Girl on the Net

I have rarely felt so seen by a guest blog as I do by this one on fucking your ex. Not that I’m going to fuck any of my exes, you understand. Nuh-uh. I probably shouldn’t. Love is an addiction and fucking your ex is like having just a bit of your favourite, favourite thing: like picking up just one cigarette when you’ve quit for three years, then buying a whole pack then another and another… Christ, I felt this blog post resonate in my skin. Please welcome the absolutely brilliant LM, whose last guest post was a searingly gorgeous BDSM love story (and she’s also written about sex supplements and feeling small and cute – check those out too!). Today she is here to talk about fucking your ex. Why you probably shouldn’t… and why she did anyway.

“We probably shouldn’t” – on fucking your ex

The incredibly hot, sexy older man and I ended things about two years ago. The first few months after we ended it were really hard – I was wounded and my heart ached for him. Navigating that first year was difficult – we tried not talking to each other and then sometimes we’d find ourselves in a flurry of messages, reminiscing about the old times.

Over a year later, when things had settled and hearts had been patched up, we met for lunch and went to the pub. He was always the driving force, often knowing my wants before I could express them myself but this time, I didn’t want anything. I didn’t know what to expect but I didn’t think I’d feel so… uncomfortable. Lunch with an ex can be tricky. At one point, he handed me his phone to look at something and his hand lingered on mine. A maddening and calculated move, I found out later, but one that felt neutral at the time. I’d buried my feelings long ago and weirdly, it didn’t stir anything. The thing that did was a message later, telling me he’d gone commando…

After that, it was always going to go one way with us. The next time we met up, I suggested we go for lunch again knowing that, without that distraction, we’d be all over each other in a second. We never could force anything and if we wanted each other, we really wanted each other.

Thirty minutes in and we’re driving to our park. Thirty five minutes in and we’re in the back of his car with his fingers buried in my cunt, forty minutes in and he’s about to come down my throat. We were all over each other again and it felt so good.

We probably shouldn’t

The next time we met up for lunch, we went to McDonald’s, which in the past had always been our thing. We drove forever to get to one, he remembered my order and because there was no parking, we ate on the drive back. I allowed myself the happy, confusing feeling of it being more like a date but was resolute in my feeling: we probably shouldn’t fuck in his car. The pull was strong, but that day my self control was stronger.

God, I love that man.

The next month we met up again. This time, there was no lunch – I couldn’t distract myself or him any longer. We wanted each other badly. We drove to our park and went for a walk. He unzipped my top and I revelled in feeling exposed. He found a tree and before I knew it, I was pushed against it and his hands were exploring me again. I loved how my body responded to him, how familiar it was and my brain which usually never switches off was quiet. We were all hands and mouths, drinking in as much as we could, stealing as many kisses and gropes as reality would allow us. When I come, I moan into his shoulder and feel his muscles tense. He needs to come but we’re not fucking anymore and I know he wants me to go back to work covered in his come. He pulls my pants and knickers down, just enough so that I can wank him off and when he comes, I realise just how much I’ve missed him.

Sex is a force bigger than me

Another month, another lunch and catch up… which only meant one thing. This time we took the quicker route to our tree, in our park. I love that feeling of urgency and the need to get to each other’s skin. Over the years, he’s learned how to make me squirt. How to make me come hard. He learned what kind of reaction his fingers in my cunt or on my clit would elicit and how far he could take me through multiple forced orgasms.

That day he didn’t stop until I was practically crying his name. It reminded me so much of old times. That day I didn’t want to go back to work, I wanted to go back to mine so we could test out my new bed. He sent me back to work with my knickers full of his come.

We haven’t seen each other for a few months but we message every now and then. I’m still of the opinion that we probably shouldn’t but… when your cunt is throbbing while you’re talking and you let him know just how much, and his response is “I still own her”…

…it really is incredibly hard to think sensibly.