Girl on the Net

From casual conversations held with friends in darkened rooms, while they don’t realise that I’ve got a guy’s dick tight inside me, to moments when people walk in while we’re fucking. That split second where they stand and stare and can’t work out how to extract themselves if the ground resolutely refuses to swallow them. I was going to write about that stuff this week. It was going to be light-hearted and fun and a bit hot. Then, as I was collating anecdotes and remembering past fucks that fit the bill, I stumbled upon a sex story I’ve never written up – a brief encounter so horny that I couldn’t let it go. While sex interruptions are frustrating at the time, I doubt this brief fuck would have burned so clearly in my mind unless we’d been disturbed partway through, adding a heart-thumping fear and greater urgency to everything.

I might still write about sex interruptions in general, but for now you can have this: the filthy sex story that’s sat in my head for the last four days and won’t stop bugging me until I’ve relived it properly. Some things are just like that, you know? Well, you’ll see.

We have less than ten minutes. We have almost nowhere to go. He’s looking at me like he wants to eat me up, and I’ve got a firm hand in the crotch of his trousers, my whole body pressed against him so no one can see me squeeze. We don’t kiss, or talk, we just stand close together. He smells like club sweat and I smell like RedBull and neither of us wants to break apart.

We have less than nine minutes.

Both of us want to touch more. I need him to squeeze my tits and bite into my neck, he needs me to keep gripping, tighter. I want to lick the taste of sweat off the side of his face, and whisper filthy words into his ear. He nods towards the back room, then towards the bar: the other acts are getting drinks, so the private room might be empty.

We have less than eight minutes.

He leads me towards the door, then holds it open as if he’s a chivalrous tour guide, not a painfully horny guy with an aching erection. When we get inside we’re all lips and teeth and hands and squeezing. Panting and murmuring instructions to each other as we fumble with zips and buttons. He’s got one hand down the back of my jeans, arm angled awkwardly round so he can jam his fingers up hard against my cunt. I’m pulling on his belt, that delicious swish-clank as I get it undone one-handed, and the scent of more sweat as I pull his jeans open.

We have less than seven minutes.

And the door goes.

I kick a foot against it as he yells “Just a minute!” and a muffled voice from behind gives him a five minute call. It’s not five minutes: it’s seven, but we’re rushing now. Nervous. We retreat further into the dank toilet at the back of the room. Rusted pipes, a sink, a roll of toilet paper getting damp on the floor. Toilet seat resolutely up. I push him against the sink and drop down to a crouch.

He ‘Y… Yyyy…Yeah’s his approval as I take the head of his cock into my mouth.

We have less than six minutes, and I hear him flip the lock behind me: an extra precaution. I grip the shaft of his dick with one hand, and steady myself against the wall with the other – off-balance and wobbly as I slide my face back and forth. Wetter, faster, hotter. The tension and the smell and the sheer joy of being here in the dirty back room with him: I’m soaking wet. I can feel the arousal seeping through the crotch of my…

– Five minutes –

…knickers.

He fumbles to stay upright, one hand on the sink which won’t hold his full weight, another hand rummaging awkwardly down my top. Frustrated, I pull at the cotton and turn down my bra so he can get his hot, sweat-slick fingers on one of my nipples, and moan deeply as the head of his cock hits the back of my throat. I want to go faster. I need him to speed up. After all, we only have four minutes and I need time to straighten my clothes and get back to my seat before he takes his place on stage. And I’m damned if I’ll miss out on the ending – where he spurts warm come down the back of my throat and I get the pleasure of seeing his shellshocked face as I wipe my lips and grin.

He – thank God – starts thrusting. Grabbing a fistful of hair with his free hand and pulling me roughly down onto him. His cock’s long enough that I choke on it, feeling it push hard against the back wall of my throat, imagining the dark shine of the head as it presses against the soft internal skin. The urgency with which he’s willing himself to come. To do it in time. To get there before…

Three minutes. A knock on the door.

“You in there? You’re on stage in a minute!”

We freeze solid. Not breathing, not speaking. Not moving. Suddenly everything we were doing feels so loud and unsubtle – we hadn’t even heard this person approach. I hold myself stock-still, with his cock firmly wedged at the back of my throat. Holding my breath so I don’t cough or choke. The only sensation of movement is the steady creep of wetness in my knickers, and the tremble of his legs that tells me he’s almost there.

“I’ll be out in a minute!” he shouts, with a faux-cheeriness.

Two minutes left, and they start playing the music. We know this music: it’s the intro. The song they play to tell the acts that it’s almost time to start. The music that tells the crowd to get back to their seats, pick up their drinks, and turn off their mobile phones. That song tells me I’ve got almost no time to finish what I’ve started here – to get the final goal I’m after.

With both hands gripping his arse, and my nose and eyes streaming with the choking, desperate, horny effort of it, I suck down hard on his twitching cock. He grips my hair and pulls me tight down to the base. I suck and grip and lick and open wide, watery, dark-smudged eyes to look straight at his horny face.

And he comes, right then, as I look up at him. Four or five hard squirts of come straight down the back of my throat, his face a picture of relief and gratitude.

We recover, for five seconds, before the desperate scramble to get presentable again. Buttons, zips, belts: up. Hair: smoothed down. Faces wiped and hands rinsed and tour-guide smile reinstated.

The countdown track gets louder as he opens the door. I run back to my seat, where a friend is waiting with my drink. He picks up the mic as the music fades: bang on cue.

If you liked this post you might also like some more sex stories about fucking in toilets. I have a thing about it.