How to Rock Her G-Spot Like a 21st Century Casanova

This is what you do.

You have your female lover—your girlfriend, your wife, your friend, it matters not—lie on the bed, her legs bent, her thighs spread; like the twin columns of trees that line the road leading up to a French estate, her parted legs welcome you.

You take your time; you gaze at the vista; you appreciate the topiary; you stop and smell the metaphoric flowers. Perhaps you trail a finger or two up and down her vertical slit. Perhaps you part her labia, idly, like a dawdler eavesdropping at a tea party.

You tell her in no uncertain terms that you have something planned. That you will let her know each individual step. That you will be trusted as you will be obeyed. You may, if you like, praise her. You may, if you like, plant a small kiss on her inner thigh. If you are feeling magnanimous, if you are feeling beneficent.

You hand her a toy, if you like, a vibrator, or you tell her to use her fingers. It is your choice. You know your woman well enough to know what is best. (You do not, however, use your own mouth. The time will come for that, but the time is not yet now.)

You let your lover ply her fingers in her own intricate dance over her clit. You tell her to. Or you let her rub small circles on her clit with the vibrator; you tell her to do this too. As she is stroking herself you tell her that you’re going to insert a finger, that you’re going to give her very specific instructions, and that you expect her to follow them.

You let her know that there will be consequences if she does not. You tell her that if she does not follow your instructions, if she does not try to follow the letter of your law, you will stop. You will get up and you will leave her. You will, perhaps, go and watch a game somewhere, you will visit a friend, you will have a drink, you will shop. You will leave her naughty sweaty wet, though it will be hard, hard indeed, but you will leave her nonetheless.

You let her tease herself. You tell her that she may not come until you give her permission to. You ask if she understands and she says she does (you see her face beginning to flush pink, and you like it).

You tell her you’re going to insert a finger into her pussy and that you want her to continue stroking herself. You lick your middle finger and you slowly insert it, rotating your hand so that your palm is up, curving your finger slightly so that your fingertip finds her kitten-tongue rough g-spot. You stroke it gently,

You make eye contact. You keep it.

You tell her to concentrate on squeezing her muscles as tightly as she can around your finger. You tell her to squeeze and then you tell her to release. You pause, she rubs, you breathe, she pants, slightly.

You tell her to do it again, harder. She does. You tell her to hold her muscles tight around your finger, as tight as they can be, tight, tighter, to squeeze your finger as if it’s a balloon she wants to pop with her pussy muscles.

You tell her not to laugh. You tell her to keep squeezing. You remind her to keep rubbing.

You either praise her for her hard work or you chide her for her lazy slatternly slut ways. You will know which tack to take; she is, after all, your lover.

You then tell her you’re going to insert another finger. You take your finger out, you put it in her mouth to lick it, and you place a second finger in her mouth, so she can coat it with saliva too. You lock eyes again—you know the power of eye contact—and you insert the two fingers, once more tilting your palm upwards, once more searching the kitten-tongue, once more delighting in her gasp, and in her grasp.

You tell her you’re going to tell her to squeeze and release her pussy and that she’s going to follow your directions, holding her cunt tight around your two fingers until you give her leave to let it go. You do this. You do it over and over. You remind her that she may neither come nor may she stop stroking her clit. You watch her face and listen to her breaths. You know that when women do this, when they rhythmically tense and relax their cunts, they bring themselves closer to orgasm (you may even know one or two who have come this way alone).

When she gets close to coming, you pause. You tell her to pause. You tell her, now you are going to push. Push out against my finger. And you yourself may not feel much, you may feel only a slight push, but you know too that pushing delays orgasm, that pushing hard both delays orgasm and it makes it indescribably sweeter, slower, more powerful and more complete.

So you tell her to push. You warn her that if you feel her pull in, which is her natural reaction, you will stop. You will pull her finger away from her pussy, you will remove your hands, you will leave. You ask her if that’s what she wants.

No, she will moan.

You ask her if she understands. She will say she does. She will say anything.

You tell her to begin touching herself again, you will encourage her, to fight her temptation to clutch in at those hard fingers insistently probing her cunt. You will tell her to fight them, to oust them like foreign soldiers at her family’s farmhouse, to push them away, to reject, to press with all her will and all her pussy these fingers away from her.

You will feel her losing. You will see her orgasm tremble in her legs, flutter in her belly. And when you are ready, you will tell her that she will bear down on your fingers with everything she can and when she does she may come, and she will.

She will come tumbling like a tall building, imploding from within, her windows shuddering and her foundations shaking, she will come gasping in and around your hand, Though flat on the bed, she will fall and you will hold her.

You will do this, and you will learn how your woman’s pussy works, how it trembles and closes like a wet velvet fist around you, how she begins to lose control, how control is lost, and how she can learn to control it through you.

Now, imagine doing it again, this time not with your fingers but with your cock. What have you learned? And where will it take you?