Girl on the Net

You know how you’ll go through phases in terms of what you fantasise about? Well, maybe not everyone does, but I do. One week I might be obsessed with the idea of locking eyes with a stranger on the tube, staying on the train with him until our carriage is empty at the end of the line, until – with a quick jerk of his head and a filthy smile – he invites me to sit down on his cock and ride him to the final stop. Other weeks I might need more guys to make the fantasy complete – three or four willing gentlemen who pop round my house to gangbang me on the sofa – that kind of thing.

Right now, though, I am obsessed with historical fucking. Snatched moments between princes and parlour-maids, gentlewomen and stable hands – frilly skirts being hoiked up to the waist and corsets yanked down to expose jiggling tits as someone’s fucked against the wall.

Is it something to do with etiquette? That’s definitely part of it. Nearly all of my fantasies involve an upstairs/downstairs split. One person will be snooty, nose-in-the-air rich. Probably married to a duke or a duchess – at the very least they own their own pony and know which fork to use with scrambled egg. The sex they want to have is hurried and frantic and lustful. It’s an escape from the code of politeness that’s imposed on them 99% of the time, and they’ll drink deep from the joy of it in the snatched few minutes when they’ll hurl themselves into the hay for a quick tumble with a member of the lower classes.

Their counterpart, meanwhile, the person from ‘below stairs’, is free from a lot of those obligations. To a certain extent objectified by the one in power, they are seen as someone who would have more freedom to pursue their lusts. What they want from the fuck is the same – a short, sticky coupling in the stable or a dark corner of a corridor in some stately mansion somewhere.

From both people, the motivations are purely about lust. And, I think, there’s some inherent hotness for me in the fact that it usually has to be quick. I very rarely (and perhaps never) fantasise about specific physical acts. Most of my fantasies spring from the reasons for fucking, and the way people fuck – a kind of desperate ‘I just have to bang you right now’ level of horniness. There’s rarely any build-up, just a flash of painful, intense desire, and the immediate fulfillment of exactly what you want.

And yet, oddly, although I suspect the upstairs/downstairs atmosphere is one of the reasons I love this stuff so much (the second major reason being the costumes, obviously) the vast majority of my fantasies still default to one of the key things I love: being used. No matter who holds the political and economic power, who is addressed as ‘lord’ or ‘lady’, in my filthy mind when people leap that societal chasm, they still end up in a similar position: guy using girl for functional sexual ends.

The fantasy below is a kind of obvious take on this. If you like it, then this time next week I’ll post the opposite: featuring the lady of the house and a broad-shouldered stableboy, and I’ll try to demonstrate how – no matter how intricate the costumes or how broad the possibilities of class-based historical fantasy, my sordid mind always ends up in a similar sticky place.

Hot historical fantasy (take one)

It starts with hearth-scrubbing, obviously. A young maid, who looks uncannily like a younger, hotter version of myself. Mob-cap and big skirt, and sleeves that frill out just above the elbow.

The lord of the house, probably mid-forties or older, is settled in a chair in the corner of the room. He’s in a bit of a grump: frustrated by some piece of rich-person’s work. Maybe he’s just been told to marry a lady he doesn’t much fancy, or asked to raise an army for the king: whatever. He’s in a frowning, contemplative mood, and the only thing that soothes him for now is the sight of my arse wobbling as I scrub at the hearth. He wouldn’t normally watch me work – he’d usually dismiss me with a casual wave of his hand, or an ‘out’ on sight, but for some reason he hasn’t today. And the feeling of his eyes on me makes my cunt pound with arousal.

I scrub harder, and he rubs at himself. Casually, as if he couldn’t much care either way what a maid thinks about him. As if he’s wondering whether to fuck me into next week with the same detached nonchalance that he wonders whether to buy a new horse at the county fair.

He decides in the affirmative, obviously, because this is a fucking fantasy and if I don’t end up getting screwed then the whole story is wasted.

He doesn’t say anything before he fucks me – that’s key. I need him not to say anything, because any word that passes between us shatters the illusion that I am something lower – not quite property but not quite free either. Mostly unnoticed, and barely regarded, yet still obliged to walk where he orders me, and do as he demands. A bit like the horse at the country fair.

He saunters over, and I pause for a second, before realising that to stop working is to break the spell. If I want him to walk further, to stand closer behind me, I have to pretend I haven’t noticed. I’m just an obedient servant, getting on with my work, paying no heed to my master or what he might please himself by doing.

He lifts up my skirt. Underneath there’s a pair of those phenomenal split bloomers – you know the ones. They part in the middle to reveal my arse, and he pulls the fabric wider so he can have a closer look.

Grunting with approval, he pulls out his cock, takes another look at my arse, and spits into the palm of his hand. I keep scrubbing – side to side, up and down, I vaguely notice that the hearth is shiny in just this one spot, but I don’t dare move because I want what’s about to happen to happen right now.

He slathers his dick in spit, and kneels behind me. Still in riding boots, jacket and breeches, the only thing about him that’s exposed is his fat dick, stabbing urgently against me, filling me up as he pushes it hard inside.

He’s not as excited as I am. Oh he’s aroused, for sure. He’s keen for a fuck. But he’s not screwing me the way you’d screw a lover, or a friend, or someone you’d lusted after for a while. He’s fucking me the way you’d use a napkin, or a pen: it’s functional, as a means to complete a task. He fucks me in the same way he’d wipe his hands after washing them.

Hard, short strokes. Grunting. He doesn’t even grip my hips to start with – just an experimental push, and a few strokes to test whether this willing maid can and will accommodate his need. A word springs to mind: doxy. The old-fashioned term for sex worker, used equally as a term of affection and an insult. A good thing, but a good thing that nevertheless doesn’t matter to him. His arrogance is eclipsed only by his grunting, sweating, fuck-hungry need.

I push back against him, but I don’t think he notices. I let a small cry escape from my lips at the tingling enjoyment I feel being filled with his dick. He presses on. Eventually grinding harder, smacking my arse with his hips as he thrusts his cock inside me. It’s been less than a minute. Nothing fancy, nothing romantic, nothing more than me scrubbing the hearth and him taking his pleasure, and me clenching my cunt desperately around his cock in the hope I can take mine before he stops.

I fail.

And as his cock starts the first hard twitches of orgasm, he pulls his dick out and casually, almost curiously, he pushes the head of his cock up against my arse and watches his thick, rich spunk course in rivers against my skin. A drop or two falls on the hearth, but he doesn’t notice.

As he wipes himself on the back of my skirt, and twitches my open drawers back to almost-closed, he gives an almost imperceptible cough. This small ‘ahem’ – a clearing of his throat – is exactly the same way he summons the wine at dinner. Just quiet enough that the guests won’t notice, but we servants have our ears pricked to hear it. It’s our dog-whistle: our command.

He clears his throat and announces that he’ll take tea now. And that I should change my clothes.

I could swear that this is the first time he’s even noticed I’m human.