Girl on the Net

Once, I asked him to give me the first stroke as slowly as he possibly could. Prolong that initial shot of cock for as long as humanly possible. From the moment the head of his dick touched the wet lips of my cunt to the final stretch as it nudged against my cervix: make the first stroke of that fuck really fucking last.

He put me in the spreader bar to begin with (the velcro one on this page, if you’re interested) and secured my ankles tightly. Already eager to start, I assumed the position – face planted in the duvet, arse high in the air, hands stretching through between my open legs, so my wrists could be strapped to the spreader bar too. Folding myself in half for ease of access, so when he slid his cock in there would be no false starts or awkward angles. Positioned right at the edge of the bed, so the hole he was fucking would sit at the perfect height. He wouldn’t need to bend his knees or stand even slightly on tiptoe: my cunt was directly in front of his cock.

Aching and wet. Dripping.

I’d have squirmed if I could move, but as it was all I could do was whimper and let out a little sigh: “Please please.”

I could hear him behind me rubbing at his dick. Could picture his eyes, downcast and focusing on the sight of me strapped up and spread for him.

One more whimper? Sure: “Pleeeeease.”

My cunt throbbed with the need to get fucked. I could feel that welcome, familiar cramp at the entrance which wouldn’t be soothed until I had something hard to clamp down on.

His cock.

Make that first stroke last as long as you can. 

And he did. When he pressed the head of his dick at the entrance, he paused there briefly. As if the wetness of me felt soothing against the pounding of the blood that filled the very tip.

I could sense from how he stood that he was holding it, too: one of his hands was on the peak of my arse, keeping me still so I couldn’t get greedy and push back, the other was wrapped tightly around the shaft of his cock, holding the foreskin back so he too could make the most of every tiny nerve ending.

All the sensation.

He pressed it against me – not enough to go inside, just enough to wet it. When he pulled back I pictured exactly how the tip would look – shiny with my cunt juice. Taut and full and moist.

We hadn’t even got to the first stroke yet, not really. The first stroke is marked by the point at which his cock crosses the aching ring of need right at the entrance – the part of my cunt which starts tightly then, as you push further inside, gives way. When it goes from resisting the urgent thrust of his prick to actively hungering for it. Sucking him in. Enveloping and dragging him deeper inside me.

He pushed the head in further – just a tiny bit. Enough that the widest part of the head was almost through that telltale ring of rigidity. I wanted, so badly, to push back. To say “fuck it, I can’t cope, I need it right now.” To let my impatience win.

What won out instead was my desire for him to make that first stroke last. I didn’t care about the fuckstrokes that came afterwards. Once he was done with that first, he could do what he liked: pound me till I was raw and whimpering, or pull out and leave me to stew in my own oblivion. But that first stroke? It’s a uniquely exquisite type of pleasure.

That initial penetration is the first sip of a cold pint after a ten-mile hike. The itch between your shoulder blades that’s been bugging you all day, which you finally manage to reach with the aid of a friend. It’s the cathartic moment in an end-of-the-world movie which pushes you over the edge of dramatic tension and into floods of shuddery tears.

I wanted him to make that first stroke last.

And how he did.

As the head of his cock slipped so slowly past that yearning throb at the entrance to my cunt, I felt it in more detail than I ever had before: the ridge at the head, and the way it pressed me open. The slow-release ‘pop’ as he drove it further in. The clenching, tingling thrill as he steadily pushed onwards, allowing me to feel every facet not just of the texture of his cock, but the texture of my own cunt as it yielded to him. I clenched myself so fucking tight around him to better feel every single blissful inch of it.

I don’t know how long that first stroke lasted. It might have been seconds, but it’s possible he stretched it out for a full minute. As I whimpered and moaned (I don’t remember exactly what, but I imagine there was plenty more ‘please‘ to go round), I forgot the tightness of the velcro straps on my wrists and ankles and the uncomfortable angle of my neck as I lay muffled in the duvet. My mind could focus on one thing and one thing only: that first fucking stroke with his rock-solid dick.

I knew it was coming to an end when I felt the gentle kiss of his flesh against my bum – the cold softness of his belly and thighs coming to nudge up against me. Knowing it was almost over, I moaned with misery and joy and ludicrous nostalgia for how the world had been mere seconds ago. Then I felt the head of his dick putting pressure on my cervix. Just a little at first, then more, and then more, until he was all the way in – so deep inside me that his cock was bearing down on yesterday’s bruises.

I have never felt so utterly and completely full as I did in that moment. And whether it was seconds or minutes or hours, I could have existed in that state for as long as he was willing to hold it.

I’d have taken that first stroke for as long as he could make it last.

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

If you’d asked me ten years ago whether it was possible to write erotica about one single fuckstroke, I’d have laughed you out of the room. But yeah, it turns out it is. Not only am I quite proud of this piece, but this is the real-life incident I most frequently wank about these days. While using a Zumio on my clit and inserting a dildo reeeeaalllly fucking slooooowly. You can have that tip for free.