Coming for Someone Else is Hot. Coming for Yourself Because of Someone Else is Better

Have you ever come for someone?

Like your orgasm meant something to them. Like you coming is a gift that they’d enjoy?

I’d never really thought about it before.

- “Did you come for me?” 

- “Well, eh… I came. Was it necessarily for you? Not really. I didn’t tell you I was going to. I didn’t know this was even a thing.”

But over time it became a thing. Our orgasms were gifts to each other. A midday text would indicate that one of us had been playing with ourselves and the focus of our thoughts were the other. Videos quickly followed. (Watching others come is hot - especially when it’s for you) 

The young buck gave me the idea. He’d pin me to the bed, one hand around my throat and one over my mouth. He thrust into me with way too much aggression, the aggression that turns me on. Then… he’d instruct me to come. 

Dear God, it’s hot when someone tells you to come. The submissive in me craved to obey.

But as much as I wanted to. As much as my body needed to. I couldn’t. 

I. Just. Couldn’t.

The things he did to me were amazing, mind-blowing; but weeks without orgasm that didn’t include me working myself were torture.

It wasn’t long enough, I hadn’t been aroused enough. There was always something. So pretty much every time I left, I was more frustrated than beforehand where I lusted to have him inside me. 

The reliability of a vibrator and 3 minutes can get pretty boring. You’re not supposed to lean so heavily on your box of battery-operated machinery when you’ve someone who fucks you with a great deal of regularity. I was ready to tear chunks of my own hair out.

So when the young bucks time came to an end I decided on a man fast. No more would I hope that maybe this time I might orgasm. I just couldn’t face another letdown. 

That was until a prospective play partner text to say he wanted to spend a minimum of half an hour with his face between my legs. 

Sometimes a girls mind can be changed. 

I battled my urges to orgasm at the hands of another with my need to not be let down. Ultimately, my vagina won.

I caved. About a week into my fast. This would be the last straw. If he couldn’t do it, no one was going to even try. I would wither away as a dried up, orgasmless old woman - vibrator in one hand, lube in the other and put in my casket with both - just encase the afterlife is an orgasmless pit of hell too.

A week or so later I was lying on my bed in nothing but a black thong that unties at the hips. A naked man pulling on the strings dying to get his tongue on my clit. 

Pausing the man-fast was looking like a good idea.  He was good.

Understanding the importance of not diving in head first (pun definitely intended) he licked and kissed and nibbled everywhere. My neck, my nipples, my stomach, my thighs, that ultra-sensitive section between your thigh and your labia. 

By the time he got to work, I knew I was in for a good time.

Ladies, I know you feel me when I say orgasms are a delicate creature. They build and build. One wrong move and they dissipate. Fizzling out to nothing. Pretty much needing to start again.

Yeah… that happened. 

I’d hit the stage of heavy breathing, uncontrollable gyrations… it’s coming… it’s coming… dear god it’s coming… aaaaand it’s gone.

Over and over and fucking over again! 

Edging is something I want to explore, but I need a man who understands my orgasms before they edge and deny.

So I told him to stop. The dried up old lady was coming back to me.

We lay for a while, talking about nothing but my vagina was screaming at me. I reeeeally needed to come.

So I sent him back to work with detailed instructions. 

It worked! Less than 5 minutes later I was in ecstasy. The release, the happiness. I literally lay and ignored him while I let the orgasm course through me. Yes! This is what I had wanted. This is what I had needed

He was proud. (Men are always warned of the feat they’re up against.) I was happy. The insurmountable was overcome.

45 minutes. The man deserves a medal.

My point is this.

I’ve come for other people. Literally forced it out of me. Focusing so hard on ramping up the sensations in my mind to get me over the edge. It was for them. Their self-esteem, their ego. 

But that day. On that bed. With that man between my legs. I came for me. I didn’t force anything. I lay for 45 minutes and enjoyed myself. I didn’t feel the need to reciprocate. He knew that was all for the day. 

That orgasm was for me. If that’s not self-love, I don’t know what is.