Somehow, there are things I forget to do when I’m in bed, things I forget I like, things I forget have given me pleasure.
Somehow, in all the Sturm und Drang of buzzy toys, ropey bondage, hot wax, cold ice, and D/s-flavored fun, I forget some of the basics, sometimes, when I’m having sex.
Let me then sing the praises of clitfucking.
The clitfuck is a delicate game of sexual chicken. It glides in the ambiguous space between foreplay and fucking, literally as well as metaphorically. Its pleasure comes in part from the anticipation, the intimacy, the undeniable possibility of total and irrevocable insertion.
The rest of its pleasure comes from friction.
The clitfuck, by necessity, by definition, originates in adolescent fumbling, those teenage forays onto the playground of the body. Your part fits in my part, my part fits around your part, but before we can go to that fitting, before we can take that irrevocable leap into territories that once breached can never be closed, before we fuck for real, we clitfuck.
For, in the terms of high school, once you’ve gone home, you can never not go home again.
And before you go home, you tread the long, slow, gray line between the third and the home bases, and one pleasurable step is clitfucking.
Pleasurable because of the aforementioned anticipation, the aforementioned intimacy, the aforementioned friction.
I am on my back. He braces himself on his hands, his body parting the Pacific of my thighs, And my thighs are parted wide. My legs shake with my effort of opening them, of opening my pussy to him, my hips undulating waves toward his cock.
His cock that I hold in my hand, tracing invisible lines up and down the slit of my pussy, the spongy head of his cock gliding over my clit with an indescribable, infinite sweetness, (each pause and slide of his cock causing me to contract and expand with the sweetness).
His cock is in my hand. I draw it slowly and beyond his control over my wet, opening, ever more puffy pussy. The delirious, delicious tension between the profound pleasure of the head of his cock on my clit and the pure possiblility of it dipping quickly and sweetly into my cunt. The tip grazing my g-spot, the mixy, heady sensations of clit and g-spot, clit and g-spot. And back again.
Our eyes are locked, his and mine, Our breathing is heavy with yearning. The dramatic tension is high, with my thighs parted ever more uncomfortably wide, my hips rippling wavelike under him, his control unseated by my hand on his cock, My hand controlling his cock in the pleasure of the dance, this dance of sexual chicken, the inexorable and undeniable will to fuck. This control I have almost beyond the control that I have. I am simultaneously in control and out of it.
I love being clitfucked. I love it all—the tension, the anticipation, the friction. The control and the inevitable possibility of its loss.
And yet I forget it, this adolescent joy. I love being clitfucked because it makes me want, yearn, burn and scream to be fucked. And I’m control, and I don’t let it happen.
Because I love the tension, the anticipation, the friction.
It makes me come, nearly. It makes me come, almost. It makes me come, or it makes me come close to coming, and it makes me wetter, puffier and slicker, more desperate in my yearning, my desiring to be filled and fucked.
Clitfucking it makes me remember what it feels like to be in dangerous new territories, wanting something I never knew I wanted. And wanting something in ways I never imagined I could want it, when I’m there, suspended willingly, willfully in that slippery delirious territory between foreplay and fucking.