A Rant on Squirting: Once it Starts, There's No Stopping

I was rereading some of my old posts today, and I came across a comment by Little Miss (Hi dear), stating that she wanted to learn how NOT to squirt.  And, I remember thinking at the time, “What the fuck Little Miss?  Why would you not want to squirt?”

And, now don’t get me wrong.  I love to squirt.  I beg M, quite often, to make me squirt.  And once I’ve had a few squirting orgasms, they begin to erupt from me, with no end in sight.  Fuck, I soak the bed, through the sheets, on the mattress.  If my panties stay on, I can literally wring them out like a wet towel.  Not too long ago, during a rather intense night, I was squirting so much and so hard that both M’s chest and my tits were covered in my cum.  Once I’m out of control, just the touch of M’s tongue to my clit, or the penetration of one finger will have me erupting like Mt. Saint Helens.

And I wouldn’t give it up for the fucking world, but there are times when it’s not convinient.  Like the other night, M and I went for a walk at dusk.  We ended up in a local cemetery.  One thing leads to another and soon his hand is down my pants and his thick fingers are in my cunt.  He starts his manipulations, building me up for a gushing orgasm, and I say, “Sir, please just remember I have to walk home in these pants…”  And he laughs at me.  Or last week I met him on my lunch break, in the parking lot of Lowe’s.  We end up in the bed of his Semi, and there I squirt all over the place, and have to wear wet panties under my dress, concerned I reek of sex and cum for the rest of the day.

Again, I’m not complaining.  Not too long ago, I could only squirt once in a while (Thank you, as always, my dearest Hyacinthia), and after learning a few tricks (bear down ladies), I gained better control of these orgasms and leaned how to induce them, for lack of a better word.  But, silly me, thinking I had the control of these beautiful experiences.  Silly, silly me.  Because you know who has the fucking control of them?  Come on, I bet you can guess.  Yep, that’s right…  M.

And M, well, he doesn’t give a fuck if my panties are soaked.  He doesn’t give a fuck how wet the bed gets (fuck, I’m seriously considering buying rubber sheets to protect the mattress).  He doesn’t care that I don’t want to soak the seat in the van.  Because, what it comes down to is he wants me to.  Therefore I will.  Simple premise.  M wants.  M gets.  LSAM cums.  A lot.

And it fucking pisses me off.  I can make myself squirt.  But it takes a lot of orgasms and a lot of porn, a Hitachi wand, and quite a bit of time.  I can’t do it manually, no matter how hard I try.  But M, he can have me from talking about what dishwasher we are going to buy to cum running down my legs in under five minutes.  I guarantee it.  And, what makes me more angry than anything else.  There is nothing I can do to stop him.  Oh, I can fight it.  Try not to cum.  But the sensations become overwhelming.  I may try not to, but I can only take so much G-Spot stimulation, so much licking of my clit, before my raging orgasms overtakes my self-determination, leaving it standing in dust with cum dripping from it.

So, I guess my point in all this, is I have no fucking clue on how not to squirt.  Sometimes, I wish I did, just so I could be a brat and hold out my orgasms from M.  I don’t know why I would want to do this, but for some reason, it sounds like something I would want to do.  Because, perhaps, it gives me a bit of control.  Perhaps it’s because it’s my body, and I want it to listen to me.  Perhaps it’s because I become a blithering, panting, beast beneath his hands.  Who the fuck knows.

But, even as I write this, I’m shaking my head.  “You’re a little fucking liar, LSAM,” my self-talk says. ”Your orgasms belong to M.  They are his.  YOU are his.  And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”  And she’s right, you know.  But fuck, what I wouldn’t give to simply have a shred of self-control when it comes to M and his fingers and his tongue and his cock…  Shit.  Fuck.  Damn.