Some men fuck like I make coffee: cheaply, quickly, and without fear for what you’ll have to wipe up afterwards.

I like this very much.

Naturally no one would want it like that all the time. If every guy came within a few seconds, panting ‘sorry’ five seconds after he’d whispered a ‘shall we?’ then sex would hold about as much joy for me as a quick, relief-fuelled piss behind a tree when I’m out walking and caught short.

But sometimes it’s exactly what I’m after. I love intense fucks: ones where you spend ages fucking me into a frothing squirm of orgasmic desperation, then deliver one or two nice, deep thrusts that give me that relief, but occasionally I bloody love it when you don’t.

When you put your dick inside me and – seconds later – I feel it pulsing come even as your muscles tense with cringing embarrassment.

‘I’m sorry.’
‘That almost never happens.’
‘Give me a few minutes and we’ll go again.’

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