[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:
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.
In my quest for inner peace and ultimate fulfillment I first must go to the dark places. Those catacombs of pain and confusion that have thus far navigated my decisions, reactions, and emotions. If I don’t excavate those, then they remain lodged under the skin for all eternity, fossilizing into something permanent rather than falling to ashes in my hand.
My need to feel good enough is one of those dark, ugly wounds buried under years’ worth of scarring.
It’s why when a lover whispers, “Hy, you’re a good girl,” in my ear my heart leaps and my very core responds with thundering applause.
It’s why when I’m rejected I feel right and centered.
It’s why I seek to continuously recreate the scenario wherein I am left with no power and must rely on the good sense and grace of one in front of me and never on myself.
And lastly, it’s why I inherently choose one to stand before me who is predisposed to turn away from me.
My foray into the lifestyle with The Neighbor is my newest attempt to ram my squeamish self into the fray of emotional mayhem so I may pick out a new path, a new light, and a new understanding.
We have been dancing and touching noses for days. Kissing for days, cuddling, talking, laughing. My aftercare from the foursome with Jack and Emma Sunday has lasted for days and he has risen to the challenge with aplomb, whether by sheer accident or deliberately, I’m not sure.
Monday afternoon I was lusty and angsty — that strange combination wherein I feel lost and believe that only a cock buried deep inside of me will re-anchor me to Me. Two years ago, I would have texted any number of men in my Rolodex and arranged for a nooner, a quickie, or a nightcap. Today, I have one man in my life and by design.
TN and I had plans to see each other and I was struggling with what role I was to play: Domme? sub? Nothing at all? I was on the fence and couldn’t determine my next step. My direction to send me a bulge-shot from his office was met with virtual silence. Was this my bottom telling me No? Was I not to be in charge today??
I drove to my old house to borrow a book from my exhusband. The giant tree out front was wrapped in bright lights and twinkling snowflakes hung from the eaves. A deep sadness washed over me. This used to be my life, I thought. I pulled in next to his car and knocked on the door. My old door.
He opened it with a look of apathy. “I’m here to get the book,” I answered his unspoken question. He reached to the nearby table to hand it to me. It was awkward and sad. Neither one of us seemed to know what to do next.
I walked in past the entryway and we settled on small talk. And throughout I got the sense he’d rather have me gone. His look, his energy, his everything bespoke an underlying discomfort with me. It’s always been there. This is nothing new.
I said my goodbyes and cried the entire way home.
As I pulled into the parking lot I saw TN walk to the stairs. He didn’t seem to notice me. I parked, wiped my cheeks clean and grabbed my things and slowly plodded up the stairs. When I turned to climb the last set of steps I was startled to see him standing there waiting for me.
“I knew you’d do that,” he chuckled at me clutching my bosom with my free hand.
I took a deep breath and hoped I wasn’t tear-streaked.
He walked me to my door. “Do you want to come in?” I asked.
He followed me in and I opened a bottle of wine. We chatted while I poured and sipped and he soon had closed the distance and pressed his muscular form against mine. “I’m upset with you, TN,” I said quietly.
He pulled back.
“Because you never responded to me telling you to send me a bulge-shot today. It’s ok if you don’t want to, but you can’t ignore me. It’s like you’re telling me NO, and when you do that, you shake the foundation of my dominance. I wonder if I’m doing it right and I lose my confidence.”
I turned around and looked at him closely.
“I love doing this with you, I’m really responding to it, but I feel more vulnerable than ever now. If you don’t want to do something, I want you to tell me, ‘I’d really like to, but I can’t right now,’ but don’t ignore me.”
He looked at me intently, processing my words. “Ok. I’m sorry. I was just really busy –”
“TN, I’m not asking you to jeopardize your job. I would never do that. You need to trust me. If telling you to do things at work is off limits, tell me now and I’ll never do it again.”
“It’s not that, it’s just –” his indecision made my decision.
“Ok. I won’t do that to you at work, unless you ask me to.”
He moved back into me and folded his arms around my hips and pulled my bottom into the cradle of his pelvis. I could feel his hardon. He slipped his fingers under my skirt and felt my wetness. He pushed me down until I had to grab the counter-top for support and hit my ass.
“You didn’t ask if you could do that,” I said smartly.
“May I hit you?” he added immediately.
“AGAIN.” My voice was strong and clear and each sting sent tendrils of clarity to my foggy, sad brain.
“That’s it,” he said. “Come on.”
He dragged me roughly by the collar into my room and threw me down on the bed. He stripped naked and growled as he climbed on top of me. He refused to let me remove any clothing and I whimpered and begged as he quickly entered me. I immediately began to cry and writhe.
He pulled me to the edge of the bed and I worried the buckles from my boots were hurting his ears. He assured me they weren’t.
His phone chimed then — a work email — and he swore under his breath. Abruptly he pulled out and began to redress. I sat up and sat knock-kneed on the edge of the bed, righting my clothes. Switch, switch, switch. Head spinning, heart pounding.
“I’ll be back around 10,” he said.
“Sounds perfect,” I responded.
I took a long, hot bath and started the 13th book in the Wheel of Time series. I closely shaved my pussy making sure the undercarriage was baby-smooth and painstakingly moisturized every reachable part of my body. I didn’t put on a lick of makeup.
I re-dressed in white knee-high socks and boots and a skirt and top, no under garments, and puttered around my apartment. I had a speech prepared. “Do you want to be in control tonight or do you want me to be? Because I can’t do both. I don’t have it in me. Or, we can just cuddle.”
The emotions of the day seemed to have steeped into me while soaking in the bathtub like so much Sleepytime tea. Rejection — no! Reject rejection! Be strong! Be you! Be soft! Be sad!
At 9:45 I sauntered into my room and lit a candle and laid down. I felt relaxed with my speech in my back pocket and eager to see what the night would hold. I reached my hand down between my legs and my freshly shaved pussy was warm and wet. I lifted my fingers to my mouth and tasted. It was sweet and light.
I pressed my fingers deeper inside and clenched around my digits, exploring and trying to imagine what I feel like to him. There was a knock at the door.
I stood up, my left hand’s fingers soaked in my juices and went to open the door. He was already past my entryway when I met him. He was in black basketball shorts only.
“Hi,” I said and wrapped my right arm around his neck and lifted the fingers on my left hand to his lips and parted them. He sucked them gently while locking his icy blue eyes onto mine.
His eyebrows raised in question at me. “I’ve been touching myself,” I answered. He crushed his lips down to mine and squeezed the rounds of my ass, spun me around, took me by the hand and led me to my room. My speech forgotten and completely unnecessary.
He plowed into me and I watched his face watching my own in the candlelight. He let me peel of my clothes and laughed as I tossed the pillows away, too. “It’s all torture to be on my skin,” I explained. “It’s offensive!” He laughed, too. Then started to stroke me with his cock and his lips and his hips.
I rocked back on him and strained with all my might to feel him in my throat with every thrust. I whispered and moaned how good he felt, he asked me if I liked this or that. And then he reached for my Hitachi and slipped a discarded sock onto it knowing I’m too sensitive for it to touch me directly.
He stayed inside of me for a time, but soon switched out his hands for his cock and laid down to my right. He began a slow strum of the chords within me and I began to rock and sob and keen. The orgasm so bright and enormous, slow to come, but ever-present.
Even before the crash and blossom I was crying hot, fat tears. Every fiber of my being called out to him. “Be a good girl and cum for me, Hy. Cum,” he begged — no, demanded. He bent his head to my breast and sucked and I cried out in ecstasy as the orgasm broke over me like a molten egg.
I convulsed and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Quickly he moved to my left to the center of the bed and pulled me into his arms. “You’re ok, you’re ok. It’s going to be fine,” he crooned rubbing my arms.
I didn’t care about anything except this moment of wonderment and pain and loss and beauty. “I am good enough, but never enough” seemed to be the notes interwoven into this desperate launch into passion and desire. I had never experienced something so forcefully pleasurable in all my life.
When I had calmed down eventually, we spoke of the sex-party in a couple of weeks. I spoke more of my fears and he had more questions for me. Namely, why I wanted to do it. He was also worried about doing something wrong and was feeling a lot of pressure.
I assured him my quest was personal and that I trusted him. I laid myself bare and made sure he knew the exposure was a treat, not a burden. He listened raptly and when he finally left I felt even more confident about our burgeoning roles with each other.
He wants to be restrained and told what to do. I want him to trust me and explore my dominance. The idea of him obeying me thrills me and wraps around me a sense of comfort and longing I never knew could be achieved; I want to be dominated. He wants to hurt me and I want him to; I want to bring him pleasure and show him a new world. He wants the freedom to explore, but understands I am human. He responds to my warnings and apologies with comforting words and strong assurances.
“I’m not a robot, TN. And I’m not you. Though I wish I were both.”
“Gee, Hy,” he said, his voice laced with humor, “You’re goddamned human! What a drag!”
And so yesterday, I delved into the deepening pools of our experience together and texted him this when I arrived at a White Elephant party:
Let me know if you’re feeling up for this tonight: whenever you get home, I want you to masturbate, but not cum, then text me a pic of your hard cock to let me know you followed instructions. If you’re not up for it, just say something like, “that sounds great, but not tonight.”
He immediately responded with, “I’ll do it :-)”
Such a good boy. I thrilled at the honor of topping him and throughout my night with my girlfriends I twitched and squirmed. I sent another text saying,
Then I’ll send you another set of instructions
Two hours after my first text I got a beautiful cock shot and a note that he was waiting for me.
I’ll text you when I leave this party and I want you to edge one more time. When I park at home, I’ll text again and I want you to unlock your door, blindfold yourself and wait for me on your couch. I’m not going to fuck you. I’ll be leaving very soon.
He said I had his blindfold and I told him to figure it out. Then I added:
And you’re welcome to say, Yes Ma’am 🙂
“Yes ma’am,” he texted.
I fingered myself on the way home and wiped my juices on my lips in anticipation. The difference in my feelings from the day before so wildly different I felt like a different woman altogether. I wasn’t sad, I felt empowered and beautiful and — above everything else — honored. Honored that he is sharing this with me, honored that he trusts me, honored that he believes I can do this well enough to bring him pleasure.
I pulled into the parking lot and texted him then started the long climb up. I smiled when I put my hand on his doorknob. I walked in and he lay on the couch resplendently nude with a blue patterned tie across his eyes. His erection huge and gorgeous.
Wordlessly I walked by and put my things down on the kitchen table and went into the bathroom for a quick French toilette. I walked back out and anticipation rose off of him like steam. “I like your solution,” I said as I began to take off my clothes.
“Oh, the blindfold?”
“Yes. You have a key to my apartment, you know.” My boots thudded to the floor and the lighter thuds of my clothing followed.
“I know. I like this, too, though.”
“Mmm, me, too,” I purred as I crawled up over him and pressed my soft belly into his hardness. I left my lacy pink and red bra on and let them cradle his face like big, round balls of dough.
I sucked him and laved his body with my tongue. I took pictures of him with his hardness gripped in my black-tipped hand and his cock nestled between my lace-encased breasts. He begged to fuck me. I said no.
“Please, Hy. Come on. Think of how good it will feel. That first push, so deep. Your sweet, pink pussy parting for me.” I whimpered and moaned around his cock, but shook my head no. “Please…”
“I’ll make a deal with you,” I said to his beautiful, sightless face. “If you cum, you can fuck me.”
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned. His cumming is a 3 out of 5 odds game at best. “Ok, I can do that.”
I sucked and loved and stroked him some more before I led him to his darkened room. The pine 4x4s he’d used to reinforce his broken bed wafted their light scent into the dark space above. I gently laid him down and fell back down onto his cock. I bade him tell me exactly how to suck him and I dutifully followed his instructions, but he felt defeated and at a loss.
I assured him that fucking was not our goal, nor was cumming. I told him not to cum. I gave him breaks and kissed his chest and jaw and sweet, bow lips. Finally, my heart broke for him, he felt too responsible and so I climbed up on top of him, his eyes still barred from sight, and slid him deep inside of me.
Climaxes washed over me sweetly and then I switched us around and let him pound me from behind. I knew he was exhausted and drained and I felt somehow that it was time to stop. I pulled away from him and he whimpered, but I only laid down and pulled him with me.
“C’mere,” I said sweetly and wrapped my arms around him. “We’re done. You gotta know when not to overwork the Thoroughbreds.”
“Ok,” he conceded.
“Don’t worry, I got this. You did great.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said sadly.
“Stop it, you did great. You did exactly what you were supposed to do. You stayed hard for over an hour.”
“More like three hours. Ever since you told me what to do.”
“Well, there you go.” I untied his blindfold and kissed his eyes. “We’ll figure this orgasm thing out. I promise.”
And so it was, the domme and her little sub laid in each other’s arms and talked more about their sex party and their expectations, never really admitting to the elephant that is her love for him dominating the room. The new domme learned more about her young sub’s motivations and psyche and promised herself to imitate him in more ways than one.
“Don’t come back at me a week from now mad at me, Hy, saying that I don’t care about you.”
“I won’t. Don’t worry. I get it.”
“I just don’t give a fuck. But, I’m not saying I don’t give a fuck about you. I’m just emotionally detached, I guess.”
“I know. And thank you. I’m done talking about all of this now. I’m exhausted and I just feel like I’m boring you. I’m getting self conscious.”
“You’re totally not boring me.”
“Thanks, but all the same. I’m done. I reserve the right to pull the plug on this at any time.” He tensed next to me and I heard his breath catch.
“What do you mean?” he asked quietly.
“This whole sex party thing. If I don’t like it or change my mind, I’m out.” His entire body relaxed and I heard the soft exhale of the breath he’d been holding.
“Of course,” he answered. I knew he’d thought I’d meant pulling the plug on us, even though he’d just gotten done explaining to me in no uncertain terms that it would never bother him to see me with other men because, he “just doesn’t give a fuck.” But then again, I know he really and truly doesn’t give a fuck and he’s not just saying that.
Now, if only I can remind myself that as I watch him pump furiously into another woman. This sex party will either make or break me, but I’m not going to shy away from it. Let it burn me till I’m nothing but a pitiful mess of ashes. With any luck, I’ll rise from the pile of shit more powerful than ever.
I told him I was tired and it was time for me to go and asked him to gather up my clothes. He jumped up to do my bidding and I lay under the marshmallow clouds of his comforter thinking my life. I’m flapping new wings as a fledgling domme, I am in the process of slashing all hope away from my bones for a real future with this man I can’t stop loving, I am hunting down the real me — the one who doesn’t need anyone else to tell her she’s good enough, and I’m going to go to a fucking sex party in two weeks to watch my love potentially fuck another woman in order to burn the pain out of the marrow of my bones.
I dressed slowly and crawled back over the bed to give him a final kiss. “You did good tonight,” I said against his lips.