Girl on the Net

Every now and then, I do improv erotica with Patreons. During our occasional Zoom hangouts, they give me prompts for sexy stories which I take away and try to turn into filth. The following orgasm denial fiction is one of these stories, and if you fancy joining in and offering me some prompts of your own, join me on Patreon! Right now you can vote for the date of our next hangout, where we chill together on Zoom and you can ask me questions, make suggestions for future erotica, and hear me read as-yet-unpublished stories while I get slowly drunk on wine. In the meantime: here’s some filth my Patreons and I made earlier!

The prompts for this story (I always ask for name/kink/location/object) were…

Name: Alex
Kink: Orgasm denial
Location: Outside/woods
Object: Camera

Orgasm denial: You’re going to come at 14:56

I start off by tying him to a tree. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? The whole point of taking Alex here, to the middle of nowhere, is to do things I couldn’t do to him otherwise. And something about the contrast of the soft rope against his skin, the scratchy bark of the tree, plus the raging, solid throb of his erection… yeah, it does something to me.

I’m not very good with knots. Not great at framing a decent photo. Extremely bad at getting the colour balance right on a digital camera. But you know what I am good at? Working that dick.

He hasn’t come for seven days. And something about the exact match of timestamps on the photos does it for me as well. The last time I let him come was at 14:56 last Sunday. I know it so precisely because I was taking photos then too – kneeling next to him on the bed while he gripped his cock tightly and beat at it slowly, edging himself to make sure he gave me plenty of time to get a really good shot.

The shutter of my camera clicked slowly at first, as I warmed up to taking some pictures. Then, as his strokes became faster, so did the frequency of the shutter. Snap. Snap. Snapsnapsnap. At the moment his dick started to pump come, I almost sprained my finger trying to capture every flash-frame image of that spunk squirting up his stomach.

It’s 14:35 now, a week later, and we’re in the woods. He’s tied to a tree. The rope bites into his stomach at roughly the height where that torrent of jizz fell last week. His face looks strained. As does his cock.

I snap off a few more photos then put the camera down beside me on top of my waterproof coat. Kneel in front of him on the damp forest floor. He tries to turn his head to meet my eyes, to see what I’m doing, but the rope bites into his neck too much and he’s trapped.

I grip the base of his aching cock delicately in the crook of my hand – between my thumb and forefinger. Make my tongue flat and wet, and lick once – so gently – all the way from base to tip. When I get to the head, he squirms against the rope. Lets out one whispered “fuck” of encouragement.

I pick up the camera again.

Four or five more shots from this angle: I love the way the light pouring through the canopy silhouettes him above me. Love the proud, solid angle of his dick pointing upwards towards the leaves. If I turn slightly to one side, I can capture that hard, fat line that runs along the underside of his dick – the raphe, I think it’s called – and also make out glimpses of his face in the background of the shot. The way he bites his lip.

Camera down. One more lick. This time, when I get to the tip, I linger there – wet lips making a seal around the ridge and tongue pressed against the smoother skin of the head. He pants a little when I flick my tongue, so I give him a little more. Ever-so-tiny movements up and down, almost pulsing my lips around it.

That “fuck” again. I live for that.

He hasn’t come for seven days, and it shows. The nonchalance with which he’d usually accept this kind of playful hesitation – “oh, so we’re doing this are we? You prickteasing slut,” – has fallen by the wayside. Replaced by panting and moaning and those whispered “fuck”s.

I grip the shaft more tightly in my hand. Stroke it once, almost experimentally, while keeping my lips wet and tight around the head. There’s a little strangled sound in the back of his throat, and the entrance to my cunt throbs hot and wet and eager to have him fuck me.

But that’s not what we’re doing today.

Although there’s a bit of me that mourns the fact that I won’t be able to do that. Slide slowly down his twitching cock while staring into his eyes, watching for that spark of panic when he realises he’ll come too soon. I’m sad to miss out on that, but overall I cannot complain. Because I get to do this instead.

I step away from him and set up the tripod all ready for the grand finale. It’s 14:51 now, and time’s getting tight. I position the camera so that it captures just a fraction of the whole scene: not his cock or the ground I’ll be kneeling on when I take him into my mouth, or even that beautiful body, bound with rope to the tree trunk. No, I set it so it’s zoomed in close on his agonised, frustrated face.

I set his expectations, too. Tell him:

“You’re going to come at 14:56…”

Another moan. He’s eager.

“…exactly a week after last time. Yes?”

“Y-yes…” he tells me. His dick twitches as he says it and it takes all my strength not to give up on the plan and simply fuck him instead. It’s so tempting: that cock. So hard and responsive and perfect.

Tripod all set, I kneel in front of him again, and a tiny drop of precum leaks from the tip. I lick it off and savour it on my tongue.

14:54

Wetting my lips, I grip his cock softly in my hand again. It jumps and throbs and he whispers “yessss… please…” with that glorious aching whine.

This time I do not lick, I just swallow him all in one. One swift, smooth motion all the way down to the base. The head presses tight against the back of my throat, and I feel it jerk as it goes in.

Then I come back up – slowly again. Just as he thought I was going to really go for it, I switch back to flat licks and wet lips and teasing teasing teasing.

It’s 14:55 and he’s close – so close. There’s part of me that wants to let him come right now. Take the full length of him into my mouth, with one hand gripped good and tight around the thick base, and suck like I’m trying to drain him. Feel the squirts of a whole week’s worth of cum pumping into the back of my throat – hot and thick and copious enough to make me splutter and gag like I’m drowning.

But I control it just enough to make him croak and whimper, yet still gentle enough to keep him on the edge. Slow, wet, teasing strokes. Up and down. Flicks of tongue. Squeezes and gentle sucks and a blow job that’s almost-but-not-quite enough.

One more long, full stroke, and for a second I worry that I’ve gone too far – that I’ll feel the force of his cum squirting hard against my tongue but then…

14:57, and my alarm goes off.

I rock back on my heels – swift and decisive – letting the spasming, fat wet length of him fall out of my mouth.

He looks bewildered. Shocked. Devastated. He was so close – so fucking close – and he doesn’t understand why the pleasure has stopped.

With my left hand I grip the camera remote, and explain to him that he’s far too late.

“I said you could come at 14:56. It’s 14:57 now Alex.” I press the shutter button that’s cupped in the palm of my hand. The camera clicks and keeps clicking. “Still. It’s not all over for you…”

Click.

“…we’ll try again next week.”

Clickclick. And I’ve captured exactly what I wanted. Not his trembling body bound tightly to the tree, or the rock-hard redness of his swollen cock, but the best fucking thing of all time: his face. At the exact moment he realised he wouldn’t get to come, I captured a shot of his face – his expression twisted into a perfect picture of rage and frustration and misery.

You can see a few more improv erotica stories here on the blog, or find even more over on Patreon, where you can help support my work, tell me what you’d like to hear recorded as audio porn next, and join in with the next Zoom hangout.