Girl on the Net

This story contains elements of dormophilia (i.e. wanting people to touch me up while I sleep), all very consensual. Don’t do this sort of thing unless you have discussed in advance with your partner and you’re sure that they would enjoy it.

The night before Christmas, he tiptoes into the bedroom to make sure he doesn’t wake me, but he doesn’t need to be that careful: I pretend to be asleep anyway. Lying on my stomach, head turned away from the door he’s just entered through, I keep my breathing soft and calm and make out that I’m sleeping. If he knows I’m awake he might try to talk to me, and at that point sleep will be impossible. Besides, if he thinks I’m out for the count, it’ll be way hotter if he tries to do The Thing I Like. I’m wearing my silk knickers, just in case. I really want him to do it.

I hear the rustle of t-shirt fabric and denim as he gets undressed, throwing his clothes into the corner of the room for tomorrow. The bed creaks a little as he slides into his side of it, and he lies on his back in the darkness for a while, breathing slow and heavy, in harmony with me. Our bodies aren’t quite touching, but I can feel the warmth radiating off him.

He starts to stroke his cock.

At first it’s very gentle. Subtle enough that I wouldn’t immediately say he was wanking, if I didn’t know him. Just the occasional shift in position, and a slow rustle. Like he’s testing whether I’m asleep. If I’m awake I might turn round and take it in my mouth. Perhaps make a low moan to reflect that his midnight fumble is making me horny too.

I do not make a sound. Well, except that low, calm breathing. In and out, like I’m still asleep.

He picks up the pace a little, and now alongside the sound of the bedclothes shifting, I can also feel the bed itself giving infinitesimal shakes. Tiny seismic shudders in time to the beat of his wank.

Still turned away, still pretending, I allow myself to conjure the scene that might greet me if I rolled over and looked at him. His strong arm and tight grip pulling hard at his cock. His eyes closed in concentration, lip bitten or tongue clenched firmly between his lips in the manner of a man who doesn’t think he’s being observed. Tented bedclothes now rhythmically billowing with each up-stroke, then falling on the down.

His thick fingers and powerful hands and his aching, blood-filled cock.

I keep breathing: low and slow, low and slow, low and slow. And he reaches out with his other hand to touch me.

It’s a gentle touch at first – just his fingertips making contact with the back of my upper thigh. Soft enough to not be a prod, firm enough to avoid a tickle: he’s done this before, he knows how best to approach it. I try not to tense my muscles, try to keep my breathing low and slow and calm. He’d prefer me to ‘wake up’ but I will enjoy this far more if I stay ‘asleep’, and fuck it: sometimes it’s nice to be selfish. I listen to him wank, and feel the bed shake, and when he spreads his fingers out and moves his hand further up my body, gripping the left cheek of my arse clad in silk knickers, I almost forget that I’m acting and let out a sigh of delight.

The harder he beats at his cock, the more intensely he grips my arse. As if the act of crushing bruises into my flesh will trigger the first waves of spunk. I adore it. Almost as much as I adore the moment when he delves a little further – sliding his palm down over the cheek and towards the centre, pushing his fingers against the fabric into the slit of my cunt until the telltale dampness seeping through gives the game away.

From that simple gesture, the warmth and slickness against his fingertips, he knows I am not asleep. That knowledge makes his cock twitch, and I feel a corresponding increase in the speed with which he tugs at his straining dick.

I stretch and roll over slightly, as if I’m still deep under, and although he knows I’m awake he also understands just how much I love pretending. So even as I lie facing away, on my side, silk-knicker-clad arse presented for him to grope and paw at, he doesn’t choose to break the spell, not yet. He explores further – digging into the crack of my arse and the wet valley where my cunt is soaking those knickers, now allowing himself a little more noise. Grunts at the back of his throat to denote exertion. Moans when he slips the crotch of my knickers to one side and dips thick fingers in to the free-flowing wetness beneath.

He allows himself freer movement, too, and now the bed quakes get stronger. I pretend a little that I’m being briefly rocked out of sleep by the rhythm of his wanking, and teased by those fingertips gently exploring my crotch from behind.

My cunt aches so desperately to be fucked. Even if it’s just for a single stroke, right at the very end. I don’t need to come, I just need for him to soothe that ache: grab the elastic of my knickers and yank them down, roll over on top of me and slip it inside. One long, firm stroke all the way up to the hilt as he fills me with cum.

His rubbing is fast enough now that all either of us can think of is cum. Thick, hot ropes of jizz that are so so close to being shot from the end of his cock. He’s building pace and intensity – the bed now shaking so hard a loose screw on the headboard starts to rattle. And I’m lying on my side, stock-still, eagerly hoping that he will make it rain.

At the moment just before he comes, he does roll over: onto his side, so he can spoon up close behind me. He does grab the waistband of my knickers, yanking them down so they rest just below the crease of my bum. But then? Unngh, then…

Instead of shoving his cock inside, where I most desperately need it, he presses the head of it right up against the soft, pale flesh of one of my butt cheeks, and squirts all his cum up against me. Hard. Forceful. The skin on my arse acting like a thumb held over the top of a champagne bottle, allowing his spunk to flow everywhere.

He doesn’t squirt me with jizz or spray it, he just dumps it onto me. Like pissing into a ditch by the side of the road, or spitting in the gutter.

I squirm against him in delight – the dismissiveness of the gesture has made me hornier than I thought possible, and in the moment I’m not mourning the lack of a fuck, I’m revelling in the even-more-degrading joy of not being granted it in the first place.

On his fifth or sixth squirt, he’s done.

And then, without saying a single fucking word to me, he pulls my silk knickers back up over the wet mess of his still-warm jizz and pats my arse – ensuring the damp sensation is seared onto my skin until it dries.

Then he rolls over onto his side of the bed and promptly falls asleep.

This story is also available as audio. Click ‘listen now’ above or head to the audio porn page for more sexy stories read aloud.