What Makes me Cum

What Makes Me Cum

It’s not just friction. It’s not just pressure. It’s not just a tongue doing laps like it’s lost.

What makes me cum is attention. Precision. A man who doesn’t ask—he reads. Who doesn’t rush, doesn’t guess, doesn’t treat my body like a checklist he saw online.

I cum when there’s tension. Slow build. Heat that simmers before it ever explodes. When he watches the way I breathe and listens to the way I don’t speak. The way my back arches, not for show, but because I can’t help it.

It’s eye contact while fingers stay just shy of where I want them. It’s when his mouth lingers in places that aren’t even wet yet, but will be. When he touches me like I’m expensive—and ruins me like I asked for it.

I don’t cum because of some formula. I cum when I feel owned without being controlled. Worshipped without being handled soft. Rough and tender at once—like I’m both the altar and the fire.

The sound of breath against my ear. A command whispered so low I can feel it in my spine. My name, not moaned, but spoken—with that growl of restraint he’s barely keeping in.

That’s what gets me off.

Not performance. Not porn-style theatrics. But real, dirty, intimate chaos.

I don’t fake it. I don’t have to. When it’s good, you’ll know. Because I’ll forget I was ever trying to hold back

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