Читать книгу Girl On The Net: My Not-So-Shameful Sex Secrets - Литагент HarperCollins USD, J. F. C. Harrison, Professor J. D. Scoffbowl - Страница 10

Inevitably, number one and I set about having as much sex as was humanly possible in the often very short times we’d be together. I’d head straight to his house after school, and had a curfew of nine p.m. This meant we had roughly five hours in which to consume as much as we could from the all-you-can-fuck buffet.

Naïvely, I’d assumed—based purely on a passing reference in that classic educational film Grease—that sex took around fifteen minutes. My assumptions around that were shattered in the five seconds it took number one to jizz away our virginities, so I modified my expectations and assumed that fifteen minutes was the average recovery time between quivering ejaculation and the next enthusiastic hard-on.

I was swiftly proven wrong.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m sucking you off.’

‘But … we’ve only just had sex.’

‘Yeah, about fifteen minutes ago. Now can we have sex again?’

‘Umm … how about we watch telly for a bit?’

To paraphrase everyone’s parents: I wasn’t angry, just disappointed. Everything I’d ever read, seen and heard about sex, including the rather memorable chat from my dad, had promised me that men were constantly on the boil. Sure, they’d occasionally neglect their erections to leave the house and hunt for food or Xbox games, but realistically there was very little chance that a man would turn down sex with a woman he fancied. Some publications—notably FHM, which I devoured as if it were The Idiot’s Guide to Men—even went as far as to suggest that your chosen man didn’t need to fancy you that much. Consequently, I believed guys just needed a spare half-hour and a structurally sound erection and Bob’s your undiscerning horny neighbour, a shag would be all mine.

Poor number one.

Not only did he have to cope with a girlfriend who was far more confident—and for ‘confident’ read ‘loud, horny, and unafraid to mention it’—than him, he was also solely responsible for battling years of ingrained stereotypes about his gender.

Sometimes he had a headache. Sometimes he was tired. Sometimes it would get to eight p.m. and he was simply empty of spunk, having managed to successfully live up to my expectations for a good four hours already. He’d shyly ask me if I wanted to watch TV or listen to some music. He’d offer me food, cigarettes, a refreshing walk in the sunshine, or if things were getting desperate he’d play his guitar, staring earnestly at me to try and tap into a romance that neither of us was old enough to be comfortable with. Occasionally, when all else had failed, and his attempts at distracting me simply led to comments about how I loved watching his hands as he strummed his guitar and could we have sex now pleasepleaseplease, he’d lead me into the kitchen and encourage me into protracted conversation with his parents just so that he had a chance to rest.

It’s not that I’m insatiable, I’ve never been insatiable. Thanks to my superlative wanking skills, I’ll happily go without sex for a while. And as an adult I’d see this situation for what it was—a slight mismatch in sex drives that could easily be solved by a bit of conversation and compromise from both parties. But I wasn’t an adult, I was sixteen, and as such I was devastated. I was a sixteen-year-old girl who had been told that all men would want to fuck her, that they were only after that one thing, and it was I who’d have to feign headaches and manage expectations just to get a decent night’s sleep.

Having been conditioned to believe this, it was humiliating to find that this man—my man, my teenaged boy—who should by all rights be an insatiable sex pest, was immune to the sexual temptation I threw at him.

I’d whisper filthy things, dress in cheap Ann Summers lingerie, strip naked for him and beg him to touch me. My attempts at seduction were as ham-fisted and incompetent as his undiplomatic rejections, but that just made things worse.

Late at night, after another failed attempt to tease an erection out of his exhausted cock, I’d lie next to him in his single bed, beneath a poster of Shirley Manson looking like teen-punk sex made flesh, and cry myself to sleep.

As an adult I know these lies for what they are—not all men want sex all the time, and not all women will punch the air in celebration if they receive a ‘get out of sex free’ card. People are just different, with different drives and needs and desires. I didn’t understand that back then, but I wish I had. It would have saved me the misery and heartache of trying to work out why I wasn’t sexy enough for my boyfriend, and it would have saved him the humiliation of having to explain to his sixteen-year-old lover why he couldn’t maintain a fifth erection in one night.

It’s important to challenge the assumption that ‘men are only after one thing’, because publicly recognising that it is definitely not true helps all of us feel a bit more normal. If young women grow up thinking that all men want to sleep with them, we’re not giving them the gift of insight, we’re telling them an outright lie. A lie that will lead to humiliating disappointment for our daughters, and—most importantly for my poor first boyfriend—give our sons a reputation that they could never possibly live up to.

But I shouldn’t complain about number one. As I say, it was mostly the fault of the weird expectations I had about male libido that led to my sexual frustration. I don’t mean to cast aspersions on his manhood—he was actually incredibly good. I am gobsmacked that we managed to have quite as much excellent sex as we did given that neither of us knew much beyond what we’d been told by teachers, parents and the aforementioned well-thumbed copies of FHM.

So although the sex wasn’t quite as copious as I’d have liked, it was certainly decent, and I won’t complain just because the poor guy hadn’t yet managed to overcome the limitations of biology and started producing six gallons of jizz per day from a permanently erect penis. We’d still shag a lot—at his house, at my house, at parties. In sheds, behind bushes, in tents. We learnt enough about each other’s body that we could frig each other to simple, gleeful orgasms during snatched moments—on buses, in his parent’s kitchen and, of course, in the darkest corners of the local park. On one memorable occasion we shagged in a treehouse, learning two lessons at once, namely that a) sex is much better when your friends aren’t standing nearby shouting ‘Timbeeeeer’ and b) it’s impossible to remain aroused when you’re within three feet of a garden spider.

Our parents soon learned what we were up to, and were given ample opportunity to lecture us about condoms, carelessness and conception. The Talk came earlier for me than for him, and certainly far earlier than my mum would ever have expected:

‘Can I stay round his house this Friday?’

‘What, in his bed?’

‘Yep.’

‘Umm … we need to have a talk. I don’t want you sleeping with him until you’re completely ready.’

I thought it appropriate to cut the chat short early to save embarrassment. ‘I already have.’

‘You have? But … when?’ For some reason as soon as they have children parents forget that sex can be had in places other than beds, and at times other than night time. I have not yet met a single teenager whose parents haven’t insisted on placing restrictions on couples sleeping together. As if without the sleeping there can be no sex.

‘Yesterday. And a few days before that. And every time I’ve been at his house for the last few weeks.’

‘Oh. Well, are you using condoms?’

‘Yep.’

‘That’s good.’

In hindsight, it might have been cruel to spring things on her so quickly. My sister, who was eighteen months older, had showed no signs of wanting to rampantly hump anyone, and I felt like I was jumping the queue.

I was clearly opening doors that my mum hadn’t quite been ready for me to see behind, and I got the distinct impression that she felt like she’d let me down. Like she’d missed out on the chance to talk to me about sex before I actually did it. Still, after she’d shed a few tears for my lost innocence, and warned me to be careful, I hopped up and went to get ready for a night at number one’s house.

‘I’ll be careful. We’ve got loads of condoms.’

‘Well, that’s good. But it’s not just the pregnancy thing. It’s the heartbreak thing.’ She didn’t hold me back, just let me breeze out of the room with a ‘good point’ hanging in the air, but she was right. No matter how many packets of Durex you have, the heartbreak thing can still get you.

Number one taught me a lot. Other than how to shag, and how to stop asking him for a shag when he was knackered, he taught me that I wasn’t going to die alone. This was comforting, as I’d spent the previous year chasing plaintively after First Love and staring into the mirror wondering what, exactly, was so horribly wrong with me that my love was destined to be unrequited. I’d begun to wonder if perhaps the reason First Love wouldn’t fuck me was because I was just fundamentally unfuckable. Glasses, bushy hair, puppy fat and a tendency to correct people’s grammar did not really work to my advantage when trying to convince anyone I was a sex kitten. But although First Love remained resolute in his decision to Just Be Friends, number one seemed to like whatever limited charms I had to offer.

And, curiously, as soon as number one started liking me, other boys did too. It began gradually. Those boys who’d previously laughed at me started to simply ignore me, and those who’d ignored me gave the occasional ‘hello’. It probably helped that, in my relentless quest to make number one have sex with me as often as was biologically possible, I’d taken to wearing clothes that showed off my obvious bits: out went the baggy shirts and jumpers, in came skintight, low-cut tops, and skirts in which I was—for very good reason—nervous to bend over. And it wasn’t just the way I dressed. I started acting more like someone who was a possibility. The guys who’d previously written me off weren’t stupid—they recognised that although I was uncool, I was nevertheless getting laid, which significantly increased the possibility that I’d be willing to lay them. They weren’t all interested—some were still far too cool to consider me. But if you throw a stone into a crowd of seventeen-year-olds you’re bound to hit a good few virgins, at least three of whom will almost certainly have an undiscerning erection.

I wanted so much to talk about fucking. I wanted to talk about it to others who’d done it, and especially to those who hadn’t. Don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t looking for sex tips. Given my age the best I’d have got from my peers would be untried-and-untested playground shite, things that grown adults have long since realised are either faintly amusing or complete turn-offs altogether.

‘Try putting a condom on with your mouth.’

‘Put whipped cream on his dick then lick it off.’

‘Get him to suck on an extra strong mint then stick his tongue in your fanny.’ (This last one, attempted by at least four of my close friends at the time, only ever resulted in either ‘ow’s, ‘euggh’s or ‘meh’s.)

I didn’t want to talk to people to get their advice; I just wanted to hear them talk about fucking. I wanted to know how they felt about it—what they liked and didn’t, what they’d tried and hadn’t. I’d listen to my friends telling stories in voices that sounded much more confident than they were, and I’d imagine them getting hard, getting wet, frotting each other in exactly the way number one and I would. I’d store the tales up for later when I was sucking number one’s cock. Who needs porn when you’ve a headful of teenage orgies and a nice, solid prick in your mouth?

I don’t know if they thought the same about me. I’d like to think so. And I certainly told my fair share of stories. Even if the guys I was talking to weren’t specifically interested in me, they were certainly interested in genuine, honest-to-goodness real-life accounts of sex. This was evidenced by erections they thought I wouldn’t notice pushing visibly at the fabric of their jeans. Or T-shirts swiftly and casually draped so that they covered a guy’s crotch. Alongside those I’ve mentioned already, there was one guy on whom they had an especially satisfying effect: First Love.

We were still speaking to each other on the phone. Once a week he’d call me, or I’d call him, and we’d spend hours lounging around chatting. We’d talk about anything that was happening in his life and, on account of our mutual interests, everything that was happening in my life that had anything to do with sex. I relayed tales of my latest fuck, my worries about number one’s sex drive, my guilty lust for other boys who’d stare openly at my newly displayed tits. And I’d hear him at the other end of the phone getting—if not necessarily hard—interested.

‘What’s it like being on top?’

‘It’s fun, I guess. It depends on what he’s doing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if he’s touching my tits, it’s good. If he’s looking a bit bored, not so much.’

‘I think when I start having sex that’ll be my favourite position. Do you keep your bra on?’

‘Sometimes. Most of the time, actually. I like it like that. I prefer to be a bit less than naked. It’s hotter.’

And so on.

‘Has he ever fucked you with your knickers on? Has he ever come on your face? Has he fucked you in the … you know?’

And on. And on. He painted the most vivid pictures for me, of things I could be doing and had done. And I felt vaguely guilty because relaying the sex I’d had seemed ever so slightly hotter than actually doing it, because I was relaying it to him. Guiltily, I’d imagine not number one’s hands firmly gripping my tits while I lowered myself onto his erection, but First Love’s. With his thin wrists and quick fingers and the thick black watch on his right arm. Sometimes, when I tumbled onto (always ‘onto’, rarely ever into) bed with number one, I’d guide his hands to the places First Love had talked about, and imagined how he’d grin at me as he got undressed.

I would have given anything to know if First Love’s cock was hard while we had those conversations. I’m not an idiot—I didn’t expect him to hop on a train and come all the way back to me just for the promise of me writhing around on his dick. But I wanted him to understand that he and I could work together. Not just because we were friends who were capable of holding a conversation for more than ten minutes about something more significant than A-level coursework, but because we’d fit together so well when fucking. That he was the perfect guy for me because he wanted to fuck just like I did. As much as I did. As hard as I did.

While he was chasing girls in his new hometown, playing at being cool and interesting and—I cringe to say it—‘boyfriend material’, all he wanted he had already: a willing, horny girl. Although I’m sure there were any number of these girls in his new town, crucially they’d be unlikely to come out of the woodwork while he was chatting them up by offering bowling, cinema trips and the aforementioned ‘coursework’ discussion. To me he offered filth—dribbling, throbbing, knicker-moistening filth. The fact that he could only have these chats with me made me not only willing and horny, but—to him at least—unique.

I didn’t quite have the words or the confidence to say it at the time, but what I was trying to tell him, and number one as well, is that I like sex. I want sex. Women want sex. You don’t need to take us bowling to distract us from realising that you find us explosively attractive. OK, you might not be best off starting a date by saying ‘Hey, I’ve got a massive erection for you right now,’ but you don’t need to pretend to be a sexless Ken doll. Women like sex, and we want to know that you’re horny. Most of us want to feel desired and lusted after and attractive. Ultimately, of course, if we fancy you then we want to fuck you: we’re not just doing it as a favour in exchange for a cinema ticket.

I was initially too busy basking in my fucklust for number one and my miserable unrequited First Love to notice number two. He wasn’t exactly a friend, just a guy I happened to have a couple of classes with. But apparently he’d been noticing me. One day he passed me a note that read:

‘I’m so sorry I offended you. I didn’t mean to take the piss. I actually think you’re amazing and was wondering if you and your mate Jenny want to come to a house party with us on Friday?’

His ability to offend me combined with his nicely worded compliment had the desired effect. Not only did I want to go to the party, I wanted to sit on his cock and fuck him until he was dry.

I’ll rewind a bit. Number two had exploded into my life by not just offending me but enraging me. It had happened a few days earlier, when I was waiting at a bus stop with number one. I was standing up and number one was sitting on the bin just beside me. He, I think, had one hand down my top, and I was seeing if I could brush one or other of my hands over the erection he was cultivating inside his baggy jeans. I was enjoying the moment partly because of the simple, public hotness of it, and partly because we were in an excellent position for snogging, with our mouths at identical heights.

Height had always been an issue for us, because number one was short, and I have always been a massive girl. I stand at five foot eleven in bare feet, which means that in high-heeled boots I rock a good six feet three inches.

This didn’t cause any major issues between the two of us—after all, I was more than capable of retrieving things from high shelves without assistance, so it had never occurred to me that I should limit my potential boyfriends to those who could reach a couple of inches higher than I could. But for some reason as soon as I started dating a short guy, everyone wanted to point it out.

‘You’re tall,’ they’d say.

‘Why, yes, I am,’ I’d reply.

‘And he’s … well … he’s quite short.’ Usually uttered with a quizzical expression.

‘So he is.’ Usually uttered with an angry ‘when are you going to fuck off?’ expression.

‘Does it make it hard when you shag?’ they’d ask.

‘No. But it makes it hard to avoid spanking people like you who mention it,’ I’d wish I’d answered.

The average height for guys in England is around five foot nine or ten. Using this information, even the young version of me was able to deduce that if I only fucked guys who were taller than I was I’d spend most of my life alone. I decided that this was not a scenario I was particularly happy with.

Even leaving the practicalities aside—I didn’t fancy carrying a measuring stick around with me and wearing a T-shirt that said ‘you must be at least this tall to ride’—there is genuinely nothing wrong with a male/female coupling in which the guy is shorter. The only reason we think it’s weird is because cretins point out that society has expectations about height. It’s a way to make people feel self-conscious about things they have no control over—playground bullying that grown-ups should have grown out of.

Number one stood just a bit higher than my shoulder, but I got used to it after about a week. From then on the only time I noticed it was when judgemental strangers would make snide comments. ‘Don’t you get a sore neck?’ ‘Isn’t it hard to fuck up against a wall?’ They’re not really interested. They just want to discuss it and point out how ridiculous it is that we don’t conform to the exact physical expectations that they’d have regarding gender and height. Ha fucking ha.

I later learned that it wasn’t just height. People feel like it’s their business to comment on almost any aspect of your taste. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve told someone how hot I find a particular guy only to hear them reply, ‘What, him?! But he’s so old/fat/short/bald/pale/scruffy.’

The only possible response to these people is ‘fuck you.’ Whoever you choose for a partner, there’ll be some weapons-grade bastard looking sideways at you with raised eyebrows, wondering what on earth it is you see in each other. If you listen to them the only people you’ll end up dating are the bastards themselves, while all the nice people look on from the sidelines, far too polite to ask why you’re dating someone whose idea of ‘compatibility’ is based purely on a size ratio.

Number one taught me my first lesson in ignoring the hell out of these people, and a bloody valuable one it was too.

So, back to the bus stop and the bin. Number one and I were snogging in full view of an understandably disgusted band of students. My black lipstick was smeared halfway across his face, making it look like he had a big purple bruise, and every now and then someone would mutter ‘Get a room,’ demonstrating how thoroughly the majority of people miss the fact that the only reason people frot in public is because they rarely have a room to go to. But neither number one nor I gave the tiniest of shits. We were young, and happy, and so horny it hurt. My cunt would twitch and I could feel the pain deep inside me as I pulled him closer, willing the bus to come quickly so we could head to his house and retire to the room our fellow students were so keen that we should get.

And then the bus drew up at the stop, and we turned around to get on. Two boys I vaguely knew were sitting on the upper deck, pointing down at us and laughing. I caught the eye of one of them, recognising number two from the classes we had together at college. As he caught my eye he laughed even louder, gesturing through the window to hammer home the point—unless it hadn’t been hurtfully obvious enough—that it was my boyfriend he was laughing at.

I gave him the finger, and then took the boy back home to fuck.

The next day I tackled him head-on. I didn’t mind being laughed at, but I wanted to know exactly why this borderline stranger felt he could comment on—or point mockingly at—the boyfriend I was so proud of. I confronted him in the only way that seemed fitting to a dramatic prick like me: loudly, angrily, and where I knew everyone would see. I wanted number two to feel as humiliated and pissed off as I did. I wanted him to feel sorry. I wanted him to know exactly why I was angry, and how he’d made me feel. And, because he was quite attractive and I was never one to miss an opportunity, I wanted him to get a good look at my tits.

‘What the FUCK did you think you were doing yesterday?’

‘I … umm … I just thought it was funny.’

‘What was funny?’

‘Your boyfriend.’

‘What about my boyfriend?’

‘He’s … umm … short?’

‘True. But he’s also a very good fuck.’

‘…’

‘If you ever do that again I will drop-kick you off a pier.’ I don’t remember my exact words, but I’m sure they were at least as obnoxious as these, if not more so. I tossed my head like an arrogant shit, put my hands on my hips, puffed my chest out just to make utterly sure that he had a good opportunity to look at my boobs, then turned on my heel and walked away.

Clearly what I deserved was to be taken down a peg or two. No matter how right I was—and I was—to tell him off, number two wouldn’t have been entirely to blame if he’d never spoken to or of me again, except for perhaps the occasional mention of ‘that shouty goth girl’. But he didn’t: instead he sent me that note:

‘I’m so sorry I offended you. I didn’t mean to take the piss. I actually think you’re amazing and was wondering if you and your mate Jenny want to come to a house party with us on Friday?’

Of course I went to the party.

Almost everything about number two reminded me of First Love. He was intelligent, he was witty, he was funny, he was more than willing to take the piss out of me. But best of all, he was a virgin. A genuine, honest-to-God, never-even-fingered-a-girl virgin.

Number two was tall—he’d have to be—and blond. He had big shoulders and thick wrists and soft, fat fingers. I was fascinated by how different he was to number one: loud and brash and extrovert, while number one hid shyly behind me. His height and bulk was a welcome change from one’s lithe nimbleness. It made me feel small and delicate in a way I hadn’t experienced before. I was curious about how it would feel to have him lie on top of me, pinning me down with hands that were stronger than mine. He felt different, acted different, smelled different.

Where number one had grown used to my almost constant need to fuck, number two was practically shaking with a need for it. His wide, terrified eyes pleaded not ‘I can’t’ but ‘can I?’ It was desire coupled with fear—the fear that if he actually tried to fuck me we wouldn’t be friends any more. He’d play the short-term game and try to cop a feel only to find that me and my tits would walk away for ever. I’d look at number two and will him to make a move, and he’d look at me and will me to let him.

It was a frustrating friendship. We’d joke, and play, write filthy notes during English lessons, and brush up against each other on the bus. When we hugged I quivered at the feeling of his hard-on digging into my hips. And yet all the time he was holding back because he thought I wouldn’t want him. While I’d spent my childhood being told that men always want sex, he’d had the lesson from the other side: women didn’t want sex, and that was that.

These lessons are still being taught, despite the material being dramatically out of date. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve shocked a guy by admitting what is not exactly a revolutionary truth: I like it when guys come in my mouth. I like anal. I like that thing boys do late at night when they nudge me with their erection as a means of testing whether I fancy a shag. That it takes time for a new message—women like sex too, dickheads!—to be disseminated isn’t particularly surprising, what’s surprising is that the message took hold in the first place. It doesn’t do us much good as a species to maintain the belief that fifty per cent of the population doesn’t enjoy something that the other fifty per cent is desperate for.

As far as number two was aware, there was some magical formula that consisted of flowers, fun and flattery and if you got those things in just the right quantities then a girl would reward you with a grudging fuck.

But he was wrong.

I wanted him so badly I utterly ached. His tentative touches would leave me trembling—hot and wet and desperate for him to do more. And it’s so hard to say ‘do more, please do more’ when you’re seventeen and insecure and only just getting to grips with the fact that you’ve got boobs, and puppy fat, and legs you’re apparently supposed to shave at least once a sodding week from now on. As an adult I’ve got over this problem, and will happily open my mouth to utter a ‘please, please fuck me’ when the situation demands it. But when I was younger I was still nervous—of rejection, of being labelled a slut. So I waited, and I writhed, and I masturbated vigorously thinking about his touches and praying that he’d become a bit bolder.

We’d spent countless nights together already, having fallen onto adjoining portions of floor when house parties wound down. Ever aware of the potential for gossip, we’d touch each other up in the dark, breathing as quietly and as infrequently as possible to avoid waking those who were sleeping nearby. I’d lie next to him panting with longing, while he tentatively ran his fingers over my nipples. He never tired of the feel of them, the miracle of keeping me on a knife-edge of desire for so long. By the early hours, when we finally managed to sleep, my nipples would be red-raw and throbbing with pain.

Eventually I realised he wasn’t going to make a proper move. Having never experienced sex, he was happy to stick to whatever we were doing—touching each other gently to facilitate future wanks—until one or other of us was driven completely insane. So I got a bit bolder myself.

One night, in a bed with a few others asleep beside us, he slipped his hand tentatively into my knickers. I was slick with frustrated desire, wet as only a teenage girl can get. He was trembling with fear and so hard I worried I’d hurt him if I squeezed his dick with any kind of vigour.

When his hand reached my cunt and he realised how wet I was he couldn’t keep silent—he moaned.

Just remembering number two’s surprised, lustful moan is one of my hottest memories.

After hearing his stifled cry, I couldn’t leave without doing something. At that point I’d have traded my money, my youth, even my as-yet-unfinished A-levels just to have him inside me. I whispered to him and grabbed his hand. We left our friends sleeping and scurried into an empty bedroom, where we fell onto the bed—me in a panting, aching heap and he in a trembling, terrified one. I kissed him; I told him I wanted him. I fluttered my seventeen-year-old eyelashes and begged him to fuck me.

But he couldn’t fuck me.

He was so scared that he couldn’t get hard. I sucked him gently, I told him he was hot, I told him I was desperate for it, and eventually I got him just hard enough to roll on a condom and try. I climbed on top of him, slipped him into me, and sat down slowly on his semi-hard cock. But it was clear that it just wasn’t happening.

He’d lost his virginity—just. But he’d mislaid a fair portion of his dignity, too, and it broke my heart to think that instead of remembering me with a gleeful nostalgia, he’d look back on the whole thing with shame. The idea of that made me desperately sad. And, OK, the idea of not actually getting to fuck him at all made me sadder. He believed sex was a gift I was bestowing on him, to have him open it only to find the sexual equivalent of novelty socks was more than I could bear.

A couple of weeks later, at his house, he was relaxed. Not calm, as such—his cock was straining at the fabric of his jeans—but he was much readier to fuck.

‘What do I do?’

‘Whatever you want.’

‘Can I do this?’

‘Yes. Please.’

‘What if I’m crap?’

‘You’re not.’

He ran his fingers nervously over my body, touching wherever he thought he was allowed. I pulled up my top, unhooked my bra, guided him. I wanted to show him he wasn’t just allowed, he was needed. I needed his touch, needed him inside me to quell the aching hurt in my cunt. He didn’t need to make me come, he just needed to be in me, to give me some release.

He struggled to take off his jeans, his hands shaking with lust and frustration. I helped him get them off, wrapped my legs around him, and held myself up, nice and wide and easy so he could slide himself in.

With his hands each side of my head, he pushed his cock into me—deep and rock hard. I felt it stretch me out, open me up, scratch the itch that he’d created during those long nights of furtively stroking my nipples. The itch he’d created with that anguished desperate moan.

The sex itself was good, but the best thing was that as I sighed with satisfaction he finally understood that I wasn’t exchanging sex with him for anything: sex itself was the goal. I wasn’t fucking him because he wanted it, but because I needed it. I need sex like I need music and dancing and chocolate cake. And I was no more ‘letting him’ have sex with me than I’d ‘let’ someone give me a birthday present.

I grinned as he sped up, and thrust angrily against him so he could feel every movement. As he got closer he let out a strangled cry, and I squeezed my cunt and thighs extra tight around him as I felt him come hard inside me.

It was possibly the best five seconds of my entire fucking life.