I just adore those nights when the light starts to fade early, and you know that winter is setting in. Cosy jumpers and hot chocolate to warm you up after a crisp walk through autumn leaves. Something about winter triggers a more indulgent, sensual part of me. It’s too cold to be out, after all, so being in is the only option—you can close the doors and windows and hide from the world. Your living room becomes this snug, private little nest, and no one’s going to threaten to drag you out of it with plans for picnics or other nonsense, because they’re all snuggled up inside too.
The only thing better than hunkering down for some alone time, of course, is hunkering down with someone you’re hot for. That’s me and Don. And God, I feel so lucky to have met him just in time for this, my favourite part of the year.
We met on an app—doesn’t everyone these days?—and as soon as I saw those big, beautiful eyes in his profile picture, I knew we’d end up together. You know how sometimes you just get a feeling? I didn’t even need to see his first message to know I’d say yes, but obviously, I read it in attentive detail and was delighted to find it just cemented my desire for him. He has this way of being so casual, then occasionally piercing that calm with intensity. His first message was chatty, fun, friendly—such a contrast to the desperate, terrible jokes and crude chat-up lines with which other guys choked up my inbox. Don was casual, but then at the end of the message, he flipped into intensity: “I never really understood why people want to ‘Netflix and chill’, but looking at you so cosy in that jumper in your profile pic, I realise exactly what they mean. I want to chill, warm, with you.”
See what I mean? Intense. Like those beautiful eyes.
That’s where our evenings go these days: Netflix and chill. Though far less of the Netflix than the ‘chill’ if you know what I mean. We are the king and queen of the sofa, but we aren’t sitting on it eating popcorn.
It usually starts with candles and wine. Little luxuries that remind us this night is one we both want to really revel in. Luxuries for luxuriating—you see? I always wear something warm and soft and cosy—like my big white sweater that covers me from neck to just below my black lace panties.
Don is shirtless because he loves the sensation of his naked skin squished up against the fleecy embrace of the wool. As for me, I can’t get enough of the way my nipples get hard underneath it, and the ache in my body as I hunger for him to reach up inside and tease them with those strong, hot hands.
The beauty of being at home, of course, is there’s never any rush. We don’t even kiss to start off with, just hold each other and stare into the other one’s eyes. His breath and mine combine, and I find myself starting to thrum with the need for our lips to meet. But we have so much time, and we want to really savour it, so he cups my face in his hand and turns me away, laying gentle, fluttery kisses on my neck instead. Licking. Brushing me ever-so-delicately until I can trace those shivery flutters from where he plants them on my skin, all the way through my buzzing nerves and right to the very core of me.
Kissing’s underrated, don’t you think? I do. That wicked grin he gives me, then the head-turn, and the teasing not-quite-kisses that you only give when you know you’ve got time to make the most of them. His hands echo that almost-there sensation by tugging gently at the collar of my sweater or nudging up to find the soft flesh of my stomach, which makes all my skin tingle with a hunger for him to go further. Bliss.
He kisses me with his hands, too, and I know that sounds strange. But that’s exactly what it feels like—teasing me, by sliding them so softly under the warmth of my sweater until they’re brushing that sensitive curve on the underside of my breasts. And then down, to my lace knickers, which he slides off me as if they have no substance whatsoever, before tracing his lips over the flesh of my now-naked bottom.
I sit on his lap, and I can’t work out what’s more pleasant—the rough texture of denim on my flesh, or the rock-solid insistence of his erection stretching the fabric. Actually… now I’ve said that it’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s both. One enhances the other. The fabric texture is sexier because it’s the only layer between my naked bum and his bare dick. The erection is hotter because it’s trapped and enclosed—ready to spring out when he unzips his fly. And the more he touches me—running those hot palms over my tits and nipples under the woollen sweater, pinching and pulling at them while we kiss hungrily—the tighter those jeans start to seem on the pressing throb of his eager dick. When he lifts my top and—finally, tantalisingly—takes one of my nipples into his mouth for a firm suck, I swear I can feel him twitch inside his pants. My own cunt thuds at almost exactly the same time—both of us barely able to wait for the next escalation.
But that’s the beauty of Netflix and chill, of course. The reason I love it so much. That escalation happens so slowly and gradually that the greed I feel to have him inside me must be suppressed. And in suppressing it, I make that desire so much stronger. We linger over everything, and that’s what makes each touch feel so electric. When he sucks on one—just one! – of my nipples, it isn’t the way he sucks that makes the difference between a tingle of pleasure and a full-on thud of arousal in my cunt, it’s the time it’s taken him to get there. The amount that I want this—need this—goes from measurable to utterly incalculable, purely by the way he makes me wait.
And while I may be able to wait a bit longer for the main event, my body still wants more: right now.
I lie back on the sofa, giving in to the tremble in my limbs and spreading my legs good and wide so he can reach my clit. He eats me out, in the same way, he does so much other stuff: casually, slowly, but with these sudden bursts of shuddering intensity. First, he starts with delicate circles—lapping gently around my most sensitive spot. I can’t help but grip his hand tightly, and let out little cries as his strokes become varied—long ones, up and down my labia, to mix in with the circles and nudge me higher towards bliss. I can’t help myself, I push the sweater up so I can get some of that cold air on my tingling nipples and, yes, also give him a good view as he glances up from where he’s working.
Then? That intense burst—he takes my legs and nudges them together, before lifting them high, pushing back so that my thighs frame the neat cup of my pussy and ass. More deep, long tongue strokes, until I can no longer place exactly where they are, I just know that the whole of me twitches and yearns for more. Cunt, ass, clit, labia—it’s like he’s everywhere all at once. That’s what I mean by intensity.
When we were first dating, perhaps the second or third time we had one of these nights, he told me afterwards that sometimes he really wanted me to help him slow the fuck down. That’s the thing, you see, we both love the thrill of letting our bodies run away with us, and sometimes we like it if the other can try to rein us in. We both enjoy that burning agony of anticipation and need, but that requires willpower, you know? The first couple of times we did Netflix and chill, he told me after that he’d have liked to make it last even longer if possible, but the draw of my soaking-wet pussy was too much for him. He likes to bury himself in me. And sometimes he likes it if I hold him back, make him wait. Build that yearning in him too. So I do.
I don’t need to use words to tell him—as soon as I shift position he knows: it’s time to switch it up. He lies back on the sofa, falling into the dip in the cushions that are still warm from my own naked body, and I unzip his flies and let that beautiful cock spring out. Is there any joy in the world greater than seeing how hard someone is for you? I give myself a second to consider, as I slide the sweater off over my head, just how much Don must have ached when the blood pulsed into his erection only to be trapped inside the prison of his jeans. How soothing it’s going to be for him when I finally take it in my mouth.
I like to make a meal of that very first stroke. Not licking at the tip or slowly enveloping the whole thing inch by inch with wet lips, but opening my mouth good and wide and getting my head as far down to the base as possible before I close it. So all of his cock is inside before he gets the sensation of a damp, flickering tongue. He shudders, and I adore that. I feel so powerful doing this—holding his pleasure in the palms of my hands, and my mouth, and manipulating, nudging, sucking him to a fervent crescendo. His cock is so satisfying. The head, so sensitive. I follow up that first stroke with some quicker, shorter ones—lots of kissing and moistness all focused on the cluster of nerve endings that sit beneath the ridge of the head. I get my hands in too, more spit for lube, and I’m in the zone now, stroking and sucking faster and faster as he lets out these thrilling grunts and moans to urge me on.
But I remember, always, what he said in those early days. He doesn’t like to lose control too quickly—like me, he wants to savour this. And I cannot bear for anything to end before I’ve had my chance to grip that cock with the warm, wet walls of my cunt. A few more teasing flicks with my tongue, then I realise I can no longer resist it.
I climb on top of him, allowing myself to luxuriate in that incomparably fulfilling the first stroke of the fuck—sliding down onto his curved, taut prick, and allowing myself to gasp at the sheer joy of being so stretched and full as I take him. In fact, that ‘allow myself’ is perhaps a bit of a fib—it’s not that I let myself gasp, it’s that I can’t help myself. As I ride him harder, grinding on top of him and getting that fabulous full-up feeling as his dick thrills every single nerve inside my pussy, I realise I’m making so much noise that if it weren’t for the music the neighbours might wonder what’s happening. This isn’t a fuck you can stay silent for, it’s one where I want to ride the waves of pleasure with the same enthusiasm with which I’m riding him. Celebrating each shudder and rush with moans and whimpers and sighs and all the best things. I sit up to give him a visual as well as an auditory show, and he leans forward to give longed-for attention to my nipples. I can tell he’s holding backbiting his lip and trying to stay calm and quiet, but unable to control his hands, which wander to my bum to grab fistfuls of grinding flesh.
It won’t be long now before he comes, I’m sure of it, but I know that he’ll try to keep his own lust in check until I’ve taken my pleasure from him. And how perfect, because the very thought of him having to work hard to avoid letting loose and pouring his spunk inside me is almost enough to tip me over the edge myself. The more obvious it becomes to me that he’s trying to keep his orgasm in, the likelier it gets that my own climax will spill out and consume me.
And those hands—god, his hands. Gripping me and stroking me and holding me and squeezing at the jiggling flesh of my tits as I bounce up and down on his thick fucking cock. The intensity in his eyes as he drinks in the view. And finally, above all else, those guttural moans which he finally gives into—biting outcries that tell me just how close he is, how ready for it. Those are what ultimately tip me over, and with one last mental image of what will happen soon – his dick twitching and pumping spunk inside me – I come. Huge, drenching waves of it flooding from my crotch up to my chest and back down to my trembling thighs, with which I grip him good and tight as I cling to the peak of my orgasm. Sated, spent, and satisfied.
Well… nearly satisfied. It wouldn’t be a traditional Netflix and chill evening for us if it were only me that got to come. His dick is still there, granite-hard and ready. He wants to get back inside me while my cunt’s still twitching, and fill me with all the hot, white cum he’s been building over the course of our teasing, edgy play. He kisses me softly, and it’s like his hands actually do perform magic, calming me and gently bringing me down from the trembling peak that I just reached. We make out a little more because he’s still in ‘calm’ mode now—it’s like he’s reminding me, even after I reached my destination, that for him the journey is all part of the fun of it.
But inevitably, that cannot last for long. And I’m glad because I don’t want it to. Picturing his orgasm while I was on top of him has made me hungry to feel it. So when he lies me on my side, lifts one thigh up for ease of sliding in, and pushes his fat, curved cock inside me, I am so much more than ready. He’s done the calm part, now it’s time for that trademark burst of intensity: firm, rigid strokes as he ploughs himself into me. He grips me tightly, as if pinning me in place. And when we fuck like this, it’s almost like each stroke is a call and response. The rough punch of the head of his cock at my cervix, and my own whimpering cries in reply. Each stroke alone is a thorough, eager fucking. All his strokes combined is enough to make me babble like I’ve forgotten how to speak. His hands reaching out for my tits are no longer warm, they’re hot. Red-hot against the chill of my nipples. On my hips, that same burning heat as he holds me tightly, dragging me onto his dick so he can feel the twitching grip of my post-orgasmic cunt right down to his balls. My back arches almost involuntarily, adjusting the angle so he can slam in as deep as he likes. So he can fill me utterly and completely.
It’s when I arch my back that his speed changes—the tone changes. And I suspect I’m not alone in saying that this is my favourite part of sex. Better even than my own climax. Better than the anticipation. Better than the tingle in my limbs and the throb in my cunt when he’d asked me on Wednesday, in that easy-breezy tone of his: “Netflix and chill this weekend?” This is the moment I’ll think about when I’m lonely in the middle of this week. The moment I’ll describe to him when we’re teasing each other on the phone: the moment when he decides that yes, it’s his turn to come now.
You can sense this moment in the twitch of someone’s muscles. The set of their jaw, if you’re facing them. Their eyes, if you’re making eye contact. Sometimes—like this time with Don—you can hear it in the noises they make. Having previously been quiet and calm, he suddenly lets go of restraint and gives in to a burst of intensity. Grunting hard and loud as he slams his cock home, gripping me with more force. Really leaning into the pleasure that he’s taking from my body. Faster and harder gets combined with ‘louder’ as he moans and grunts and fucks and fucks until very swiftly—like a flood—his cock gives that first delicious, pumping twitch and I feel hot cum pour into me. Then another—thick and hard and satisfying—and another and another and another until he, too, is empty and spent.
The only thing better than hunkering down for some alone time is hunkering down with someone who’ll help keep you warm. A guy whose casual, teasing play is matched and complemented by his intensity. As I lie face-down on the sofa, exhausted and starting to drift into a doze, Don gets up and wanders over to where we left our wine. Picks his up, takes a sip, gets comfortable on the sofa and enjoys the view. Although my own eyes are closed, I can feel his gaze upon me—drinking in the sight of my naked, sated body with the same satisfaction with which he relishes the wine.
A brief thought bubbles into my mind—oh, I forgot we had wine! – before I realise I’m too tired and trembly to even lift a glass to my lips. I settle back into that cosy afterglow again, face turned to one side, legs open on the sofa, bum and cunt presented to Don. Enjoying that comfortable feeling of aching soreness in my limbs. The lingering whispers of sensation in my tits and hips where he held me. And the knowledge that his attention is fully on me, relishing the memories of all the things we just did. Enjoying the view of what he just had, and watching the drips of his own excitement ooze stickily out of my well-fucked, naked cunt.
Ends
Read all about the wonderful author: Girl On The Net
Great job
Wow … hassan 😍
Good