Peyton is with my ex for the next few hours and I am home alone watching a bunch of hokey Christmas movies and sipping on cheap champagne. The Neighbor is in colder weather with his family and I am alone with a herd of Christmas animals I’ve volunteered to watch for a few days. Life is pretty good at the moment. I just wish I had wood for my fire — it’s somehow lonelier without one.
This year is much the same as last and all the others: Peyton is with my ex for a few hours so I’m alone, I’ve got the herd of animals (but they’re mine this time), no wood for the fire (or a fireplace, but I like to watch the Fireplace Channel so I sort of have one — don’t judge!), and The Neighbor is once again in much colder weather with his family.
What’s different is someone loves me. Not a bad change.
I love this Christmas Story of mine not just because of its salacious nature, but because it marks the beginning of everything for me. It happened 4 years ago today, seemingly a lifetime, but just like yesterday. I can still close my eyes and feel them on me. That was a night to go in the record books. And without it I might not be where I am today.
Troy reached out to me recently — filled with his own nostalgia I presume — and suggested that he, Jack and I get together for a drink. I told him I’d love to. Troy and I crackle when together and Jack is the perfect grounding unit. It could be a lot of fun, like old school-time buddies except we’re talking cocks and pussies, not keg stands and finals.
I wish everyone a very Merry Christmas and hope that today brings you much love and warmth!
[A re-post from a couple of years ago because I still get a lot of questions. Also, everything I’ve written here still stands; I’m a squirting machine! Apparently, lots of other ladies are, too. Both Dawn and Caitlyn have written about their experiences with it . xx Hy]
A lot of women want to know how to squirt. Here’s what I’ve learned to do.
Making G-spot Contact
The first time it ever happened to me was roughly 14 years ago. At this point in my sexual history I had just ended a year-long relationship where I orgasmed from only sex (both while on top and bottom) and also had only ever orgasmed from oral once. I was 25.
This particular squirting night was just your average tryst. Nothing special except that this cock was significantly bigger than the one that had made me orgasm for a year. However, despite being less than 5 inches long and fairly narrow, that smaller penis had taught me to sit low and heavy on a man’s groin, to really sink into it and how to ride him with abandon.
I’d been under the wrong impression for years that making love while on top should replicate the man’s motion like when he was on top, but with a cock that was smaller that didn’t work, hence my new moves: to grind down hard and tilt my pelvic cradle against my lover’s in order to stimulate my clitoris against his pubis, to sit tall and not lean over. I came every time with a big clitoral orgasm.
So, naturally, I applied my new method with the bigger lover. I began to feel a glow in my womb and my chest felt numb and buzzing and then I felt a release similar to the sensation of urinating, but slightly higher than my urethra. Throughout my body it felt big and blossoming all the way to my fingertips. It was distinctly different from the orgasms I was used to.
That first time it squirted in my lover’s eye. We both stopped for a second to laugh. I didn’t know what to say. He exclaimed, “You squirted!” I had no idea what that even meant, but I felt no shame about it. He seemed really pleased. And then we kept going.
Looking back on it, that was my first experience with a g-spot orgasm.
Size Can Matter
I never felt that again until the first time I had sex with Troy (story is here) and it was because his cock was big enough to massage my g-spot no matter what position we were in; I didn’t have to be on top. He was by far the biggest man I’d ever been with (around 8.5″). He was elated by my juices and I was utterly incapable of controlling them. They just happened to me. It became the center of our fucking.
Which is what set me off in the hunt of large cocks. Honestly, that’s the only reason. I happen to have a deep well and a larger member hits me just right every time. The smaller ones simply didn’t. Until I learned some new tricks…
Head Space – What I do
Today I don’t need a large cock to squirt anymore – yay! I’ve learned to squirt on command about 4 out of every 5 times that I try, and it’s dependent on a couple of things. First, I have to be significantly turned on, and second, the more I trust my lover the easier it becomes. My head has to be in the right place if I’m the one in charge of my squirting.
When alone, I imagine gripping the shaft of a cock with my pussy like a fist, and then simultaneously I push out around it while relaxing. All my focus, all my energy, all my breath is focused on my cunt. I contract a few times, then release and push out. Repeat. It’s all I can feel. If I squirt by myself, totally alone, with nothing and no one touching me I am a quintessential pussy. I have this, I think, I am this. If I squirt with my Hitachi, which is actually fairly rare, I am typically sitting on the edge of a bed or standing, so there is pressure on my vulva.
When with a lover, tantric lovemaking elicits much wetness from me and my lover doesn’t even have to be participating in the method. Contracting my vaginal muscles as he pulls out – as if I were sucking him back in – and then pushing against him as he pushes back in – like bearing down – stimulates my g-spot. Switching back and forth like this is only possible when the pace is slower. When the pace is frantic I simply grip with all my might.
Skills – What He Does
There are two things that my lovers have done that have caused me to squirt deliberately. One is with their cock, the other with their hands and fingers.
With any size cock, he pulls out all the way or almost all the way, and if I’m doing my tantric gripping, the sensation of leaving my body makes me squirt.
With his hands and fingers, he curls his fingers inside of me with his palm on my pubis and he slams his hand against me in a small, rapid circular motion. It’s a lot of work for him, it’s not gentle. It’s rough and intense and has always, without exception, yielded results for me.
The Neighbor said that technique worked on an ex-girlfriend, as well.
Letting Go – It’s Not Pee
I don’t know how clear a picture I’m drawing here. Of course this is one woman’s experience with squirting, but I have talked to my lovers at great length about this. Troy devoured books about the female anatomy and he understood that the ejaculate traveled a similar path as urine, but was certainly not urine. He also believed that an old lover of his would have probably squirted herself, but each time she felt the sensation she ran to the toilet.
And here’s where I have to agree. The sensation prior to ejaculating is reminiscent of peeing, but that’s it. When we need to pee there’s a pressure in our bladder, unmistakable; with squirting, the sensation is lower, more concentrated around the urethra and clitoris.
We have to trust our bodies not to get wires crossed. It’s really that simple. I know I’ve had my run-ins with poo, so you’d think I’d be the last person on the planet to say TRUST YOUR BODY, but I really believe it. I know my system won’t allow me to piss all over my lover in a fit of passion. And in part my trust in my own body allows me to let go and allow the stimulation to rise and then exit my body via a squirt.
Sometimes the fluid is odorless, sometimes it’s musky, sometimes it’s less pleasant and more urine-like. And it can all come from the same woman on different days of the week. Its scent is tied up with hormones and ph levels. Some experts believe that all ejaculate has some urine mixed in, others resolutely say that’s not true. I’m of the camp that sometimes it can be mixed in with a little urine. My ejaculate, like all the anecdotal and scientific research I found, has varied from odorless to faintly musky to strongly of urine. The Neighbor has never said anything and, in fact, once lifted a soaked towel to his face — which to me smelled faintly of urine — and told me it smelled delicious. His enthusiasm helped me to not care and to truly just let go.
Go For It
And here I have to ask a bigger question in general: Even if you did piss on your lover, so what?? You’re engaged in an intimate, messy activity that is inherently complicated and involved with the bowel, bladder, anus, and vagina just to name a few. Shit might happen (as you all know it certainly has with me). So I say, even if you do fear peeing, just fucking go for it. You won’t die and your lover will have a chance to show his mettle. And that’s the worst case scenario. Best case is that you’ll feel a g-spot ejaculation/orgasm!
I hope this has shed some light on the mysteriousness of squirting. I’d love to hear from other women who do it and hear your stories. Are they similar to mine? Different? What do you do to squirt? Do you have any control over it? And to all you women who have never done it, I say to you that you have nothing to lose in trying! Most of you will have the basic building blocks (Skene’s glands are necessary, some think), but at the very least you can have a ton of fun trying!
And here are some articles I liked regarding this whole thing:
We lay cuddling last week in my bed and then suddenly we weren’t.
I grabbed the soft mound of flesh beneath his basketball shorts and squeezed and pressed my cheek on his warm, firm chest then slid my head up until the bridge of my nose rested under his jaw. I have discovered a place here which is even better than the nook. It’s my nook within the nook.
He sighed against me and I continued to slide my hand on his stiffening bulge. His hand traced swirls on my arm and I sunk deeper into a new state of being, so far from stress and worry which I’d been wearing for so long before that moment.
I melted against him beneath my closed lids and let him kiss my face and my lips, his cock hard and twitching beneath my fingers. I deftly pulled his waistband down as he equally deftly lifted his hips and let me slide them down around his thick, round backside.
The lights were on and illuminated our pale limbs and lit his icy blue eyes upon my darker ones. Finally, I thought, I could lose myself again. It’d been far too long. Boxes and money and my failed marriage, my hurting baby and career worries, they all twirled away like smoke. None of that mattered. All that mattered for those moments turned into minutes, were the two of us returning to what we knew best about one another.
My hand wrapped around his giant hot cock as he shifted over me, his mouth was wet and urgent on mine, then his hands were pulling off my little pajama shorts and his knees shoving mine wide apart. Soon, soon!
I held my breath and clung to his bare shoulders and let my gaze hold his for one, two, three seconds before I had to break away. Still, after everything, I am a chicken shit to let my soul pool in my eyes for him to see.
Shirt hiked up over my jiggling breasts, cock knocking at my door, a push, a sigh, then the long, deep slide into home. My home.
This is always where I will feel welcome, like I always belong.
His hips curved into me slowly at first as he warmed up and then the tempo increased to a frenzy. Banging, moaning, arching, begging.
I breathed in his puffs of breath upon my neck and reveled in his warm, manly weight pinning me to the mattress. I hoped we disturbed my cranky asshole downstairs neighbor.
He sat up then and did his move, the one that slays me each and every time. Sometimes I resent his control over my body and our easy slide into a routine, but not that night. That night my eyes widened with anticipation and I couldn’t wait for the thrill of orgasms his body would play upon mine.
With my ankles hitched up on his shoulders he angled himself inside of me to hit my g-spot and rammed away at me as the orgasms bled through me and I felt my juices release down the crack of my bottom. I whimpered and bit my own forearm to keep from screaming and thrashed around like a wild animal.
I begged for breaks and he gave them to me before starting up again, splitting my legs this way and that then flipping me over and twisting my long hair around his hand for a better grip and let loose on me from behind.
Tears slipped out of my eyes and I lifted my rump to meet his hips; my breath stolen by his weight and strength surging into me. I pushed back onto him as he threw himself towards my throat through my fucking pussy. Such a good boy.
His hand slammed down on one flank, then the other, and I hoped he’d leave a mark on me. Then I held my breath and hoped he’d cum, but he didn’t, like so many times before. It’s a rare occurrence now, so we finish when he gets tired, not when he’s climaxed. So I simply have to wait for him to tire and embrace the selfish feelings of pleasure he so eagerly gives to me. It’s a tough life, I know.
Eventually, my robust lover grew exhausted and fell limp like a giant, panting puppy who’s run wild in the yard on top of me. My puppy, though.
It was good to fuck like old times again and it was good to be home.
My malaise is somewhat percolating below the surface whenever we are apart; when we are together, it’s blown away like a cloud of gnats.
The Saturday before Christmas — after buying him a winter coat — The Neighbor gave me my first Christmas gift: a purple Rabbit. Its cool, beaded body sunk into me while his face latched onto my breasts. It was overwhelming and my body rejected its ministrations. It felt like a cold, little cucumber with hiccups.
So, his cock took over and he fucked me until I cried, pinned me on my back and stared deeply into my eyes as the daylight poured in through my bedroom windows.
He left me in a puddle and came back at 8, his handsome, boyish face plastered with a smile and his big paws holding one of those round fruitcake tins. “It’s your second gift!” he said beaming. I opened the lid and it was a gorgeous, 9 inch dildo.
“TN!! It looks just like you!!”
We laughed and giggled at the likeness and he bent over my chair behind me and kissed my neck and nuzzled my cheek as I covered my face, overcome with emotion and bashfulness.
“Let’s watch a movie tonight,” he suggested. I gathered up my cigarettes, a bottle of wine, popcorn, and of course the dildo, and marched next door. I was quite literally vices on two legs.
I stuck the dildo on the coffee table and it stood guard as we snuggled down into each other to watch Tom Cruise do some impossible mission. Half way through the movie, his cock distracted me and he tugged me back next door with his doppelgänger cock tucked under his arm.
“Why don’t we just fuck in your bed?” I wondered as I followed.
“The vibrator is here,” he replied simply.
Clothes flew off, a candle was lit, his mouth found its way between my legs. His tongue hot, soft and pliant tucked inside of my folds and his five o’clock shadow scrubbed my soft inner thighs. Cock in cunt, plundered. Kisses, sighs, words of beauty. Then two cocks inside of me. I cried out as it burned and I stretched.
I relaxed and breathed around them both. His eyes lit up as he began to move. I drenched the man and the imposter and cried and shook as I sucked them both deep inside.
“Jesus Christ, that’s so tight,” he moaned. I whimpered back and guided his hips to the smallest of thrusts. Too much, too tight. I felt womanly and proud. A baby came through there. I gave life and now I was giving pleasure, showing him something new and wondrous we could do with our bodies.
My tears leaked down my face and he kissed them away and I pushed out and around and then he was alone inside of me. He bucked into me hard and fast and I cried and I felt my ejaculate slip down the crack of my bottom and pool beneath me.
Vibrator and orgasm, hooked fingers, a wriggling, helpless fish I was. I bawled and sobbed and couldn’t think, couldn’t see but for the stars. He hushed me and pet me, made fun of me. I managed to garble out a chastisement of my own, “If you’re going to make me lose my shit all the time, then you are not allowed to tease me. You must only be kind to me.”
He chuckled and agreed and pulled me closer while I returned to my body.
Then, he left town the next dawn and with his absence the cloud of gnats returned. I felt alone and adrift, heard little from him while he was gone, but, I know, more than anyone else got from him.
When he returned the day after Christmas I had Peyton and was slumped with sadness. He’d been texting me from the airports, keeping me apprised of his whereabouts. At approximately the time I’d guessed he’d be home I heard a thud of a neighbor’s door. Five minutes later there was a knock on my door.
“Hi!” he said, coolly, handsome in his new pea coat. “I have your last gift!” I’d forgotten he’d told me there’d be three. He brought his hand out from behind his back and handed me a small, white box.
“What is it?? I can’t open this if this is of an adult nature. I have Peyton.”
“Ok, just look at the return address.” It said something, something Hitachi.
My eyes flew open and I looked at him and squealed. “Attachments?!”
He nodded and walked inside and covertly opened the box for me while Peyton told him all about the Christmas haul. I hugged him and thanked him and welcomed him home.
He stole over later that night when sugar plums were dancing in the room next door and pounded me with his fat, glorious cock and held me and told me all about his awful holiday. We spoke more about the sex party we were planning on going to the upcoming weekend and I continued to feel together, yet separate. Happy and sad. My life is sweet and savory.
Thursday night he visited again, and again I cried and l clung and sucked him dry.
The landscape, the season, the emotional canvas I have with him is not unlike how two magnets work. They’re only drawn to one another when in proximity. When I am separated from him I am filled with doubt about what it is I’m doing with him. Can I handle this? Am I tough enough? Do I want to be? My exhusband thinks I’m wasting time — well, as does everyone else — but he doesn’t know what I get from this. I’m still not sure, entirely.
No wait. I guess I get a sex party.
I also get a sex party pre-party where he fucks me up one side and down the other in our hotel room; I get to hear how beautiful and sexy and awesome he thinks I am; I get to travel with him to distant cities; I get to share his unique sexiness with a wonderful friend and be ourselves; I get to suck on his glorious cock and be taken to physical heights I never knew existed; I get to blow him in a room filled with people where a pile of girls are making love behind me; I get to suck his cock and then let two other girls suck him off as I slobber on their men around a campfire; I get to take a couple back to our room and fuck him while she and I hold hands and our men stuff our pussies; I get to have him devour one breast while she laps the other — soft and sweet on the left, harsh and demanding on the right; and lastly, I get to hear him tell me that he will look back on our time together with nothing but fondness when it ends because, “Before you, I was nothing. I was no where. You made me somewhere and something. I stabilized you, but you made me be something.”
And this afternoon I got to try out what I’m calling the Gonzo Hitachi attachment and when I was spent and my body done quaking I took a picture of it and sent it to him not knowing he was next door. But soon his cock was shoved down my throat and Gonzo was buried back deep inside of me as he told me what a good girl I was. His fingers hooked back inside of me after I came again and he brought me a warm g-spot climax and then left to return to the office.
I am alone for the next two hours until he comes back to me after visiting two of his friends’ parties. I was not invited. I wrestle with how that makes me feel, but then again, I get him for the rest of the night and our plan is to have him buried deep inside of me at midnight with champagne cascading down the swells of my breasts and the tips of my nipples little bubbly shooters to his open, eager mouth. Shrooms will be laced in our tea and we will be on a different plane of being, full, vulnerable and determined to never forget each other for the next several hours. And certainly the rest of our lives.
Happy New Year, Internet Boyfriend. Be safe, love big, and I hope everyone gets their rocks off in glorious fashion tonight.