so hard on coming that nothing can distract you.
Slow foreplay indicates self-control, and self-control isn’t very sexy. Why would you bother to gently undo my shirt button by button when you could be forcing your cock into the back of my throat? Don’t tell me this is foreplay, don’t tell me it’s there to make sure I’m turned on and as willing to fuck you now as I was when I first got on the night bus home with you; if I weren’t turned on I wouldn’t be here. It was probably me who dragged you onto the night bus in the first place.
From the moment we’re alone and you touch me my legs start to shake, I’ll be panting and wet and desperate and everything that’s good about naked, horny girls. To try and temper that passion with gentle kisses is an insult to the lust that I want to bleed into every pore of your body. If I’m begging you for hardcore, don’t give me Mills and Boon.
But if none of the above has persuaded you, and you still want to stroke my face and call me darling and see if you can melt my frozen heart with the power of your lovemaking, then let’s cut to the chase: I don’t love you, you don’t love me. We should no more be ‘making love’ than we should be naming our first child.
If we’re not fucking then we’re fucking done here.
2 Comments
Hmmmm. Either or? I don’t think so. Some of the some of the hottest, dirtiest, raunchiest fucking Baby Girl and I have enjoyed has come right out of making love. If making love includes slowly teasing… talking… touching.. (through knickers obviously). Making her wetter than ever before. With my fingers… running down the side of her perfect cunt. Making love with my finger tips. With my tongue. With my upper lip on her clit… And then kissing her. Gently. Tenderly. Letting her taste herself on me. Telling her I love her. Showing her I love her. By the way I enter her. By the way I move only just inside her. So slow. So gradual. So far. And no further. And telling her: “You know I love you. You know that don’t you? Good. Now. I’m going to fuck you.” And she knows I loves her. She knows I love her by how immaculately we make love. And I know how much she loves me. By how she lets me in. Deep in. To where only we can be. And then… we both know how much we love each other. By how filthily we fuck. And fuck. And fuck.
“This might just work if you’ve been together for years, if you know each other well after nights spent chatting and bonding and bringing each other grapes and tissues when you’re ill. It definitely doesn’t work for an early shag.”