As ever, I’m giving directions.

“Straight on here,” as we hit the roundabout, and he follows. A quick check in his rear view mirror to see whether anyone’s behind us. They’re not – it’s dark, late, and a much quieter road to the ones we’re used to. He lays a hand on my thigh, pushing my skirt up, never once taking his eyes off the road.

I love watching guys drive

Despite being so old that my fascination with it is bizarre, I find driving incredibly sexy. Not when I do it, of course. On the rare occasions I get behind the wheel it’s less of a journey than a slow, arduous panic-attack from A to B.

But the teenage girl I wish I still was loves watching boys drive.

The physicality of it is hot, naturally. Driving involves lots of showing-off of hands, one of the sexiest physical features. Gripping and releasing the handbrake, curving a hand around the gearstick, gently flicking accelerators and letting the wheel slide smoothly through their palms.

Not to mention that driving, much like playing Xbox, is an activity that requires so much concentration I am barely a distraction in the corner of his eye.

Most importantly, the driver is always the most powerful person in the car. The one who chooses the music, decides when you can stop, tells you to stop mucking about. The driver is the person who decides to pull over.

We’ll get back to that sexy bit now, shall we?

He flicked the indicator when he spotted a layby – behind a row of waist-high bushes, just enough for some vague cover but not quite enough to make me feel wholly comfortable. He parked the car and undid his seatbelt, reaching over for mine at the same time.

I grinned, and looked up at him in the way I imagined I would if I were genuinely nervous. I shifted in my seat, pulling my skirt up further so my naked cunt touched the seat.

“You’re a good girl,” he said, and pulled my face towards him. He was grinning too, not quite happy enough to take the power seriously.

“Do you want to show me your cunt?”

Yes. Always. I lifted my skirt higher and he pulled me forward, pushing my head into his lap with his right hand (his steering wheel hand) while his left snaked down my back and behind to squeeze me. I fumbled with his belt, feeling him rock solid through his trousers, straining to push through the zip.

“Good,” he gave me a hand with the zip, squeezing himself tight as I leant forward to suck him. “Good girl.”

Again, that power, the feeling of his hands all over me. The click as he moved his seat back to give me more room to work on him, to suck him. He wasn’t making me, but he wasn’t asking me either. This stop was just an extra bit of the journey, something he got to decide, in the same way as he’d decide the route or choose when we stopped for a piss.

Bucking slightly against the seat, he gripped the back of my head with controlled hands as he twitched mouthfuls of spunk into the back of my throat.

On the way back, we were quiet. My occasional directions half-whispered as I tasted him in my mouth, and the giggling teenager in the back of my mind squirmed with pride.

“My boyfriend’s hot. My boyfriend drives.”

“What do you want?”
“A gangbang”
“No, really, what do you want?”
“A gangbang.”
“OK. Let’s try again. Within the realms of what I can realistically achieve in the next 24 hours or so, what do you want?”
“I’d like to watch another man sucking your dick.”
“…”
“…”
“I’ll see what I can do.”

It’s not easy persuading straight guys to have their dick sucked by another guy. Luckily for me the gentleman in question was not so much ‘straight’ as ‘elegantly curved’, and willing to bend in any direction that gave him even a hint of a hard-on.

A few minutes on the internet and we had something – a gay but slightly bi-curious guy had published a straightforward ad offering cocksucking. He just wanted to pop round someone’s house, drop to his knees, suck for a while, then sod off home again. Straight guys were not only welcome, he promised, but his favourite.

We paused briefly, taking a silent moment together to marvel at the pervert possibilities that had been opened up by the internet, then got in touch.

Oh god even remembering it makes me a bit weak

An hour or so later I was sitting, tense, on the sofa waiting for my boy to arrive. He’d gone to the station to meet our stranger, check him out, and have a coffee. If all was well, he promised, they’d return together and I could watch whatever happened.

Nothing quite prepared me for the odd feeling of watching them begin. The boy sat nervously on the sofa, rock-solid and straining upwards, as the stranger went to work. He started by licking thickly from base to tip, smacking his lips and gripping the boy’s thighs as he moistened everything. Then he took the whole cock in his mouth, and I saw the boy tremble as it slipped in. Nervous though he was, he was clearly enjoying it – loving the skill with which the other guy was sucking him.

I sat in the corner on my knees, squeezing my legs together to stop myself trembling too. Watching in fascination as the stranger worked my boy’s dick in ways subtly different from mine. I was trying to remember, to learn, to maintain my composure. Most of all I was trying not to breathe too loudly in case it broke the spell.

It was here that we should have stopped. This was the hottest bit – the sucking, the trembling, the nervousness of the boy I knew and the casual skill of the one I didn’t. If I could have paused time I’d have kept it right there – with them both solid and happy and me sitting quietly nearby.

But we never stop in time

I didn’t want to be the one to suggest a fuck, but I don’t think I needed to. My memory grows hazy halfway through this story, but at some point the boy was lying naked, face down on the bed, with number 13 – the stranger – poised and ready to fuck him. Ever useful, I handed them a condom then retired to my position of trembling observer, watching as they went for it.

The stranger was big – not with muscle, but with beer. The boy was lithe and skinny and almost disappeared under the mass of the other. He turned his face towards me, wincing with pain and arousal as the other guy fucked him. I clasped my hands together behind my back to try and refrain from touching myself.

And then… and then things went a bit odd.

I think they felt guilty that I wasn’t joining in. I think they felt bad that, although they got to rub and lick and suck and fuck each other, I was left in the corner. I think they thought I wasn’t getting anything out of it.

I was summoned and, awkwardly, I went. I took off my clothes, and things suddenly turned from super-hot live-action gay porn to uncomfortable date – I didn’t want to say no and look like I was rude, but saying yes meant I had to fuck someone who had confessed that he didn’t much care about women.

Don’t get me wrong, fucking two gentlemen at once is one of my favourite things, and for all the weirdness of the situation, it was still nice to be at the mercy of two naked cocks. If I’m honest, I’m frequently grateful to be in the same time zone as two naked cocks. But although one of these guys was incredibly hot for me, the other gentleman was pretty damned gay indeed. He wasn’t interested in me, he was interested only in the fact that my presence kept the other guy hard.

We fucked together for a while – my boy fucked me while the stranger fucked him, and then we did it the other way around for a bit, all the while I was thinking ‘how can I get out of this with dignity?’ Watching two guys go at it makes me wet, but feeling one of them limply humping me while looking stonily into the distance, clearly thinking only of maintaining some semblance of an erection, is not exactly my cup of tea.

Awkward goodbyes

When it was finished I think we might actually have had a cup of tea. Just a quick one, the cup of tea that says ‘I definitely want you out of my house very soon, but I’m going to drink hot drinks with you to prove that I do not think badly of you as a person.’ And, to be fair, we didn’t. He was a perfectly lovely guy, and an incredibly skilled cocksucker. He was friendly and chatty and calm and experienced and easy to get on with.

He was just… you know… gay.

There are a number of morals to this story – ‘always stick to what you agreed on the internet’, ‘don’t join in sex scenes you’re uncomfortable with’, ‘be honest about what you actually like’, etc.

But the one I’ve always taken from it is that no matter how much you like someone, and how much you love fucking, sometimes not fucking is the best thing you can do.

I tend to avoid athletic boys. With their muscles and their energy and their ability to go for hours I fear that they’ll put me to shame. The sex they have is impressive – powerful, beautiful and hard. The sex I have is desperate – moaning, panting, begging. It’s not about athleticism, it’s about lust.

But number 24 was athletic.

I met him at a posh event where he was surrounded by friends and I was surrounded by strangers. I was awkward in high-heels and a dress, and he was funny, fit, bald, with nerdy glasses and a quick mouth. I wasn’t completely smitten but I was getting there, and just drunk enough to approach someone who would otherwise fill me with terror. Someone who was far cooler than me, more attractive than me, more athletic than me. Number 24 was a lad – the sort of boy who won at sports day while girls like me were hiding behind the bleachers smoking fags and comparing fake injuries. He was holding the room with effortless confidence – drunk and getting drunker, leering and joking and scanning the party not for girls who looked pretty but girls who looked willing.

So I did what any slightly curious, drunk girl would do: I took him round the back of the building for a blow job.

The briefest of kisses ended with me on my knees in the mud, feet and knees wet through as I tore at his flies. He whispered in the dark – angry and lustful encouragement just loud enough for me to hear but not loud enough to give us away. When I put his dick in my mouth he already tasted salty with precome – rock solid. He held the back of my head and pushed me down until my lips touched the base of his dick and I choked.

“That’s it.” And he shoved it in harder. He wanted the control – he wanted me reeling, unbalanced in the mud, with nothing to grab onto but him. He wanted my hands cupping him and stroking as he thrust his dick harder into my mouth. I ran my hands over his unfamiliar body – solid thighs, a tight arse – a genuine honest-to-god six pack. Athletic though I wasn’t, he liked seeing my lustful take on blow jobs – he liked my pervy enthusiasm, and he liked it when I looked up into his face with eyes watering.

“I’m going to come.” I moaned as he said it – a choking, wet moan as I opened the mouth he was fucking to suck in the air that would take me through to the end. Excited by the thought of his hot spunk hitting the back of my throat. I sucked harder, pulling as much of his dick into my mouth as I could.

But he didn’t come in my mouth.

He pulled his cock out, and with one hand rubbed at it frantically. Pulling on my hair, he tipped my head back and looked into my eyes. He saw my face wet with spit and precome, and – with grunts and twitches – he came. Thick spurts of his spunk covered my cheeks, dripping into my open mouth, plastering loose strands of my hair. He didn’t just want to come – he wanted to come so that his friends would see, when we walked back inside, that he’d had me. He’d fucked me. And he’d left me covered in him.

Up to that point I was, despite the humiliation of having to avoid kissing people goodbye, still in my comfort zone. I’d showed the cool kids how the dirty goth girls can fuck. He’d humiliated me, but I’d had him – I’d owned him. I’d had his twitching prick in my mouth.

But later that night he followed me back to my hotel room and fucked me like an athlete. Flipping me over, picking me up, bending me over the desk and forcing his spit-lubed dick into my ass. Quick, curt thrusts punctuated by sharp exhales of breath. Porn fucking, with a porn audio track.

“You. Like. That” as he slapped me. “Fucking take it” as his cock slammed deeper into me, with him holding one of my legs at an angle so acute he could reach every inch of the inside of my cunt.

Muscular arms bending me into different shapes, holding me wide open so he could get at me. He couldn’t sit still when I sat on his dick. Instead he grabbed my arse and fucked the rhythm out of me, until it was all I could do to hold still, squeeze my cunt around his dick, and enjoy the rapid forceful pounding of his powerful hips.

It felt like a fight, like he wanted to show me what he could do. He was performing, like a gymnast performs a routine, like a runner sprints in front of a cheering crowd. He was faster, harder, stronger than me, and he wanted me to know it.

It wasn’t just a fuck – it was a competition. And although he was the most athletic, I think, on reflection, I won.