Girl on the Net

I start this fucking weird day (a day which I hope will contain at least some weird fucking) with two cups of coffee. And then a third, to be on the safe side. But you can’t get high on coffee… at least I can’t. I’m meeting this guy at eleven am, and we’re going to fuck in his hotel. At eleven. In the morning. I am stone cold fucking sober, and sober sex is a pretty new kink.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not constantly trashed when I fuck, I’m just… you know… far more used to fucking in the evenings. Morning sex is tolerable, but usually it comes after the night before. The night before when a couple of drinks, or something else, could tip me over the edge of awkwardness and into the confidence that helps me get my tits out for a stranger.

So I’m sober. But I’m horny. And this is weird. In the absence of booze and music and darkness, I’m leaning in to getting off on the sluttiness of it.

This fuck is not guaranteed, for a start, so there’s a hint of nervousness there. I’d never promise a fuck before we’ve had a chance to chat face-to-face, and I can’t be doing with pre-fuck sexting. I don’t want to read ‘suck my cock’ or ‘cum on your tits’ as flat words on a screen – I want to hear those words pouring out of someone’s mouth, see the look on his face when I repeat them back to him, tell him ‘I want you to hurt me with your dick’ and watch for whether his eyes flash. So I don’t entirely know if we’ll fuck until I’ve had the chance to look him in the eye.

I’m sober, but maybe I can get a little bit high on this aspect: the nerves and the sluttiness. The adrenaline-humming uncertainty of meeting a man at eleven in the morning, having one single coffee over which to work out what it is that makes his dick twitch, then straight to his hotel room for sex.

There’s a beautifully onomatopoeic Japanese word for what I’m chasing here, I think: dokidoki. It refers to those moments when something makes your heart beat faster. And although it’s far too often used in love-focused, kawaii/cute ways, dokidoki can just happen because of adrenaline. Excitement. Nerves. The Rush.

I think some kinds of fucking are very much about The Rush. Not the detail of the way we’re fucking (although for what it’s worth, I’m kneeling on the edge of the bed, spread open while he teases me with the tip of his cock until I call him a bastard and beg him to get it in me) but the very fact that we’re doing it at all.

At eleven in the morning. On a Monday. Stone cold sober.

Soon he’ll put a belt in my mouth to gag me and yank tight on it while he rubs at his dick. Later, though still pre-lunchtime, he’ll come down the back of my throat.

Lovely.

But to get to that place I need a hook. Something to give intensity and power to the gentle dokidoki of nerves and slutty excitement.

In the pre-fuck preamble, over one more coffee, he asks me: “how long has it been?”

I know the answer already: “seventeen years.”

The last time I saw this man I was twenty years old. Black hair, black lipstick, panda eyes and overconfidence: an absolute post-teen shambles. The last time I sucked his cock I was nearer nineteen. It was hurried, filthy, urgent. One of the first dirty stories in my collection, before I even realised I got a kick out of collecting them.

I ask him if he can remember my name, and as the question leaves my mouth I can’t work out if it’d be hotter if he can, or if he can’t. I think it’s the latter. It’s filthier, isn’t it? But it doesn’t really matter because by now I know we’re going to fuck anyway.

Dokidoki.

I’m used to relying on other shit to set a filthy mood: lighting, music, booze, [REDACTED, SORRY MUM]. Without any of these things, I’m relying solely on filth: the fact that it’s slutty to be here, with this man that I barely know. The fact that he’s slutty as well, and he’s eager to go to his room.

The rush comes from the fact that I don’t let him take off my clothes, I just strip and stand there. Brazen and naked and embracing being a slut. Him, likewise: he’s not awkward or nervous or ‘may I?’, he’s extremely ready to dive straight in too. He doesn’t just finger me, he fucking buries himself in me. He doesn’t just fuck me, he sticks a finger in my ass at the same time and asks ‘is that good?’ while I shove myself backwards onto him.

And, yeah, doki fucking doki, we’re getting into this. So I am not shy or coquettish or grumpily murmuring in an eleven-am kind of way, I embrace the rush and say ‘yes, angle downwards a bit,’ so I can feel his fingers in my ass rubbing at his cock through the walls of my cunt. The rush comes from the fact that when I suck him off he doesn’t politely moan and leave me to it, he grabs my hair and yanks my lips right down to the base. And when he fucks me from behind he grips my hair again – tugs on it, in great fistfuls, to pull me harder onto his dick. The rush comes in greedy answers – ‘anywhere you like’ – when he asks where I want him to come. And later, from the belt, pulled tight to gag me while he wanks so I feel used and exposed and humiliated and delighted beyond measure.

Just before lunchtime, he comes down my throat: lets me wet the tip of his cock with eager spit then watch as he beats himself closer and closer to coming. He tells me he’s about to, and I swallow him – quick and deep – so his spunk squirts right to the back. I’m rolling hard on the way he twitches as I suck out every last drop.

Then I put on my clothes and head home to work. Sober as a judge, but high-as-fuck on sluttery.

Pretty impressed with his memory, too. Seventeen years is a very long time, but he totally remembered my name.