I’ve only recently come to appreciate how much fluid I produce when I’m getting off. It’s a bit absurd—it’s often recommended that people who squirt place a towel beneath them, but even then I’m left with a puddle. I’m 28, but it’s only been in the last year or so that I’ve been able to let go of a lot of the embarrassment I’ve felt about squirting when I cum. I was in a relationship for four years that I later came to understand was abusive; he was actively repulsed by it, so I’ve spent a lot of time feeling pretty repulsive. I always pee right before I get off to make sure that isn’t what’s happening, but that doesn’t fix the issue: if I orgasm, I leak. I spend a lot of time edging to prevent having to do too much laundry. I’ve gotten pretty good at hitting the edge of an orgasm, but the process is an art more than a science. Sometimes I miscalculate.
An astute reader will notice that squirting when I orgasm and spending several years with someone grossed out by squirting doesn’t seem like a particularly happy combination. After my ex’s initial expressions of disgust, I just… stopped cumming with him. This was actually convenient because he didn’t particularly care if I came or not. (When this was pointed out to him, say after his orgasm, he might, for example, utter a simple “oh”, turn around, and go to sleep.) Here in the present day, I still don’t really cum with guys I fool around with. I tend to ride the edge with them while I focus on giving them what they need, which I enjoy because I’m quite submissive. And also I really can’t be fucked to do more laundry than I absolutely have to.
Luckily, the second first time I squirted with a guy happened on his bed, so *he* had to do the cleaning.
We’ll call him Drake. (Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.) We met on an app and began chatting there, and it quickly became apparent that while he’s the tall-and-dark-and-handsome type, his greatest appeal comes from his cleverness. He’s a bit awkward, but in the bookish professor kind of way that people find endearing. And if you picture in your mind the bookish professor type, chances are you have a pretty good idea of his style, too, complete with round glasses whose lenses have to be a centimeter thick just so he can see. He could in some ways be called a stereotype, but I prefer to think of him as the Platonic Ideal of the vaguely British academic.
I’ve mentioned he was tall, which doesn’t really matter to me except for one thing that has turned out to be quite significant: his hands. Being in proportion to his body, they’re a bit larger than average, and it seems his fingers are just long enough to hit me *just* right.
I think it was the second time we hooked up. (I reserve the right to an imperfect memory.) I’d peed just before things got too heated, of course, and now I was on his bed, lying on my back with my bent legs wide open as he pumped his fingers in and out of me. Even just the memory of it makes my hips move and my pussy clench in search of that delicious pressure. He was going hard and fast, but I kept telling him to go harder and faster. His fingers were hitting something good and deep inside me, and I couldn’t get enough. The palm of his hand slammed against my clit every time he pushed his fingers in. I have to say his dedication to the cause was quite admirable: his hand must have been cramping pretty painfully by then, but he continued anyway because what he was doing was driving me out of my fucking mind.
I was so out of my mind with pleasure, in fact, that I didn’t even realize what was happening until the movement of his hand started sounding like splashing. I’d been alternately admiring the way his fingers moved in and out of me and covering my face and eyes, depending on how overwhelmed I was from the sensation. I was quite overwhelmed at that moment and had buried my face in my hands, but the splashing sound made me look back up to see what was happening. I’d unintentionally gone past my limits and started leaking, and the force of his hand hitting my pussy made the liquid splash and spray the both of us. I was torn between embarrassment and pleasure, but he was entirely undeterred, so I let myself linger in that climax. There was no use worrying about it now, so I allowed myself to thoroughly enjoy his continued attentions until I came down enough to still his movements. We collapsed from the effort: him from having worked my pussy so rigorously that his hand was terribly cramping, me from having turned entirely into jelly.
I apologized for the mess; I felt bad that I hadn’t warned him about my squirting. I hadn’t started with any intention of reaching that point in that session, so I hadn’t even brought it up. Thanks to the internet, I was starting to understand that not all guys found it gross, but I still hadn’t quite built up the confidence to expose a partner to it. He made it pretty clear I had nothing to worry about, though.
And I got the best orgasm I’ve had with a partner out of the deal. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still the unrivaled champion of making myself cum, but there’s something about getting fucked by a man’s fingers that makes me delirious. I’ve been lucky enough to have been able to enjoy him a number of times since then. I make sure to demonstrate my appreciation for his efforts, of course. And I’ve suffered a cramped jaw as retribution for the pain I caused his hand, so I like to think we’re even.
We met on an app for people pursuing alternative connections like polyamory, swinging, threesomes, kink, et cetera. I’ve found it to be a positive experience, and Drake has become a staple in my little circle of connections. I sincerely emphasize the *friend* part of fwb, so it’s a genuinely caring relationship that I look forward to developing in the future. I enjoy pleasing him, which I may have to elaborate on in the future. And I especially enjoy thinking about what’s going to happen when I have someone to help me please him.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/r3w8uj/my_second_first_time_squirting_with_a_partner_fm
What’s the app called ?
Hot