Girl on the Net

This stunning guest blog, by @nookysemper, came out of an incredible thread she wrote a while ago which appealed strongly to my inner pervert, who loves the sexy noises people make when they’re horny. When she approached me to offer a guest blog, I asked if she could elaborate on that delightful ode to sexy noises, and voilà! Here’s her gorgeous post…

I’m into sexy noises

If you ever asked me — let’s pretend that you would, that maybe in some other slip of the world’s knots we’re in some back alley sharing a cigarette and you shift your boot just enough that it knocks, not even knocks, it nudges up against mine — and you say:

So what’s your thing, what’re you into– 

I’d say, you know, a lot of things, but the stuff that really turns me on, that gets a fist behind my ribs and twists in a way that my cunt swells and a hundred swallows flutter thick in my belly — well, that stuff is noises.

My god, my god, there are so many good noises. I could write the story of every pleasure I know in a grammar of noises.

There’s the one where you’ve been in the bar, crammed nicely against each other next to the wall and it’s loud enough you have to stand, really, quite close just to talk, and then there’s a moment you suddenly aren’t talking anymore, you’re just looking at him and wanting him something like rivers must ache for the sea, the last freshwater mile or so, when the brine catches on the air — and you say take me home, and now you’re walking down the street holding hands and he squeezes your hand just the tiniest bit and runs his thumb over your knuckles and goes  “hnnnngh”, a happy lusty noise quiet from his chest.

There’s that noise when their dick’s first inside you and it’s not like the noises later, this one is sort of a snarly joy choked-off in their throat, like a horse just let out the reins or the fierceness of a warm wind, and you realise you’re holding your breath like maybe if you just don’t let it out you can keep the feel of that first warm cunt-clutching slide till tomorrow and till the tomorrow after that.

Or there’s the good noises later, when they’re close enough they lose their rhythm, falter, they’re hardly thrusting anymore, just pressed hard up against you so close they can feel, they must be able to feel the throb of your pulse in your clit, and their legs shake and they make a noise like an ache’s being dragged in bright ribbons, long and twisting right out of their body.

There’s the noise when you kiss and they gasp on the inhale, quick and shuddery, like the feel of running over the washboard ruts of an old dirt road.

Or that thing when you’re spooning half-asleep and you say something against the heel of his thumb (it still smells like your cunt and you kiss his knuckle, taste yourself), something not really coherent, and he mumbles a warm nothing into your hair and it curls like a prickling down your scalp.

There’s that sort of husky keening, sometimes, when you’re doing something just soft enough, wet enough, just unrelenting enough, and they moan all ragged and fluttering and you feel it too, a tugging hurt up your cunt that makes you want to hear that noise for the rest of your goddamn life.

Or, oh — the sort of noise he makes when he fucks you hard, when your belly is pressed into the bed and your face into the pillow and he’s fucking you right apart, one hand around your hip and the other up on the headboard, when you turn your face a little you can see the cords pulling along his forearm, and you say into the pillowcase harder, please, fuck me as hard as you can and the noises he makes get, somehow, not softer (no, not quieter, not that) but raked right down to the quick, a guttural keening gone punchy staccato with the pistoning of his hips.

There’s the noise you make when he’s come all over your throat and he drags the head of his cock up over your lips, he’s starting to soften but it’s still thick and flushed with blood and you whimper at the taste of his cum, eyes unfocused, cock-drunk, lips parted in the wanton bliss of some modern-day Theresa of Avila.

And then, you know, there’s the one that’s not even a noise but its absence, the sudden silence when you’re down between her legs and it’s good enough, it’s close enough that she just — stops breathing, holds her breath, goes stiff and trembling, and you run your hands out along her thighs, lift your head enough to say breathe, breathe, stay soft for me honey, stay soft, and she goddamn sobs but she goes soft, soft and good and wanting under your hands and she keeps sobbing, anguish-aching, cutting through her so deep you can feel the hum of it against your tongue.

Anyway. I think that’s probably what I’d say, out in that knot-slip alley with your boot against mine, and then you’d grind the cigarette’s burning stub into the red brick wall and we’d go back in from the night.