Fuck Toy

There is a certain delight I take in using a man for my pleasure. It’s something I’ve used only a choice few males for in my sexual explorations thus far in life though, because (1) for me to let go enough to be in the appropriate headspace to use him requires a formula of consent, shared kink, mutual trust, timing, and desire that is more art than science; and (2) for him to want to be used as a toy – a living, breathing, fucking thing – requires {a} a deep-seated desire to focus purely on my pleasure, not at the expense of his own but rather to the enhancement thereof, and {b} the dedication to follow through on that desire.

To be clear, I have never had a lover who was NOT focused on pleasing me. (I get that my experience is somewhat outside the norm in that way.) But there is an Indefineable Something that, when the chemistry clicks, acts as a catalyst, changing the sexual dyamic temporarily from “He and Me” to “Me and my Fuck Toy.”

Sometimes it is a word or phrase, a term of endearment or honorific that indicates submission, or a slutty begging request that tells me he wants to be used. Sometimes it is a *click* of mutually changing headspace: that look in his eyes that goes slightly dazed when he’s drunk on endorphins or high on submission, that says “keep going keep going don’t stop” while simultaneously I feel a jolt of raw power running through my veins. Sometimes it is something else entirely. Something heady and wild and atavistic. Just… Something.

And once that Something happens, everything changes.

If I am sitting on his face, his tongue and mouth and chin become my grinding stone. I am no longer acting as recipient, but rather as orchestrator. He’s not giving anymore; I’m taking. While his ministrations may continue as before, my demands increase. He is not offering my pussy pleasure. Rather, I am demanding it. I’m using him at that point, rubbing my clit against his upper lip, widening my stance and pressing my weight down on his probing tongue, rocking my hips to rub my slick cunt over his chin with only one goal in mind: I. Need. To. CUM.

One combination of chemical ingredients that triggers the Use him like a fuck toy response in me more than any other is when he fills me with his cock and then asks me to take my pleasure. “Move how you want” is a phrase that sets me off, because the underlying message is “Use me how you want.”

If I am sitting astride his cock, I will “move how I want” by not moving at all. I will tell him to clench his gluts, push up into me, and stay there. I, in turn, will butterfly my thighs to lower myself as firmly onto him as possible, feeling him deep, and stay there. And use him how I want, I do. It is then a mere matter of clenching and releasing around his cock while I flutter my fingers over my clit, chasing my orgasm through deep penetration, clitoral stimulation, and muscle work. He becomes my fuck toy then; his sole purpose is to keep me filled with his hard cock, to give me something to grab onto as I approach orgasm, to be the instrument on which I cream my cum.

If he is fucking me from behind, and tells me to move as I please, the “use me” message is intensified. Because I can’t see him. I can back up onto his cock and take him to the hilt, grind my ass against his lower torso, rock and thrust and wiggle and glide. I can hear his responses, which feed my frenzy, and feel his hands smoothing over my skin, which heightens my responses. But I can’t see him, so for a moment he ceases to be anything but an erotic engine, revving me up. While I know from his gutteral groans and urgent strokes that he is receiving pleasure from my actions, the whole point of the exercise is that I am seeing, firstly and solely, to my own pleasure via the tool provided: namely, Him. He is mine to use as I please, on whom to chase my orgasm as fast or as slow as I prefer.

He is, in these moments, a tool. A toy.

My fuck toy.