May is Masturbation Month, so I’ve set myself the challenge of writting some erotica that is focussed on jerking off rather than fucking. Solo sex is – after all – just as valid a way to access pleasure, have fun, or relieve boredom as getting dicked down is, and today’s smut is a more-or-less fictional story about nostalgic wanks and how hot it can be to get worked up over someone you’re no longer fucking.
Content note for humiliation and heart-break.
Getting over him was easy, I tell people. It’s getting over his dick that’s the problem.
I’m lying, of course – his dick was spectacular but it was him I fell head-over-heels in lust with. His intelligence, his wit, his twisted sadism and the fact he could make me laugh while beating my arse. It hurts when I remember that he’s never going to dominate me again because he was so fucking good at it.
A year later I tell people I’m completely over him, but I’m not sure I can be while still wanking over him. It’s annoying, the frequency with which I think about him when I jerk off. It’s as annoying as him not confirming until late afternoon that he wants to fuck me that evening, except this frustration can be more easily be used to fuel filthy thoughts that leave my fingers sliding off my slippery clit.
He made me so wet. It’s not the pain that turns me on, I explained to him once, it’s the power and control and the fact you find it hot to hurt me. He did, and I now and then I wonder if he knows how much he taught me about the kind of pain slut I am. Mostly I get turned on by the memories of the pain, and how much he enjoyed dishing it out and helping me take as much as I could for him.
It’s easier to think about how hard his dick was when he’s push me to my knees after a spanking than his gentleness when he assured me that he didn’t want to fuck me less because I couldn’t take as much pain as I wanted to.
That’s the thing about nostalgic wanks: you can focus on how hot it was when he made you run laps to earn the privilege of sucking him off. You don’t have to remember the time you cried in front of him, burning with shame because this was meant to be about sex and not the emotions society tells people socialised as girls that they’ll feel after fucking. We’re taught to be ashamed of those feelings, and I hadn’t yet learned that it’s ok to cry in front of someone you’re having casual sex with.
I know that now, but I also know how to tune out those memories and relive the ones that have me squirming with a different kind of shame. The cunt-clenching, dick-twitching kind of humiliation that I love and he was so very good at giving me. He made me feel dirty and used and degraded, and I will never forget how hot it was to get him off with my mouth and then have to wait for permission before swallowing his come.
He never made me come while we were having sex, but I wouldn’t have wanted him to. He’d tell me that I wasn’t allowed to get off until the next day when he dropped me back at my flat after we fucked, and sometimes I’d disobey him because I wanted to see what twisted punishment he’d come up with next time. He was clever, and he made me feel clever when we were flirting. He made me feel like I was a chess opponent worthy of being whipped into submission and then face-fucked, and I loved it.
Even the memory of him makes me hot and hard, and the frustration at the control he still have over me makes it hotter still. I ignore the memories of how it felt to spoon him after sex and concentrate on how wet I was when he made me run laps to earn the privilege of sucking his dick. I slide my hand into my boxers when I think about his smug grin as he made me beg for something I wanted even though I knew how much it would hurt. I bury my face in a pillow, coming so hard it almost hurts, and imagine his hand on the back of my neck – pushing me down and ensuring my silence.
I’m not allowed to look back through my messages to him, even when my cunt is aching and I need something to tip me over the edge into orgasm. His sadistic words are so good at doing that, but even with a vibrator pressed against my clit their hotness will not outweigh the sadness I still can’t shake. He was a brilliant fuck buddy – cruel and inventive and so fucking attractive that he still makes me swoon whenever he walks into a room – but he’s safer as a deliciously hot memory.
Maybe my nostalgic wanks aren’t my best idea. After all, I don’t let myself text him any more – not because it hurts too much that he doesn’t want me any more, but because without sex on the table I feel needy in a way that isn’t hot at all. Maybe I’m romanticising and eroticising something that was never that brilliant… or maybe I’m trying to reclaim the power that I lost not in consensual power exchange but in how small I felt when he ended things.
Maybe I don’t care if I never get over him, as long as I can keep getting off.
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Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.