Girl on the Net

There are marks on my thighs, on my arse, on my tits, and on my brain. All of those marks will fade. I could take pictures of the first three, but I’m terrible at photos, and even my very best attempts can’t hope to capture the things I really want to remember. The ache in my limbs and the sting of the flogger and the satisfaction of being held down and fucked. The all-encompassing, electric joy of getting ruined by two people at once.

This post features BDSM and impact play, some of it quite vicious. All of it extremely consensual. I don’t know how well I have written consent into this story, because I am too busy trying to capture the things that happened, but yeah… please understand that holy shit this is all consensual-as-fuck. It was more than consensual: it was a fucking gift.

I write about sex because I want to remember it. Faces and voices and moments and feelings. Marks fade so quickly and despite my best efforts to cling to every detail, memories will always fade too. There’ll come a day when I can’t easily picture in my mind the way the two of them looked, standing over me, kissing and touching and whispering while I was on my knees between them. A day when I won’t easily be able to envisage the satisfying, tempting shape of his cock hard in his pants, shoved up against my face, pressing me into the warmth of her crotch as she stood behind me.

This is the best argument I can ever make that you should write as well. If you can. You don’t have to blog, write a diary. Write notes. Draft emails that you’re never going to send. Take the moments in your life that bring you joy, and do your best to capture them while they’re fresh and gleaming in your mind.

Please ruin me

I walk in through the front door to a flat I’ve never visited before. Trembling with nerves and weak with excitement at the idea that two deeply hot, incredibly fun, creatively-fucky people might be about to deliver on exactly what I asked them for: please ruin me. In the kitchen, she tells him to make me feel comfortable, so he does: kissing me deeply then gripping the meat of my arse good and tight as if to make sure I won’t run.

I definitely won’t.

I’m not planning to go anywhere, unless they tell me to. Not planning to do anything except exactly what I’m told.

First, they strip me: her holding my arms behind my back so he can lift up my top. Next she swiftly removes my bra so he can deliver stinging slaps to my chest. Gripping and moulding and hurting me, pinching my nipples and letting me know I could take so much more if I tried, while I squirm and twist and seek out reassuring kisses from her in between his slaps.

He tells me not to touch him, but then puts himself in a position where I cannot really help it, so I touch and get punished. Hard. Then harder.

He asks me: “have you learned your lesson?” and I’m enjoying it so much that instead of saying “yes” I say “maybe” and he rains down hell.

Then: “off,” and I take off the rest of my clothes. Run upstairs at their instruction, naked and tingling with anticipation for what might come next.

No writing will ever do justice, of course, to the hot things you’ve done in your life. No matter how good your words are, the story will always – always – seem bland and weak compared to the feelings and sensations you’re doing your best to capture. But you should write it anyway.

Watching the two of them fuck

She ties me – expertly and neatly, with just enough pressure that I can feel the rope pulling tight against my chest and arms. Sits me on a chair at the foot of the bed, orders me to spread my legs. Touches and teases me until I am frantic with it.

I watch them fuck. And it’s a precious, treasured privilege: watching people fuck. The angle you see is one you otherwise only get to see if you’re watching porn: the curve of someone’s bum from below, the angle of someone’s dick or fingers as they slide in. The tension in their muscles as they pound away. The faces they make when they come.

The face she makes – this beautiful, brilliant woman – as he fingers her to coming. Forehead creased in concentration, lips parted to pant. God. Fuck. 

Seeing this hot, playful man finger and fuck her while I sit bound and squirming nearby, forbidden from joining in… that was one of the things on my initial list of requests. Something I’d whispered excitedly to her when she asked me what I might want to do.

“I want to watch the two of you fuck,” I said. “And not be allowed to join in.”

Those words, in preview as well as in retrospect, are far too small to conjure the gutpunch hotness of watching it in the flesh. But that’s OK, because they knew what I meant. As they knew what I meant when I asked them to ‘ruin me.’ Words are just sparks that you put out there to set shit on fire. They’re tiny in comparison to the blazing roar of flames and reality, but as long as you have those sparks you can rekindle the fire when you want to remember.

Take it in turns to beat me

At one point she held me by my wrists and arms as he laid into me with a flogger, making me say ‘thank you’ for every stroke as I looked hungrily into her eyes. Then they swapped, and he did the same: gripping me tight and staring down at me while I bit my lip and took the beating.

It’s been a long time since I took that kind of beating, and an even longer time since I got fucked up by two people at once. It was the first time I ever got to hear someone say “look how hard it’s making him,” while she watched him lay into me with their hands and a flogger. A line that might as well have been directly ripped from one of my own wank fantasies.

The head-spinning adrenaline-rush of that beating was so intense that when he asked me, mid-thrashing, “what do you say?” the words ‘thank you’ fell from my brain and all I could blurt out was “motherFUCKER.”

So I got some more.

I lay on my back on the bed, arms still bound tightly behind my back, and she held and stroked me while he took a tawse to the inside of my thighs. Lashing viciously at the most sensitive parts while I held my breath and tried not to scream.

All the while remembering that one of my requests was that they fuck me in this position: with her holding me down and him slamming his dick inside me like I was merely a substitute cunt.

So I took the beating, and loved the beating, and squirmed against my bonds and grinned up at both of them and hoped that the next part would be me getting held down and fucked.

I was so eager for him to fuck me – “please please fuck me” – that they gagged me before he did, to shut me up.

The memories will fade much more slowly than the bruises, but one that’ll linger for years is the view I had: looking up from between her thighs at the pair of them as they stared each other down. Fully into each other and totally ignoring me as he brutally pounded my cunt. Making out with each other as he slammed it in with firm, harsh strokes.

Her whispering to him “do you like the cunt I brought you?” and his reply: “yes, thank you.”

A maelstrom of fuck

Most fucks are easier to write about than this one, because most have one or two moments to pull out and highlight. But the reason I’m wrapping this fuck in a post about words is that there were so many highlights I can’t possibly capture them all in a single story. I could zoom in on individual moments and write odes to each and every one (and I might, in future: I might) but then I’d risk losing the quality of the experience as a whole. ‘A maelstrom of fuck,’ as she herself so beautifully put it. The cuntrush, adrenaline-fuelled havoc of every single element working together.

The two of them working together. Beating, fucking, playing, talking, laughing, grabbing, and absolutely destroying me. Layering pain on top of play on top of pleasure. Slaps upon smiles upon spit.

So instead of writing something beautiful, I’ll write something functional instead. Something I can read in twenty years to spark these memories again, setting me on fire with joy till I grin at the memory as broadly as I grinned at them when they checked in to ask how I was doing.

“Fucking brilliant.”

“Incredible.”

“Ouch.”

Sparks, snippets and snapshots.

Her sliding her fingers into my cunt while I was bound and eager. Him jamming a Doxy against my clit so I could push myself against it and whimper into the gag. Him beating me while I rode her thigh, grinding down like a desperate puppy as both of them called me ‘good girl‘.

Her holding my wrists and looking into my eyes while he flogged me. Him doing the same after offering her a go. The eye contact, good God. Staring someone down as they hold you for a whipping, unsure if your expression is touching on ‘fuck me’ or ‘fuck you‘. And even those moments of eye contact paled into insignificance compared to the ones where they made eye contact with each other, ignoring me completely and grinning and giggling conspiratorially, like gods descended from Mount Olympus to do bad, bad things to my cunt.

Asking for water and being quite impressed with my own ability to drink it from a dog bowl, when that was what it was served in. I was extremely thirsty. I’d been panting.

Standing with my back to the wall while he put nipple clamps on me, and gasping in pain and desperation not to let either of them down. Biting my lip and glancing at her, thinking ‘please be impressed, please be impressed’ as I took more time with those vicious clamps than I’d ever have managed witout two people watching.

Him using my mouth to lube up his rock-solid dick then fuck her on the bed, so I could see the intensely beautiful curves of her arse and the tension in his muscles as he slammed it in as they fucked again.

And again.

Kneeling at the end of the bed to watch, then getting to taste her on his cock when they paused. Him looking bright-eyed and eager at the long string of drool from my lips to the tip as he whipped his dick out and I spluttered for more.

Burying my face in her cunt and getting her to make those little moaning cries that told me I was doing a good job.

Getting railed from behind while I was half-drowning in the bowl of water, as she put her foot on my back to keep me down.

Panting, reeling, tingling, stinging, then glowing with delight when they ordered me out of the room.

Hearing their fuck-happy giggles as I retreated downstairs.

Why you should write

Words are never enough, are they? They’re all I have and yet never enough. When I fuck new people these days, there’s this aching worry – in the days and weeks following – that this person is waiting for me to write something spectacular. That they’ll be hoping for magic which I know will never come. As it stands, nothing I’ve written since I became single has come close to encapsulating all the joy of a single shag. Anything I write will always be limp and weak compared to the fun that we had. Sparks are not fire, after all.

But I write anyway.

You should write anyway. If you can. Write a diary. Write notes. Draft emails that you never plan to send. Take the moments in your life that bring you pleasure, and do your best to capture them before the feelings fade.

Not just the sexy times, the other fun bits too: like the cosy post-fuck glow when we all cuddled on the sofa, drinking water and kissing and talking through some of our highlights. Having a cigarette on the balcony afterwards and feeling every nerve in all the bits of my body that hurt and shook. Her making a joke she’d been saving up for ages, one that still has me giggling whenever I remember it.

Hugging them both goodbye and hoping we might do it again.

Walking home alone, blasting powerful tunes and trembling all over. Feeling like Zeus and Aphrodite’s dirty weekend fucktoy.

Someone asked me recently if I ever fuck anyone purely for the story. The answer is ‘no’ – a whole wide world of ‘no’. And I hope that this post shows you why. It’s a rough-and-ready list of a few highlights, but it’s insipid and pathetic compared to the actual scene. Although I don’t mind the bruises fading, I’m weak with sadness when I think that the memories might too. That’s why on the way home I text a couple of friends: are you about? Fancy a pint? Fancy a chat? so I can talk to them. And when no one’s free, I go home and make notes on my phone – eagerly revelling in the things that I loved before my traitorous brain forgets them.

I never fuck for the story, my friends: I tell stories to cling to the fuck.