Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

I will never not be fascinated by jizz. It’s probably the topic I’ve covered most often here – from the best places to jizz to the weird questions I’ve asked about it.

Perhaps it’s because I can’t produce it myself, or because I sense a similar fascination in guys – that agony of choice when you decide where to do it, and how, and when.

But let’s talk about the only frustration I have with spunk: that there is never – can never be – enough.

Where shall I jizz?

A common question in my bedroom: “where do you want me to come?”

A world of possibilities, but limited time to choose. On my face? That’s the best place if I want to feel the power and force of it. The squirts hammering against my lips and cheeks like driving rain. That one’s pretty good.

On my tits, or my stomach, or over my crotch, where I can look down to see it land then rub it in until the sticky film covers as much of me as possible.

Inside me – there are far too many possibilities here, and it’s hard to choose just one. Sometimes he pulls out just before he comes and presses the tip of his cock against my arse, spraying jizz into me and letting it dribble down the crack. If you asked me in an unguarded moment I’d tell you that was my favourite. But if you ask me at the end of a fuck, when his voice is cracked with the effort of holding back and he needs me to tell him where then… well, I’ll be tempted to say in my cunt. Because it’s there where I can clench against him, squeezing every drop of pleasure from the sensation of his cock twitching.

In my mouth. Two ways, here. Well, more than two but they’re variations. One where I tip my head back, open my mouth wide and stick out my tongue just a little, and he uses his hand to beat the last stages of orgasm out of his shuddering cock. Squirting – in the most delicious sense of the word. Aiming and hitting the roof of my mouth. Once. Twice. Three times. Squeezing the last few drops out onto my waiting tongue.

Or the other way – at the back of my throat. Holding my head still with his hands and thrusting so his dick is deep in my throat and I splutter as the come pours down my throat.

See what I mean about decisions? Each of these has its merits, and in the moment they all seem perfect. What I want, really, is for him to come for longer – more. Not just drops or squirts but cupfuls – doled out in swallow-sized, or cunt-filling measures. Each one assigned by whim, after a measure in each place we like best.

“I’m done here. Flip over.”

Four or five squirts in each place, so as I’m rubbing it into my stomach and my crotch he’s positioning again for my mouth. So when he’s jizzed inside my cunt I can roll over and feel the same powerful squirts up against the crack of my arse.

So I can taste his spunk in my mouth even as it dries elsewhere.

Until he’s spent. More spent than he could ever, truly, physically be. Like it’s all been drained and sucked from him and he lies twitching and sated on the bed.

Almost every inch of me covered, or filled. Except one.

I’d hold his cock in my hand and milk the last few drops into the crook of my thumb and forefinger. Then rub my palms together to complete the full set.