Save all your spunk for me

इस कहानी के बारे में

Me: It was so fucking hot yesterday when I edged and teased you for ages. Do you have a massive load of spunk to dump inside me today? Him: *sheepishly* I had a wank. Me: Oh OK! No worries. Him: Sure? Me: Yes of course hahahaha of course totally fine no worries at all! My brain: You’re a really terrible liar, GOTN. Spunk is really sexy. An unusually massive load of spunk is, proportionately, even sexier. Whether you’re coming on my tits, my arse, my stomach or inside me, the larger the load you splatter, the hotter it will be. Same is true of force as it is for quantity : give me loads of spunk, shot with power, right into my eager little face. Not everyone’s going to feel the same way about jizz as I do, of course, but as someone who frequently fantasises about wallowing in huge quantities of spunk , it would be odd if I didn’t accept this as a simple fact of my own sexuality: I like big loads of spunk. The more of it there is, the better. As a jizz enthusiast, one of the things I get most excited by is the fuck that comes after a really long period of build-up. Perhaps after a couple of hours of teasing and edging someone, or a whole day of hanging around the house and casually fucking when the mood takes us, but never quite letting him make it to completion. It’s not just for the faces he makes (although that ‘please please please let me put it in you’ look gives me the cunt shivers like nothing else), or the fact that his erection by the end of the day will be red and hard and sore he’s so desperate to come… it’s partly because I know that when we finally do fuck, there’ll be much more spunk than there usually is. And part of the unspoken deal is that I get to choose where his jizz goes : in my cunt, nice and deep so I can feel it pumping really thickly into me, then afterwards get that delicious sensation of it slipping out between my lips and dripping down the back of my thighs when he pulls out. on my tits, so I can rub my hands in it and smear it over as much of my body as possible. in the crack of my arse, where again the sheer volume of it pumping directly onto my skin and dripping down me makes me want to lube myself up with it and get ready for a second go. in my ass itself, when he’ll put out of my cunt at the end of a shag and press just the tip against me, then moan ‘good girl’ as he spits jizz inside like it’s just the most convenient place in which to dispose of it. And oh so many more. Problem is, of course, that I’m not always around to reap my spunky reward. Sometimes we build and build and then I get tired and go to bed, or vice versa. At other times we build and then end up having an argument which leaves neither of us in the mood for fucking. And occasionally, like this weekend, we spend ages on the build-up then I have to go out for a whole day, and he spends half the morning edging himself to frustration before finally giving in and letting go. Dammit! All that precious, sexy spunk released somewhere other than onto or into my body. Without me being there to even witness it! It’s enough to make a girl weep. At the same time, though, this girl knows that any expression of disappointment will probably be a Bad Thing in the long run. An Unfair Thing. After all, it’s his body – he can do what he likes with it. It’s not really my spunk, it’s his . He can spaff it wherever he likes. But that doesn’t stop me being a little bit sad when I think of all the plans I had for that giant load of spunk. When I’d fucked and wanked and blown him over and over again in order to work him into the perfect state: brimming full of rich, sexy spunk. Ready to shoot it into or onto me as I wriggled eagerly under the splattering torrent. So when he looks sheepish about having a wank, I’m torn: part of me is genuinely gutted that I missed out on what I picture in my head to be a seriously powerful orgasm. But another, better part of me understands that I can’t make him feel guilty for wanking: that’s a dangerous and miserable path to go down, and it ends with one or both of us developing a weird complex and being unable to talk about masturbation in the open and direct way that we talk about it right now. I need to find a compromise somehow. Something to distract my face from the drooping disappointment that I’m sure is written all over it. I need to find a way to celebrate the fact that he had a lovely – and no-doubt satisfying wank – without sounding like I’m a child throwing a tantrum because I haven’t had the treats I’ve been promised. So I muster a wobbly smile, put one hand on his knee, and ask in a plaintive whimper: “please can you… you know… describe it to me?” My brain: Nicely done, GOTN. Nicely. Done.