Info
Subscribe: 
friend me on Facebook
follow me on Twitter
view my photos on Flickr
watch my videos on Qik
find me on Dopplr
join my MySpace
check my MyBlogLog
my Technorati profile
view my Tumblr
my Blogger profile
Blog RSS feed
Comments RSS feed
Recent posts
Email
Choice
Call-out
Dating
Sky
Today
Break
Radio
Patch
Busy
Places to shop and visit
My Top 10 Toys - Women
My Top 10 Toys - Men
My Top 10 Toys - Couples
Fleshlight UK
Condoms
Durex's Ora!
Monday, October 29, 2007
Money shot
‘Where would you like me to come on you?’
‘What?’
‘Where would you like me to come on you? How about your face?’
He broke out into a grin and I raised my eyebrow at him, pausing for thought. We weren’t in bed together; in fact we weren’t naked, or even alone for that matter. Instead, we were sat in a crowded pub, and whilst our conversation had turned decidedly risqué, it had not, to my mind, progressed to the point where discussing the placement of his sperm could be done in a blasé fashion. Plus, his question annoyed me, making me hesitant about wanting to shag him (which by that point was somewhat of a done deal).
Call me selfish (do: it’d be accurate), but sex for me is not solely about focussing on the man’s orgasm. In my case, I confess, it is usually about mine: there is nothing better than having a climax and I am a fucking horrible bitch to be around if I don’t orgasm during sex. (It’s lucky, if not convenient, that I come so easily and frequently.) I can, however, quite clearly state that at no point will there be a likelihood of my having an orgasm purely because a man has squirted his seed somewhere onto my body. Sure, it can feel nice; in the way that heated massage oil feels nice. Sure, it can be erotic, because I enjoy men coming; I get off on their pleasure. But in and of itself, a guy spunking on me is not going to do it for me: my skin is just not that sensitive.
Sex, for me, does not end when a guy climaxes; it is just a temporary blip (so to speak) before continuing with other sensual activities. And I try to avoid porn-film clichés and fantasy representations of sex in my own sex life; so that immediately excludes a “money shot” (and faked orgasms). Exactly how is my clit or pussy going to be stimulated solely through a guy shooting his wad onto my face? Fair play to those that enjoy having spunk all over their faces; I am not one of those women (or men). Anyway, if he wanted to impress me with promises of the sexual pleasure awaiting me, he was going the wrong way about it: suggesting the primary focus – for us both – should be his orgasm, pissed me right off.
I shot him a bemused look and placing my hand on his knee, squeezed it and said, in a whisky-fuelled, flirtatiously sarcastic retort, ‘Darling, surely we should be discussing where it is on you, that I shall be coming.’
He stared at me with a bewildered expression, looking as if he half expected me to whip out a penis of my own there and then and spurt all over him. Trying to deflect the unease I saw growing on his face, I flashed him a smile and he visibly relaxed. He looked sexy when he wasn’t trying to be so macho; given his age I guess that his attempt at bravado was only to be expected. As he looked sheepishly at me, I softened towards him and began to reconsider whether I should fuck him. I also deliberated how and in what way I should explain my thoughts on the location of his ejaculation deposit. And I wondered how long it would be before I got him naked with me on top of his cock, because all this spunk talk was an unnecessary delay to our having some fun. I decided to be tactful, yet direct.
‘Well, how about you come with a condom on, deep inside me? I’d like that.’
He looked confused. ‘No, I meant where on you… Your thighs, your tits, your face… That’s what I want to do.’ His eyes lit up at this point and I saw where this was headed: not in a direction I was happy with.
‘Look, tits would be fine, thighs, whatever,’ I said dismissively, ‘the face, however, is out of bounds.’
‘Why?’ His hand was resting on my inner thigh at this point, squeezing me gently. I was well aware of the heat emanating between my legs, but that was connected to the fact that his delicious chest hair was poking over the top of his shirt and I was imagining running my fingers though it whilst fucking him. (I am shallow like that.) I tried to focus, keep a clear head.
‘That’s not something I like. At all. There is no way I’d do that.’
‘Why not? It’s fun.’
‘I just don’t like it. And the only way I would do it is if it was with someone I loved and he really, really wanted me to.’
He grinned at me. ‘I really, really want you to.’
I squinted at him and debated the level of tact I would be capable of in relation to how much whisky I had ingested, and also the level of annoyance I felt about the current conversation.
‘Look, this, us, this is just casual, right? I’m not going to do something like that on a one-night stand.’
He looked disappointed. ‘Really? Oh.’
I grasped his hand that was still placed on my inner thigh. ‘No. Definitely not. But I can think of a few things we can do that will be much more fun.’
A mischievous smirk appeared on his face and not long after we ended up in bed, devouring each other impatiently. In the early morning he got on top of me, straddling my chest and pinning down my arms with his thighs. Pleased with his positioning, he began to stroke himself, occasionally dipping his cock into my mouth for good measure. I watched his face as his thrusting increased in intensity and I knew it wouldn’t be long before he climaxed. I also knew that if he didn’t shift I would have his come all over my face. I felt myself flush with anger.
‘Don’t spunk on my face,’ I said gently, but firmly. ‘Do it on my tits.’
He gave me a cheeky smile and continued stroking himself, thrusting his cock closer to my face.
‘Seriously,’ I said, more direct this time, ‘don’t.’
‘Oh yeah, what are you going to do?’ he replied in a fuck-you voice, his thrusting even faster.
Before I could think, I heard myself speaking; the words exited my mouth as if they belonged to someone else.
‘Oh yeah, well you see this?’ I lifted my hand from under his thigh and clenched it into a tight fist. Then I pushed my knuckles deeply and firmly into his balls and twisted my hand so he could be sure of its delicate placement. ‘I would punch you very hard, right here, if you came on my face. So don’t even think about it.’
My reaction surprised me more than him I think. I mean, he was shocked: he immediately shifted down my body so his cock was nowhere near my face and he looked more than a little scared; terrified, even. But I was stunned at what I said, what I threatened to do. I didn’t know that I was capable of making such a threat – and meaning it. Even though I said it in a jovial manner, my latent violence scared me. There’s hurting a man for fun (when it is consensual) and there is defending yourself from a man when under physical attack. This situation was neither.
He didn’t end up coming on my face; his spunk landed all over my belly, if memory serves me correct. And after his cock had gone soft, and he had caught his breath, I demanded his hand and tongue pleasured me again a few more times. The final tally (if one must count these things) was probably about six or seven orgasms for me, to his one, which obviously pleasured me immensely.
Looking back, I guess I felt he was trying to take advantage of me without my consent, and because I made a promise to myself in my twenties that I was never, ever going to let a man do that to me ever again, my reaction to him reflected that. But, admittedly, my threatening to punch him in his balls was very over the top. Still, I think I scared him so much that I doubt he will ever try to coerce another woman into doing something she didn’t want to do – which, to my mind, is far more important than all the orgasms in the world, nice though they may be.
‘What?’
‘Where would you like me to come on you? How about your face?’
He broke out into a grin and I raised my eyebrow at him, pausing for thought. We weren’t in bed together; in fact we weren’t naked, or even alone for that matter. Instead, we were sat in a crowded pub, and whilst our conversation had turned decidedly risqué, it had not, to my mind, progressed to the point where discussing the placement of his sperm could be done in a blasé fashion. Plus, his question annoyed me, making me hesitant about wanting to shag him (which by that point was somewhat of a done deal).
Call me selfish (do: it’d be accurate), but sex for me is not solely about focussing on the man’s orgasm. In my case, I confess, it is usually about mine: there is nothing better than having a climax and I am a fucking horrible bitch to be around if I don’t orgasm during sex. (It’s lucky, if not convenient, that I come so easily and frequently.) I can, however, quite clearly state that at no point will there be a likelihood of my having an orgasm purely because a man has squirted his seed somewhere onto my body. Sure, it can feel nice; in the way that heated massage oil feels nice. Sure, it can be erotic, because I enjoy men coming; I get off on their pleasure. But in and of itself, a guy spunking on me is not going to do it for me: my skin is just not that sensitive.
Sex, for me, does not end when a guy climaxes; it is just a temporary blip (so to speak) before continuing with other sensual activities. And I try to avoid porn-film clichés and fantasy representations of sex in my own sex life; so that immediately excludes a “money shot” (and faked orgasms). Exactly how is my clit or pussy going to be stimulated solely through a guy shooting his wad onto my face? Fair play to those that enjoy having spunk all over their faces; I am not one of those women (or men). Anyway, if he wanted to impress me with promises of the sexual pleasure awaiting me, he was going the wrong way about it: suggesting the primary focus – for us both – should be his orgasm, pissed me right off.
I shot him a bemused look and placing my hand on his knee, squeezed it and said, in a whisky-fuelled, flirtatiously sarcastic retort, ‘Darling, surely we should be discussing where it is on you, that I shall be coming.’
He stared at me with a bewildered expression, looking as if he half expected me to whip out a penis of my own there and then and spurt all over him. Trying to deflect the unease I saw growing on his face, I flashed him a smile and he visibly relaxed. He looked sexy when he wasn’t trying to be so macho; given his age I guess that his attempt at bravado was only to be expected. As he looked sheepishly at me, I softened towards him and began to reconsider whether I should fuck him. I also deliberated how and in what way I should explain my thoughts on the location of his ejaculation deposit. And I wondered how long it would be before I got him naked with me on top of his cock, because all this spunk talk was an unnecessary delay to our having some fun. I decided to be tactful, yet direct.
‘Well, how about you come with a condom on, deep inside me? I’d like that.’
He looked confused. ‘No, I meant where on you… Your thighs, your tits, your face… That’s what I want to do.’ His eyes lit up at this point and I saw where this was headed: not in a direction I was happy with.
‘Look, tits would be fine, thighs, whatever,’ I said dismissively, ‘the face, however, is out of bounds.’
‘Why?’ His hand was resting on my inner thigh at this point, squeezing me gently. I was well aware of the heat emanating between my legs, but that was connected to the fact that his delicious chest hair was poking over the top of his shirt and I was imagining running my fingers though it whilst fucking him. (I am shallow like that.) I tried to focus, keep a clear head.
‘That’s not something I like. At all. There is no way I’d do that.’
‘Why not? It’s fun.’
‘I just don’t like it. And the only way I would do it is if it was with someone I loved and he really, really wanted me to.’
He grinned at me. ‘I really, really want you to.’
I squinted at him and debated the level of tact I would be capable of in relation to how much whisky I had ingested, and also the level of annoyance I felt about the current conversation.
‘Look, this, us, this is just casual, right? I’m not going to do something like that on a one-night stand.’
He looked disappointed. ‘Really? Oh.’
I grasped his hand that was still placed on my inner thigh. ‘No. Definitely not. But I can think of a few things we can do that will be much more fun.’
A mischievous smirk appeared on his face and not long after we ended up in bed, devouring each other impatiently. In the early morning he got on top of me, straddling my chest and pinning down my arms with his thighs. Pleased with his positioning, he began to stroke himself, occasionally dipping his cock into my mouth for good measure. I watched his face as his thrusting increased in intensity and I knew it wouldn’t be long before he climaxed. I also knew that if he didn’t shift I would have his come all over my face. I felt myself flush with anger.
‘Don’t spunk on my face,’ I said gently, but firmly. ‘Do it on my tits.’
He gave me a cheeky smile and continued stroking himself, thrusting his cock closer to my face.
‘Seriously,’ I said, more direct this time, ‘don’t.’
‘Oh yeah, what are you going to do?’ he replied in a fuck-you voice, his thrusting even faster.
Before I could think, I heard myself speaking; the words exited my mouth as if they belonged to someone else.
‘Oh yeah, well you see this?’ I lifted my hand from under his thigh and clenched it into a tight fist. Then I pushed my knuckles deeply and firmly into his balls and twisted my hand so he could be sure of its delicate placement. ‘I would punch you very hard, right here, if you came on my face. So don’t even think about it.’
My reaction surprised me more than him I think. I mean, he was shocked: he immediately shifted down my body so his cock was nowhere near my face and he looked more than a little scared; terrified, even. But I was stunned at what I said, what I threatened to do. I didn’t know that I was capable of making such a threat – and meaning it. Even though I said it in a jovial manner, my latent violence scared me. There’s hurting a man for fun (when it is consensual) and there is defending yourself from a man when under physical attack. This situation was neither.
He didn’t end up coming on my face; his spunk landed all over my belly, if memory serves me correct. And after his cock had gone soft, and he had caught his breath, I demanded his hand and tongue pleasured me again a few more times. The final tally (if one must count these things) was probably about six or seven orgasms for me, to his one, which obviously pleasured me immensely.
Looking back, I guess I felt he was trying to take advantage of me without my consent, and because I made a promise to myself in my twenties that I was never, ever going to let a man do that to me ever again, my reaction to him reflected that. But, admittedly, my threatening to punch him in his balls was very over the top. Still, I think I scared him so much that I doubt he will ever try to coerce another woman into doing something she didn’t want to do – which, to my mind, is far more important than all the orgasms in the world, nice though they may be.
Comments