Girl on the Net

Whenever I ask a new person to teach me how to suck their dick, Jez from Peep Show’s voice pops up to tell me “That’s cheating! Anyone can please [someone] in bed if [they] tell you what to do! You’re not allowed to ASK, that’s the whole point!” It’s ridiculous, of course, because you absolutely are allowed to ask. In fact, sometimes asking is the only way you’ll find out exactly how this particular person likes their dick to be sucked.

When I tweeted about this blow job, in my post-fuck excitement after I got home, someone asked me how you go about requesting feedback on giving head – before, during, after? – so I’ve tried to be explicit throughout this post about exactly when and how I asked. I don’t always include this stuff in stories, but I’ve tried to keep all the feedback moments in this one so you can see, and work them into the hotness of it, because I find these chats extremely horny indeed.

I love sucking cock, it’s one of my favourite things. Kneeling in front of a guy and being allowed to go to town on his dick is the equivalent of being ushered into a buffet and told to ‘eat what you want.’ I have little interest in token blow jobs as a prelude to sex, or tit-for-tat oral that’s ruthlessly accounted for like we’re remembering whose round it is in the pub. I want to suck dick because I like sucking dick, and there’s no joy in doing it if I cannot do it well.

Blowjob chair

We walk into this guy’s hotel room: all dark colours and soundproof ceiling panels and the kind of tones that would have paired nicely with the scent of whiskey and tobacco in the days when indoor smoking was allowed. In the corner there’s a brown leather wingback armchair.

He sits in the armchair and I perch on the bed to remove my boots. As I watch him settle in I’m thinking ‘oh yeah – that right there is a blow job chair’ and luckily, I am correct.

“Can I suck you off while you sit there?” I ask him.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” he replies.

Great minds think alike, and I like this guy’s mind: we’ve already bonded over drinks and kinky chat, and although we’re very new to each other, I think our proclivities are fairly well aligned. We’ll find out later, I hope, but for now there’s a blow job chair that’s crying out to be made the most of.

Instruct me

One of the things I find myself saying most frequently to new men is ‘please give me loads of feedback.’ When I’m sucking someone off, moaning noises help, but nothing can provide a shortcut to expertise quite like explicit instruction. I don’t just want to know ‘good’ and ‘nice’, I want to know ‘softer’ or ‘harder’ or ‘faster’ or whatever it might be. He’s got a lovely dick – responsive and great fun to toy with – so I let myself play for a while, experimenting with different styles, speeds, ways to use my tongue on the head, hands or no hands, tight suction or looser softness with my lips. And as I go he gets bolder in the feedback he’s giving me. Not just ‘yes’ or ‘good’ but eventually, deliciously: ‘give me nice long strokes.’

When he says that, my cunt floods.

It’s not that I’m horny for learning – I’m the lazy prick who never did the reading at Uni, instead just riffing of other people in seminars, trying to absorb knowledge via optimism and osmosis. When I lived abroad I didn’t study the language, instead just launching into the practical, with the result that my chat makes me sound like a drunk in a bar. So it’s not the learning that’s hot here, it’s the act of being instructed.

Use me

Prior to this evening, I’d asked this man to ruin me – my body was crying out to be used. But though I often make this request, I don’t expect people to necessarily follow through. We don’t know each other well enough yet for him to truly fuck me up. He explains this later in a text, but he doesn’t need to – I understand, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because being told how to suck cock is plenty to go on for now. ‘Ruin me’ doesn’t always mean ‘ruin my cunt’ – sometimes a similar tone is achieved when I’m just being used for his pleasure.

Besides, it’s not like he’s a passive recipient here. Partway through, he gets up from the chair and tells me to sit on the floor by the bed, mouth open so he can fuck my throat. And later, I slip off my belt and hand it to him, asking him to beat me to make me suck him better. With a casual disdain that I find almost as hot as getting spat on, he eschews my thin canvas one and picks up his own belt instead. Fat, dark leather which delivers a satisfying thwack.

So back to teaching, then. Back to the practical. He lies on the bed, whipping me occasionally and making the muscles on my thighs twitch with the sting of it, while giving me feedback that sparks cuntfloods and revelations. At one point I ask him to show me how he wanks, and seeing the shape of his fist as he grips himself makes me realise I could approach his dick from a far more effective angle. I briefly wonder if, when I shift up the bed, presenting my bum to him so I can swallow his cock from above, he can see the dark patch of damp that’s spreading in my knickers as I do it.

Pressure/challenge

While we’re on the subject of learning, I can tell you that one of the things I have learned since I’ve been single is that many men these days will start a fuck by explaining that they might not come.

Does this surprise you? It surprised me. I have a huge kink for spunk, as you well know by now, but I’m also not a fool: I know that coming requires relaxation. Comfort. Familiarity. And that’s hard to find with brand new people, especially if we’ve had a drink or two before we get to shagging. What’s more, I’m a decade older than when I last did this, so the men I’m banging are generally older too, which makes orgasms slightly fewer and further between.

But one of the things I love about sucking cock is the challenge of it. By asking for explicit feedback, and being lucky enough to know men who are game to give it to me, I’ve successfully sucked jizz out of people who tell me they’ve never managed to come this way before, or those who say that they definitely won’t tonight. Add that to the joy of blow jobs too. And besides, even if someone doesn’t come, the instruction they’ve given me will be filed away for next time.

This dude likes being sucked far more softly than others I’ve known – that in itself is a challenge. Holding myself back when my instincts say he’s close, because usually that’s when I’d increase pressure or speed. Sucking this cock right is an exercise in self-control: the challenge here comes not from showing off how hard or fast I can do it, but from showing how well I take instruction.

It’s not about me being fancy or slutty or keen or even (though I say so myself) relentless and determined in pursuit of a mouthful of spunk. It’s about how well we do this together: him teaching, me learning, with both of us focused entirely on his dick. It’s not the end of the world if he doesn’t come, but I’m pretty sure he’s close – so fucking close – on multiple occasions, so giving up seems extremely undesirable right now.

And although I know that pressure doesn’t help someone come, I do know that Jez from Peep Show is always, always wrong: you’re allowed to ask. It’s not cheating.

So I ask him: “How close are you? Give it to me on a scale of one to ten.”

He’s at five right now, because I stopped to ask the question, so the soft long strokes are paused for a while and all he has is my wet fist gently stroking, but that’s OK – I don’t mind short-term losses for longer term gains because I really want to get him there. Really want my mouthful of spunk. And in order to get that I needed to know. So I ask how close I’ve managed to get him, and if he’d said ‘seven’ I’d call it quits but he says:

“Nine.”

Nine! Nine is possible. Nine is perfect agony! Nine is ‘one last push and I’m there.’ Nine is glory and success and the hot, salty flavour of victory. Finding out I’ve had him at a nine is like learning I’m just one wardrobe away from Narnia.

So I’m in. Locked on. Revelling in the sight of the head of his cock throbbing tight and taut and wet with my spit. Wrapping my lips around him and tuning in to the music that’s playing softly from the corner of that leather-toned hotel room. Watching his lovely hands gripping the bedsheets tightly as he builds to it, and feeling the throb in my cunt with each moan that escapes his throat.

Nine is possible. Nine is what I’m here for. Nine is the combination of his instruction and my determination and the joint result of our mutual getting-to-know-you-via-blow-jobs success. Nine is his balls getting tight and full, as he hovers on the brink… and by the time his cock starts twitching we aren’t at a ‘nine’ any more. So eager am I to swallow him down that I nearly drown myself in the process.

There’s more feedback afterwards, of course, as I catch my breath post-drowning and we talk about what we just did. Usually I’d do more, because post-match analysis is always fun learning too, not to mention the way you can share a laugh when you’re both still naked and breathless. But as I go to wash the smell of sloppy suck jobs off my face he checks his watch and we realise it’s long past closing.

I walk home with soaking knickers and the taste of cum in my throat.