I supported myself on my knees and elbows, gripping Mr. K’s hands as J impaled me with his fingers from behind.
“Her pussy is really wet,” marvelled J.
“She always gets that way,” confirmed Mr. K. “It’s amazing.”
He went on to say he’d long suspected I was able to achieve squirting orgasms because of it, but we’d never put much effort into trying.
B leaned naked against the headboard. “I never could until we took a workshop last year.”
“That was a fantastic workshop,” said J.
“I feel like I’m going to pee,” I interrupted.
J assured me I wouldn’t, that it was a common feeling and getting past it was the hard part.
“Hard” was a gross understatement.
My body was rife with tension and I held my breath, fighting the strong urge to pull away from the overwhelming invasion of his fingers. I knew I could have. One word to Mr. K would have ended it all, but I hadn’t hit that wall yet. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying my damnedest to obey my brain’s commands to give in to the incredible sensation, but my body rebelled and the battle between them waged on.
J told me again and again to come, but his voice was foreign to the blood running through my veins and my body ignored his instruction.
Worry crept into Mr. K’s eyes as concern for my comfort grew. He watched me closely. “Come for Daddy, baby,” he said, crushing my hands in his.
I managed to let go, crying out as the surges of pain and pleasure mixed together.
“There she goes,” said J.
Release came from deep within, running down my thighs as my walls tightened in waves around J’s fingers. I gasped for air, taking my first breath in minutes it seemed. The spasms subsided slowly and tension waned along with the pressure, relief flowing through me as my head dropped to the bed. I was sore and exhausted, but remained on my knees. The men discussed the state of my drenched pussy as they played in the juices that dripped from it.
The reality of my first squirting orgasm was nothing like I’d imagined. There were no screams of delight and no gushing lady geyser soaking everyone within a three-foot radius. There were no warm swells of ecstasy rolling through me, leaving a trembling mound of boneless flesh in their wake either. And yes, I realize that makes me sound like a sappy romantic.
Hey, don’t judge me.
Thus far, squirting was nothing like the delicious orgasms I craved from Mr. K, or what I’d read, for that matter. I called bullshit. I only said it inside my head, though, because not only did my body not cooperate with my brain, my mouth didn’t either.
The second squirting orgasm was no less challenging for me than the first. Again, I braced against the pressure. Again, I fought release. The third one, however, blew me apart. I could think of nothing but getting to Mr. K as I crawled naked across the bed, the remains of my orgasm trickling down my legs. I needed him desperately; to smell him and taste him. I needed to curl up in the familiar safety of his arms. I needed to piece myself together again.
He pushed my hair from my face, asking if I was alright as I laid down next to him. I nodded, reassuring him I was okay when I wasn’t. I was drained, dangerously close to bursting into tears, and an emotional wreck. The physical intensity of squirting required me to submit my body to J, which was terribly difficult for me. It was the one thing Mr. K and I hadn’t anticipated in our decision to play with another couple, and the impact of it didn’t fully register until I lay in front of him feeling exposed and vulnerable.
J and B gave us the space we needed for me to collect myself. The conversation floating around me returned to the squirting workshop they’d taken, but my focus was on Mr. K. I held on to him as he gave me kisses and assurances of his love. They were both needed and made it doubly hard not to cry. I caught a tear as it fell from the corner of my eye in between sips of the water he fed me, hoping he didn’t notice.
Moments later, I found myself renewed, rehydrated, buckled into my strap-on harness, and fucking B until her orgasm ripped through her. She snuggled into the crook of my arm with a dreamy smile on her face as the night drew to a close.
“I want to keep you,” said B.
The next evening, Mr. K and I lay in bed, cuddlefucking (totally a word) before dinner. He’d already given me two amazing orgasms, but like an addict, I wanted more.
“You want to come again, don’t you?” he asked, his fingers circling my clit in deliberate motions.
I pushed them inside of me. “Yes.”
I tangled my hands in his thick mass of hair, inhaling his scent as he kissed me deeply. He pulled his fingers from my pussy and put them in his mouth, hungrily sucking my wetness from them. It was something I loved to watch. He stuffed them inside me again, my breath catching when he found my G-spot. I prepared myself for the build of pressure, but it had gone missing and blissful ripples of pleasure had taken its place. His mouth was on mine as he pressed harder and faster. The palm of his hand grazed my clit, igniting the warm swells of ecstasy I’d imagined and when my orgasm erupted, it was the sweet, squirting, gushes I’d hoped for.
It was then I realized my body and brain weren’t fighting against each other during my first experience with squirting orgasms, they fought against J. He wasn’t the man I loved, trusted implicitly, and shared a deep connection with; he wasn’t Mr. K and that made it super fucking hard to give him power over me.
Mr. K slapped my sopping wet pussy as he rose from the bed. “Now you’ll want me to make you squirt every time we fuck.”
“Maybe.”
“Sappy romantic.” Funny on so many levels!
Mr. K tells me so all the time. But I also have a wicked mind.
I didn’t orgasm until I was 32 because of that sensation. Apparently, I’ve been a squirter for many, many years but since I didn’t know such a thing existed, I always assumed I needed to pee. I was mortified at the idea of peeing on myself during sex so I just forced any and all orgasms to stop in their tracks.
I know better now, and I’m a proud squirter. We wash the sheets almost every day when my Daddy is in town. And, the newest development, is that I almost never squirt when I masturbate now – I need him.
Ok, all that to say, yay you!!! Letting go of your control to squirt is like letting go to submit – if that makes sense.
It does make sense, Kayla. That’s why it was such a struggle, I think. Because it wasn’t Mr. K I was giving control to, I fought it.
And WOW! I imagine your first orgasm was too spectacular for words! By the way, Mr. K thought your story was pretty incredible.
Thanks Nikki! You just gave me a lot to talk about with the Mrs. As she’s gotten older she’s become even more orgasmic and wetter, and I’ve wondered if she could squirt. She too has a fear of peeing.
You ladies always entertain or give us something to think about!
You’re welcome, Dale! And as always, thank you for reading and commenting!
It was hard to get past, but totally worth it in the end. Heh. End.