What kind of a kink is it to fantasize about men being unable to control their coming?
I don’t know, if I’ve always had this fascination, but I do remember being intrigued by penises, even as I was a child. I get off, like I’ve said on numerous occasions, thinking I’m the guy who is taking advantage of some poor guy or a girl. The fantasies I have very usually have a kind of an uncontrollable urge kind of twist in them.
I think this is my main kink. This goes beyond all others. This is in the core of my kinkiness.
So, what’s it all about?
I think I have a very rigid way of seeing masculinity. For me, it is a force that has to be kept at bay. My father was a raging bull; he never grew up, so I grew up never expecting men to. I am drawn to feminine men, in the way they carry themselves. I want to see frailty, uncertainty, liveliness and a certain unasumming quality. I don’t want a masculine man, I want a human. I have no way of dealing with the raging bulls; I grew up to be one too.
But I need the uncontrollable force, too. My world isn’t full if there isn’t something fierce piercing its way through all the layers. A desire that can’t be held back. By seeing it and inducing it I own it. It becomes my uncontrollable desire; I am the one that can’t be caged. At the same time it strangely validates me. I have freed it. I made it happen.
When I watch men jerk their cocks, I don’t have any fantasies. I don’t picture myself in the action, how could I? I don’t see myself as the object of that desire: that makes me flinch. I only enjoy their enjoyment. The sudden build up to squirt, the subtle moans and flexing of muscles, streaming of precum and involuntary movements and pulsings. Oh god. It’s best if the cum is super vigorous, sporting high and far, best if the guy jerking off isn’t acting to the camera. If he’s just enjoying himself. Secretly.
I don’t know. Maybe I’m a peeping Jane. (That’s the equivalent of Tom, ain’t it?) I like to watch, how they do what they do. I don’t need a story, because I don’t believe in stories. I’m much too vigil and observant to be fooled by any of the two or more porn flicks. They are acting so badly, even when they are good actors. Their skin and muscles and salivas and eyes and touches betray them.
Desire is impossible to fake.
I’m resisting the urge to link Amber Rayn hand-job here, again. That’s seriously the only film with more than one person I’ve ever found that I can be turned on by without agonizing self-hatred and guilt. Because, I guess, it’s all about the guy. His lust. His uncontrollable orgasms, which are not wanted, they’re even denied, but he comes anyway.
O. M. G.
But it’s hard core femdom. I’m not into that. Am I?
Yesterday Wonderboy fucked me. He was really tired, and I had been playing the whole day – one of the advantages of sick leave – so I told him to just do what he wanted.
Just fuck me the way you like. With no regard to what I might want, I told him.
It’s powerful to be his fucktoy. He’s so good at letting go, when I give the word. He immediately flipped me over. Huh – how did his cock get so big so suddenly? I thought he was tired. He penetrated me from behind, and like many times when it’s only him trying to get off, he started moving my whole body from my hips to meet his. I was in effect his masturbatory toy. It’s. It’s really hot, but at the same time, I sometimes don’t get off on it.
Physically it’s a hard (heh) position for me. It hurts my cervix, I’m not given a lot of clitoral stimulation and sometimes he doesn’t even strangle me or rip my hair. Gowd, you know. That’s the least he could do. (I’m smirking here!)
And sometimes I fall into oblivion.
Yesterday, though, was not one of those times. He fucked me hard and it was over quite quickly. I started to laugh when he descended to kiss me.
I didn’t know you could come so fast! I laughed.
Wonderful. My beautiful baby. That was wonderful.
Really? I thought that maybe you wouldn’t like me anymore, he said.
Why wouldn’t I? I always love you.
Well, sometimes you haven’t. After. So, I didn’t know.
I’m sorry baby. I have always loved you. I’m sorry I’ve said that.
I kissed him.
I had a really great time, he said and burst into a laugh at the ‘really’.
You can do the same tomorrow, I answered happily and rolled into the nook.
You want me to lick you? he asked after a moment of cuddling.
I’m not sure. I do want an orgasm, though.
I can use my fingers too.
I did get off, eventually. But I didn’t think about us. I thought about… A man whose fiddling with his young daughter and her friend. (See how I hesitated there? Wrong, wrong, wrong says my brain. Wrong!) I thought how the girls would touch his penis without fully understanding what it is, and how he couldn’t stop himself from coming, but he had to kind of veil it, so the girls wouldn’t freak.
If I’d thought about it from the girls’ point of view, and sometimes I digress like that, I’d have lost my appetite for sure. It’s only exciting for me when I think about the guy. It’s not exciting to put myself in the position of the molested one.
Pretty funny that I’m actually not straight! At one point I remember having vivid fantasies about playing with pussy, but those were brought to life, I think, more because of the fact that I was in love with my friend K. Or infatuated, I’m not sure. But it doesn’t work like that now, and I’m guessing it’s because I’m in a heterosexual d/s relationship. These are the things I’m tackling now.
In retrospect it’s always way hot to think that Wonderboy just masturbated with my body. How good it felt for him. How he enjoyed and couldn’t help coming. In the moment it sometimes isn’t. I have no answer to that, although I remember Maymay stating something pretty similar when he was talking about a takedown scene. If I remember correctly, and this is just my interpretation, he said that he is much too analytical to always be able to handle the pain, the pleasure and the meaning of all of it at once. It hits later on.
Sometimes I feel that most of the stuff does. Hit afterwards. It’s hard to predict what kind of a hit it will inflict. That can be seen from Wonderboy’s voiced worry, above there. What if you don’t like me [because I used you and you didn’t enjoy]? It’s so arbitrary what the effect will be. Sometimes pure hotness and masturbatory fantasies for a looong time. Sometimes uncertainty, emotional conflict, hurting. When the last kind hits, I’m not such a grown and understanding woman I appear to be here, but I regress to a childlike fearful behaviour. You don’t love me, so I’ll better just crush you now. The insecurity and inability to trust and love are a pretty high concern for me, when I’m not on the edge. I cover my fear with hate. It’s easier to feel hate than fear. Everyone has a way to cope. This is mine.
Coming back to the oozing, uncontrollable, powerful, hot male sexuality I crave. Maybe it’s just something I could never see in myself, in women. Maybe I’m just so throroughly damaged by this society that gives women only the gatekeepers role. The society that made me believe that I shouldn’t even dream of striving for an orgasm in penetrative sex. That women don’t masturbate, don’t oversexualize, objectify, harass, want more than men, get out of control. Ever.
So, I sought my role models somewhere else. Where there were, any models, that seemed to fit me.
Uncontrollable male desire. The desire that causes rapes and violence and unwanted pregnancies and broken hearts – and only for their own pleasure. It’s as far from my sexual self as anything, but it was the only thing I had. A trope. A sex-negative gender-dichotomy-enforcing sexual image that made me unable to relate to my own sexual desire, to my own gender. But I had something that worked for me.
Now I don’t know what I have.