Girl on the Net

We’re grown-ups now: it’s not the done thing. You can’t fuck in a crowded room at a sleepover and expect to get away with it. We have more fun, don’t we? Those group sex parties and swingers’ clubs and all the places we can legitimately fuck in the open? Except we don’t, not always. And sometimes the delight of having secret sex in the dark is overlooked in favour of open sex with an audience.

I used to do this a lot. When I was young, I mean – not now. Now we have money for hotels, and big houses, and far far fewer friends. And – what’s that other thing? – oh yeah, restraint. There’s little need now to pack horny couples into a living room and hope their sex doesn’t jog the couple shagging on the pillows next to them.

That’s either a shame or a blessing. If you think it’s the latter, then please don’t read on.

Sleepover sex

The party’s winding down now, and we’re all just a bit more pissed than we should be. The kitchen counter is covered with something stickily boozy, and there’s vomit drying round the edge of my bath. As you walk through the living room, bits of popcorn and paper stick to your socks. And you wonder why you’re only in your socks when you started off wearing knee-highs.

It’s definitely bedtime.

I’ve sorted it out so that anyone can stay – as long as they don’t mind sharing a bed, or a sofa cushion, or the cold kitchen floor. It takes an hour to run round getting everyone blankets, making sure airbeds don’t have holes in and drunk people have the requisite sick-catching bowls nearby. Some people, you know, will be rough tomorrow. I’m probably one of them, but I’m too busy playing the happy hostess to let tomorrow’s hangover kick in.

As I sort out the beds, a guy settles down in mine. He directs the others who are sleeping on my floor: make yourselves comfortable. There’s water here. There’s a spare pillow. Sssh now. Let’s sleep.

When I creep in expecting silence, they’re still up and chatting. “Did you hear what so-and-so said?” “I didn’t realise she was here! I missed her!” “Whose idea was that shit karaoke?” It’s not annoying – it’s really quite fun. Like being sixteen again and piling into a mates house when their parents are away on holiday. When we all slept in the lounge, pressed tight against each other, picking spots next to the person whose hand we most wanted to stray into our sleeping bags. Sometimes fucking quietly, always getting caught.

“Is that your foot?” laughs someone, flirtily tickling a mate.

“Ha! Yeah. Is that your COCK?”A playfight ensues. Pillows and giggles – we can’t quite make out who’s who because it’s dark. But we’re on the bed, lying as still as we can.

More chatter, more playing. Someone gets up to mop up water they’ve spilled, and I quickly shut down their profuse apologies.

“Leave it – no, leave it, it’s fine.” And they resume flirting, ramp up the noise again. In a normal situation I’d be worried about the neighbours – an adult sleepover at four a.m. should be more respectful than this. But right now I don’t care, I just need the noise to keep going.

Because the second I got into bed the guy pulled down my knickers, and pressed his rock-solid dick up against me. As I shuffled the duvet and settled in, I pushed back nice and hard against him. A slick, quick movement to take his whole cock tight up inside me. We weren’t quite fucking in secret, the way I used to when I was young. This was something other – a thrill gained from the knowledge rather than the physical sensation.

We spoke occasionally – to reply to a comment or make a casual joke – and the hotness wasn’t in a shuffling, dark-roomed fuck. It was in the stillness. We lay there, throbbing with arousal, praying no one would notice.

Fingertips

A train, at night. Sleeper carriage is as silent as sleeper carriages get – just the hushed sound of heavy breathing from our companions and the gentle chug of the train. He’s on the bunk below me, and I know he’s not asleep. Reason one: I can’t hear him snoring. Reason two: I’ve got my hand hanging over the edge of the bed and he’s ever-so-gently responding to my touch. He touches my fingers, plays with my hand, strokes me softly. It sounds romantic when I put it like that, but at the time I could practically feel the tension coming in waves off him – could almost hear that suppressed gulp as he tried to swallow his arousal.

It wasn’t going to work.

With as little rustling as he could manage, he slipped out of his bed and into mine. I didn’t giggle or moan as he ran his hand so so gently over my stomach. He didn’t hiss a ‘yess’ as I gripped the head of his cock in the ends of my fingers.

We were both in that state where you hold your breath for slightly longer than you need to. Alert to the sound of other people rustling, in case they’re awake. Not wanting the soft, midnight silence to be interrupted by an “Oi! We’re trying to sleep!” No one else moved. We breathed out. And in again. Holding it for longer, again. Suppressing moans, again.

I squeezed a bit harder – never quite wrapping my hand around him. Just using my fingertips to tease his foreskin back and forth across the head. Squeezing, twisting, rubbing so slowly and gently that there was no movement in the sheets. If you hadn’t known better you’d have said we were asleep – having a romantic moment rather than a filthy one.

He used his fingertips to do the same to my nipples. Squeezing, twisting, rubbing at the same speed as I did to his cock.

The train moved on. It swayed and chugged through miles and miles as we lay like that – fingertips and silence and lust and patience.

Daringly, I brought my fingers to my lips and spat. Not loudly – more of a dribble. Just enough to lube them up and slide back down to get to work again. This time I could hear his gulp, I could feel him holding back on the sighs he wanted to let out. I lay with my head close to his lips – pressed tight against the desire to cry out. And I ran my fingers forever against the head of his twitching dick.

When he finally came, near dawn, I caught it all in my hand. As he slept I lay staring out through a gap in the curtains of the sleeper carriage. Listening to his breathing, watching the miles roll by, and feeling his spunk drying on my fingertips.

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