Girl on the Net

It’s Masturbation Month! Those of you who don’t work in the sex industry might not be familiar with it, although I’d wager if you’ve bought a sex toy at any point over the last 12 months you’ll have been reminded of this auspicious time with a well-placed marketing email or two. While I’d love to write a round-up of sex toys that you should buy, it’s always more fun for me to write hot stuff that features toys than a plain old shopping list. So instead of a shopping list, here are twelve filthy stories: each one either a true sex story or a piece of erotic fiction. If you can guess which of these are true, and leave your guesses in the comments, whoever gets closest to the right answer will win a GOTN badge. And if you fancy reliving these stories (or coming up with some of your own!) I’d very much appreciate you clicking the links, buying from my sponsors, and helping to support my work here on the site. Without these fabulous sponsor companies, GOTN wouldn’t exist.

All the better…

I cannot get those wolfish words out of my head. The day after he told me what he ordered, they echo around in my mind, each time accompanied by a thud of lust deep in the pit of my stomach.

“Why is the ring gag better?” I’d asked him, curious about why he felt there was such a huge difference between gagging me so my mouth was shut, and gagging me so it was open. “Why is the ring gag better?” I asked, to which his reply was:

“All the better for spitting into your mouth.”

And as I say, it echoed. Through the whole day after and much of the next one too. All the better for spitting into your mouth. One line, six wanks so far: powered by his hunger for doing it and my desperate need to have it done. Six wanks during which I pictured the way he’d grip my cheeks, crushing them tight so my mouth clamped round the solid metal ring that held it open. Six wanks during which I conjured the sound of him spitting and the warmth of his saliva in my mouth. Above all the way it would make me feel: like trash. Like nothing. Like something that he owned.

By the day the package arrived, I was too eager to speak. Simply nodded when he asked if I wanted to play, and dropped to my knees on the floor right there in the kitchen. Eager for the sound and taste and humiliation and pain.

“Now,” he told me, grinning with eager wickedness. “Open nice and wide for me.”

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Perverts and friends

The party is winding down in the loveliest possible way: people lounge on sofas and rugs and cushions like so many melting clocks, sipping one more for the road and telling each other our sexiest stories. A friend who I love sits on a chair nearby, me at her feet on the floor. And as we talk, I slip a Doxy up her skirt.

This isn’t fucking – not fucking fucking. It’s a massage like I’d give if her feet or shoulders were sore. But it’s something nonetheless. A chance to see if the technique I use on myself is one that works for her, maybe. The opportunity to show others in the room how to wield this powerful thing. A moment of closeness, a playful touch, a casual enhancement to the sexy conversations we’re having? All of these things.

I know her better than I know anyone else in this room. She’s a kind, warm, funny, hot-as-fuck woman who is just as willing to tie you in bondage as she is to let you cry on her shoulder. And it’s her fucking birthday. So we gather together: perverts and friends, to surround her with the love she so richly deserves. Some of us strip her naked, others bring tributes of cake, and I put a Doxy up her skirt.

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Dancing for herself

The club is half empty – people mill around by the bar and dip in and out of the darker rooms at the back, returning with clothes in disarray or make-up smeared or a hazy look that makes you wonder if they’re drunk or just high on fucking. The two of us nurse weak Jack-and-Cokes and whisper to each other: do you wanna go in that room? Anyone you like the look of? I’m still too nervous to get naked. In the absence of experience, we become voyeurs – soaking up other people’s adventures in the hope that they might infect us with their confidence.

And then she walks in.

Short, broad, fat: stunning. She walks with bare feet and a spring in her step. She is wearing nothing but fishnet mesh – from neck to ankle, her skin is crisscrossed with black lines which highlight every curve and ripple of her flesh.  Her dark hair falls down below her shoulders in shining waves. Every single head in the room turns to watch her as she steps up to the silver pole in the corner. The one that no one has yet been brave enough to use.

We watch her dance, this woman. And it’s like all our nerves melt away. She dances like falling silk: slow and rippling and mesmerising. In that bodystocking, with every inch of her exposed and highlighted, and a smile that tells us she’s dancing for herself as much as any of us. We stop whispering. We stand together. He puts his arms round my waist, and we watch in silence. Later that evening, when we’re in bed, we run through the fun we had in the dark, dark rooms at the back of the fet club: the people we met, the ones who beat us, the friends we might see again. But most of all – as we touch each other and whisper and get hot with lust at 4am – we talk about that woman: the way she danced. The way she walked. The heartstopping beauty of her body clad in fishnet. The way this beautiful stranger made us feel.

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Hard-won

“Ride,” he tells me, looking down his nose at my naked, crouching form. It’s humiliating, being watched this way: I love it. I’m in such an unflattering position – squatting on the bathroom floor over a dildo he’s placed there for me to use – thighs trembling with the effort of holding still, arms held behind my back as instructed. He looks down at me like I’m sucking his dick, grips a riding crop tight in his firm right hand, and repeats himself so I fully understand: “Ride hard.”

And oh God I want to so much – I know what my prize will be, and I’m determined that I’ll win it.

I slide down the dildo that he’s placed in the centre of the room for me, and I imagine it’s his dick I’m riding. I try long strokes – all the way down to the base – and wince as the fat head of it nudges at my cervix. That wince prompts a whish/crack as he slams the crop down, leaving a burning flick of pain on my bottom.

“Ride harder.”

And I do. I build speed and intensity – no longer trying for long strokes, but bouncing as fast as my thighs will allow me. Making sure to look up into his face at all times, so I can see him assessing my effort. His eyes wander over my whole body – the jiggle of my tits and the ripple of my stomach and the way my aching cunt is dripping more each second down the shaft of the cock that he picked out just for me. “Harder,” he tells me, whenever I falter, and each ‘harder’ is followed by a crack of encouragement from the crop.

I can see his own cock growing hard in his jeans, and feel sweat beading on my forehead. Sense each and every tiny burn from where the crop has marked me. Smell the tang of my own arousal and hear the blood thumping in my temples. And as I ride – harder and harder and harder until I think I’m going to pass out – I push myself through the grey wall of pain, the one I always think means I really have to stop, and nudge myself to the other side, where stopping seems impossible. The side that thrills the inner walls of my cunt, and starts the spasms that push me over the edge to orgasm.

One more crack of the crop as I cry out “I’m coming!” and then blankness, and bliss, and collapse. After the trial, he tells me ‘well done’, and presents me with the dildo as my prize. It’ll have pride of place back home: the newest and best of my trophies. Hard-won.

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Medieval

It is the single most intimidating thing I have seen in my sex life to date: a metal stockade with wrist and ankle cuffs designed to hold someone on their hands and knees. Exposed and vulnerable, pinned in place with the final touch: a dildo firmly inside them.

I can’t help but admire the mind that invented this powerful, frightening, cunt-thrilling thing.

It wouldn’t set the right tone if I leapt straight to it, so I do what comes naturally in these situations – I feign nervousness. Hide my arousal under a blanket of timidity and ask in a soft, quiet voice: “do you want me to take off my clothes?”

He nods. Indicating that he won’t speak to me today, not yet – the rest of this will be done with gestures and touch and shiver-inducing silence. Rough hands at the back of my neck forcing me to my knees. Pinches and slaps in just the right places to help me position my wrists. A slap of my arse to tell me to arch my back, move up or down, angle myself for that dildo – the one that’ll pin me in place.

The words will only come later – much later – once I’ve held myself in position here long enough for him to fuck my mouth. Rattling the chain on the collar as his cock slides down my throat, making me gag and choke and hope for a breather, before moaning with sadness when he pauses to take that dick away. As he nudges me backwards, so the dildo slides in, I let out a whimper of lust. It’s fat and long and stretching me out, and I yearn for the moment when he fucks into my face, shoving me further back onto it so I’m filled in both ends at once.

I wonder, as I squirm and clench around it, how long it will be inside my cunt. How roughly he’ll use my throat. And whether he’ll also choose to use the only other hole left empty.

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Chain letter

When we talk on the phone, conversation flows so swiftly that we have to keep reminding ourselves not to interrupt each other. It’s like each of us is trying to spill out all our stories – rushing through the getting-to-know-you stage, because we already know what matters: we’re in love. He tells me his dirty secrets and I tell him mine. We swap hopes, fears, follies and fucks, cramming every second of our time together with as much as our brains can spill out.

But when we’re not on the phone, we only communicate in links. No words, no extras, no nothing. I send him a link to a sexy story: of a woman getting fucked the way I want to be. He fires back another, richer piece: a story which builds on the desires in the first, but with a twist or two that suits his temperament. When I read them, I picture him in front of his laptop at the table in the kitchen – the one he’s shown me during Skype tours of his messy, chaotic flat. I imagine the clutter piled high around him, and his dick pulsing hard and heavy in his pants. I wonder how long it took him to find the story that made it hardest.

We do this over and over: send story links back and forth. Like a filthy game of tennis. Each new scenario is a link in a chain: similar yet different to the last, similar yet different to the one that will come next.

When we’re on the phone, we can’t stop talking. Via message and email, we only speak in links. We use other people’s words to blanket the space between us, because it hurts too much to say ‘you’ and ‘I’ when we’re separated by oceans and time. We have never directly spoken about fucking, but by the time we actually touch each other, we will already have fucked a thousand times.

I hope at least some of you are playing along trying to guess which site sponsor goes with which story – this one’s Literotica, the place where you can find (and write!) sexy stories across almost any genre you can imagine. 

Get the keys

He tells me he wants to take me somewhere remote and fuck me like a stranger. This suggestion couldn’t have come at a more perfect time. Lately I’ve been writing about two people who fuck in a car parked up in dark woodland: lit by the headlights, a woman dances for a man she does not know, tempting him to step out of the car and join her.

When he suggests a midnight fuck, I think of this story – this film – and picture the way the two of us would look re-enacting my favourite shots. The one where she slowly undulates in the light cast by the car, or the one where she rides his cock good and hard on the back seat. Above all, the shot of them fucking against the car door – naked from the waist down and thrusting with the speed and ease of two people who know there is no one around to catch them.

I whisper all this in his ear as I show him the film. He watches it with one arm around my shoulder, cold fingertips pinching at one of my nipples. I put my left hand on his upper thigh, feel the stretch of the fabric in his jeans as he pulses from soft to hard.

When the film is done, he says nothing. Just opens up his phone, sets an alarm for midnight, and tells me: “find the car keys.”

You’ll be delighted to learn that this exact film/fantasy exists – it’s over here on the FrolicMe site, accompanied by an erotic story written by me. Yeah, literally sometimes I get paid to watch incredible porn and write about it? Pinch me. Then watch the scene – the cum shot especially is deeply satisfying.

Jerk

I’ve never written in detail before about dick-twitches, though I feel like I mention them in nearly every single story that I write. I am fascinated – no, mesmerised – by the way someone’s cock jumps when something especially hot happens. A long time ago I asked a man in detail about those twitches. How many of them were deliberate, and how many involuntary? I knew someone could contract their pelvic floor muscles (or – fuck it, I’m not a doctor – whichever muscles make the shaft of your cock spasm) to move their dick, erect or flaccid. I knew I’d seen and felt it happen numerous times during sex. But I was surprised to learn that this particular guy rarely ever twitched his dick on purpose. Those movements? The way the hard flesh of his cock jerked if I ran my tongue around the head? They were my glory. Delightful.

How much fun it was, then, to strap his lively dick inside a cock ring designed to not just tempt it to twitch, but force it to. I blindfolded him and cuffed his wrists to the headboard behind his head, then using a dinky control box, I pressed buttons that passed electricity down the wires attached to the ring, causing the muscles at the base of his dick to contract. And there – twitch. Unngh. He winced slightly and I turned the electricity down – not wanting to cause him pain, just wanting those tingles to work their magic. I lay on my side next to him on the bed, taking one of his nipples into my mouth so I could suck it and get him whimpering while I pressed the button, over and over, enjoying the sight of those mesmerising jerks.

When he was good and squirmy, I asked him: “You know what comes next, don’t you?”

“Unngh… yeah,” he murmured as I knelt up. Then, inevitably, I did what I’d been aiming for all along: straddled that twitching cock, climbed aboard, and went to town on the button…

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Jiggle

The best thing about nipple clamps is the way the chain jiggles when we fuck: the sound of it and the sight of it and the extra painful tug on my nipples when he slams it in really hard. They’re a bit too tight, my nipple clamps. Just the right level of ‘a bit too fucking tight.’ The metal pinches at the base of my nipples until they throb, and if he tugs on the chain – even gently – I am liable to whimper and shriek.

I’m on my knees on the bed, facing the mirror that sits at the foot of it. The chain weighs heavy on the nipple clamps, and looking into the mirror my face is a picture of horn and agony. He’s kneeling behind me, one hand in the small of my back, pushing me down so I’m on my hands and knees. Gravity does its work – I can see the way the chain tugs my nipples down, and as I bend over the pain intensifies.

“You want to hold it in your mouth?” He asks, but it’s not really a question. The chain goes in my mouth.

For a few seconds, there’s a blessed relief – holding the chain between my gritted teeth takes the pressure and drag off my aching tits, and I’m comforted and relieved. I’d say ‘thank you’ if I didn’t have my mouth full.

Then he fucks me. And my tits swing and jiggle, pulling on the chain. My cunt aches with pleasure as he slams his cock in. But the chain is too short and my neck hurts and I can’t lift my head to see what we look like in the mirror. I have a painful choice: keep the chain in my mouth and relieve the agony, or let it drop, enjoy the fuck, and embrace the waves of throbbing torment that assault my nipples with each stroke of the fuck.

I drop the chain.

Clover clamps like the ones in this story are by far the most evil clamps I’ve tried – pick up a pair from Meo for under 20 Euro, or browse the full collection if you’d prefer something a little gentler. 

Creep

Never in my life have I felt so utterly creepy: I stand outside the french doors and peek in at the man in the headset. He can’t see me, but I can see him – the curtains are open a crack – just the right amount. He’s bathed in soft orange light, naked from the waist down. Oculus strapped to his face, right hand gripping his cock, muscles straining as he beats away in time to whatever he sees in VR.

There’s almost too much to take in, I am spoiled with riches: the sight of his naked thighs, spread lazily open to give him more room to work his junk; the way his t-shirt stretches taut over his biceps as he rubs so brutally at himself; the occasional beautiful moment where he bites his lip, sucks in a short breath, and doubles down on the effort of wanking.

I don’t know how long to watch for: how much is too much? For how long can I get away with this faux-voyeurism without risking the treat I get at the end? I give it five minutes. Just enough to store and record the vision of him, glimpsed through a crack in the curtains, performing-yet-not-performing for the woman he knows is outside. After five minutes of watching and trembling and slicking my knickers I gently crack open the door, silently tiptoe inside, and kneel at his feet for the cum shot.

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Hand-fuck

“I don’t want to fuck, but I do want to come,” I tell him, in a very rare moment of domliness. I often try to be more domme, but weirdly it tends not to come to me when I put in the effort. Far more likely to appear when I’m lazy. Maybe hungover and bored and restless, but not keen to get up from the sofa.

“Can I fuck you after I’ve wanked you off?”

“Maybe,” I tell him. “Let’s wait and see whether you deserve it.” And with that I dispatch him upstairs, to the sink where my sex toys are drying. He knows exactly which two I want: the Kurve, to give me the rumbly, thudding sensation my g-spot needs and the Amo, for my clit. I don’t even look at him when he walks in, just stare at the TV where I’ve lined up my favourite porn, and gesture him towards my crotch, where my fingers have been rubbing in languorous circles in the wetness at the top of my slit.

He does well, earns a ‘good boy’ almost straight away, by turning the toys to the exact settings he knows I like. A pattern for the Kurve, maximum intensity for the rumbling Amo. As he hand-fucks me with the toys, he flicks his gaze between the porn I’m watching and the sight of the dusky purple vibe sliding in and out of my cunt. Matching rhythm as best he can, and building speed as the people on screen do. Occasionally he glances to my face, where I maintain an expression of bored amusement even as the waves of pleasure start to build in the pit of my stomach.

The more bored I look, the harder he tries. Gripping the toys tight and applying pressure, motion, skill… wanting to do his very best, then get his dick wet as reward. I’m impressed by his efforts. Hot and horny and glad to be getting fucked. As the orgasm arrives, I grit my teeth and order “do not fucking stop” and then clamp my cunt so tight around the Kurve that he almost loses his grip.

He’s earned a reward, but not the one he thinks. Once I’ve come I let him lap around the entrance to my cunt, and suck gently on the toys that I thoroughly drenched when I came. Later that evening I’ll fuck him the way he deserves, but for now I’ll allow him to kiss me. With lips that taste like my come.

Seriously, both of these toys are fuckawesome and combined together in one wank they’re explosive. Pick up the Kurve g-spot vibe or the Amo bullet vibe direct from Hot Octopuss. 

Race

Show and tell time, and I can’t wait. He’s promised me a little performance with the anal toys that he recently added to his collection. On the way to his flat, I find it hard to concentrate on the road. I get honked at a just-turned-red light that I probably should have stopped for, and almost crash into a Deliveroo rider as he hard-right turns out of a side street into the cycle lane. I yank on my brakes and wave a ‘sorry’, even though it was probably his fault. Usually I’d be better at avoiding these near-misses, but my head is filled with the promises he made me earlier that day: to show me the butt plugs he’s bought, and how he likes to wank while he uses them.

Visions of him sitting with legs spread on the leather sofa, or tipped back in his office chair with a dildo crammed tight inside him. Stories he’s told me before about not just rubbing up and down with a masturbator, but putting a twist in each stroke when he reaches the head – winding pleasurable sensation around those most sensitive parts. I can feel myself getting wet where the bike seat presses into me. I wonder if I should take a slight detour – to the side street that’s partly laid with brick so my bike judders pleasantly on my clit when I ride.

But no. I’m in a hurry. He’s told me it’s show and tell time, and he’s sent me pictures of the colourful variety of butt-pleasing toys he will play with for me. I told him to edge a little before I arrived – all the better to greet me with a raging hard-on at the door. So no, I can’t take a detour: I stick to the fastest route and pedal harder. I’d never forgive myself if I missed this kind of show.

Get yourself a butt plug (or selection of butt plugs) in almost any colour you could possibly imagine over at the Godemiche website. Or grab one of their OffBeat masturbators for a delightful textured hand-job. Use the code GotnShop for 10% off anything on site. 

Filthy stories: truth or fiction?

Can you guess which of these stories is true and which is fiction? I’ve deliberately tried to write all as if they could be true, but only four of them are fully true. Leave your guesses in the comments, and whoever gets closest (or gets the right answer first) by midday on Sunday next week will win a super-cool GOTN badge which you can wear at house parties to let other perverts know that you too are into sexy shit. You’ve got to be over 18 to enter, and you can enter from any country. Don’t take this too seriously, it’s meant to be fun.

Meanwhile, I want to say a huge huge thank you to everyone who has clicked, bought from and supported my sponsor companies over the last year. Without these lovely fuckers – and the incredible team of people who support me on Patreon – I wouldn’t have been able to limp through this terrible year. Treat yourself to some hot porn, beautiful lingerie, kinky kit or a powerful wank, and celebrate Masturbation Month with whatever depravity floats your fabulous boat.