Girl on the Net

Most of us dread being asked “what are you thinking?” – it’s like a bucket of cold water chucked on you from the sky, interrupting whatever train of thought you were pursuing. Inviting you to pluck the most recent flash of memory or fantasy from your head, and spit it out into the world. Without context, without nuance. It’s just there. Sometimes I am thinking thoughts so bizarre that I wouldn’t want him to hear them unprepared. Other thoughts are so dark that I wouldn’t voice them at all. But I like that he asks. I love that he asks. And for that, he deserves answers.

What are you thinking? 

I’m thinking about the fox tail butt plug you bought, and whether I’ll be able to see the full effect in the mirror, or if I’ll need you to take a picture to show me from a better angle.

What are you thinking? 

I’m wondering who’d win in a fight between you and my Dad.

What are you thinking? 

I’m thinking I really need a piss but I can’t be bothered to get off the sofa.

What are you thinking? 

I’m remembering this one time someone on a tube tutted at me, and what I should have said in response.

What are you thinking?

I can see your dick getting hard in your jeans.

What are…?

Don’t ask now.

Too pervy? 

Too dark.

OK. 

See the answer to the question matters less than the fact that he’s asked it. That at this particular moment, he wants a glimpse into the way my mind works. That’s what makes the question “what are you thinking?” so special. Dad-fights or butt plugs, darkness or horn, the question is significant regardless of the answer. Most relationship discussions are marked important or trivial based purely on the content: whose turn is it to take the bins out? Trivial. Should we open up our relationship? Significant. What shall we watch on Netflix? Trivial. Where shall we buy a house and live for the next ten years? You see what I mean.

But “what are you thinking?” is significant no matter what the answer. I could be dreaming about our next holiday or trying to remember an old limerick, contemplating how much I love him or wondering just how best to wind him up. Like with weird hypothetical questions, the actual answer matters less than the fact that he cares enough to ask.

I say this because I get sad when people dismiss that question. “Argh,” they complain. “It’s so annoying when my partner asks what I’m thinking – I’m wary that I’m being ushered into a trap, and if my answer is wrong or inadequate then they’ll be angry!” The idea, I guess, is that “what are you thinking?” amounts to an initial enquiry from the Thought Police, and arrest might soon follow. I hope it doesn’t – and I hope that people who ask have respect enough to listen to and enjoy the answer. The more you listen, the more you’ll learn.

What’s more, if you ask the question honestly, and pay close and respectful attention to the answer, then eventually someone might offer you more than just a glimpse into their thoughts – they’ll give you access to their most delicious fantasies…

What are you thinking? The filthy answer…

What are you thinking? 

I have a vivid picture in my head.

What kind of picture? 

Of you fucking me during a quiet night in. A quiet solo night in. Like the way you’ll sit in the living room and wank four times while I’m out for the evening. Except this time I’m not out, I’m just there. Sitting on the floor, or lying on the sofa, or with my face buried in the carpet and arse in the air, legs spread ready for you to fuck me.

Like a toy? 

No. A toy is too fun. Like a… useful object, which you resent having to use but – you know – needs must. Object is right, though. Object – not person.

Describe the picture. 

I’m lying on my side on one of the sofas, curled up in the foetal position with my face buried in a cushion. You’re sitting on the other sofa with your dick in one hand and a drink in the other, idly rubbing yourself as you watch porn. You pay me no attention at all. None.

As you start rubbing harder, though, your dick starts to get sore. You’ve been here for a while, lazily wanking, and it’s desensitised you. You need something more to get off.

And I’m just there on the sofa, cunt exposed, face buried in a pillow. I don’t move a muscle, and the only sign to indicate that I might not actually be part of the furniture is the slow rise and fall of my chest as I breathe, and the glistening wetness dripping from my cunt.

So I fuck you? 

Not just yet, no. First you slide your belt out through the loops of your trousers. You aren’t beating me like you would usually – as punishment or pleasure, to gauge my reaction to the sting. This time you’re beating me purely because you like the sound as your belt thwacks against my skin. Because this time you know that there can be no reaction. I won’t cry out or scream because I don’t really exist, so you can draw your arm back as far as it will go and hit me as hard as you like, and then watch the stripes grow bright red. The very act of doing this will make you harder.

And then what? 

Then you fuck me. You fuck me like you’re having a wank. An anger wank, where you can’t quite come. Or – later in the evening, after you’ve fucked me good and hard three or four times and you’re drained of energy and spunk – you fuck me lazily, knowing you won’t come but wanting to make the most of this anyway. This opportunity to feel wet cunt around your dick and have no responsibility to offer pleasure in return.

Just you. Alone. Fucking me.

That’s what I’m thinking.