Category Archives: Filthy ones
Sleepy fucking: a change of plan
“Nah, I’m knackered.”
I was too tired even for sleepy fucking. The kind of tired where I could barely open my eyes. Tired where I’d have been willing to pay a week’s wages just to get a day’s reprieve from work. Tired like I really didn’t want to fuck.
On intense pain
When I think about pain, there’s one particular guy who comes into my head. Many of the guys I’ve been with have helped me squirm in delicious agony, but there’s one in particular who hurt me more than any other. Exquisitely.
Everything that happens in this story was heavenly. To this day, I still daydream about it when I’m horny and itching and only some hurting will do.
Softly softly
This guy was only a few years older, but light-years ahead of me in maturity. He had a neat haircut, wore suits, was chivalrous in an old-fashioned way that I’d have found adorable in someone less dominant. He had a calm, detached air – the kind that comes from knowing I’ll do exactly what he says. He treated me as if I was utterly fragile, yet still his to break.
I rang the doorbell, having refused his offer to escort me from the tube station: something about the cold walk to his house helped to focus my mind. He opened the door with a courteous smile, and ushered me inside in a way that his curtain-twitching neighbours would have approved of.
Then he closed the door with a controlled ‘click’.
“Take off your boots.”
I took off my boots.
There was silence – one beat, two beats.
I lined them up neatly next to his own shoes by the door.
Three beats. Four beats.
Then he pounced.
Grabbing me by the hair he pushed my face up against the wall, twisting my neck awkwardly so I was poised in a semi-standing crouch. Makeup smeared against the wallpaper, hands pressed against the wall to hold myself steady.
Keeping my hair firmly gripped in his hand, he used his other hand to grope me – to inspect me. His roughness didn’t outweigh his calm, though. Every movement was carefully measured – squeezing one of my tits, sliding slowly down over my waist and hips, carefully pulling up the hem of my skirt so he could run his fingers against the crotch of my knickers.
“You’re wet.”
“Yes.” I was dreading what was coming next. Please don’t make me say ‘sir’, please don’t make me say ‘sir’, please…
One beat, two beats…
“Yes what?”
“Sir.”
A few ‘sirs’ and light slaps later, and he was leading me by the hair into his bedroom. This was essentially what I’d turned up for. It’s all very well being told off in a hallway, but I wanted him to turn his controlling nature to pain.
I’ve never been much of a pain slut – I enjoy being spanked not because I like the feeling of the slaps, but because I love that the guy in question gets off on it: I like that hearing the thwack of belt on skin makes him hard. That I get to feel dirty and bad even as I’m feeling ecstatic.
He didn’t disappoint.
Stripped to the waist, with skirt hiked up around my middle, he pushed me face down on his bed.
“Knickers down.”
I wriggled out of them.
“Hands behind your head.”
Again, I did as I was told.
“Bite down on this.”
He placed a leather strap in my mouth, and I had a nervous three seconds to wonder what he was going to hit me with before he brought a slipper down onto my arse with a solid, painful thump. I twitched, and arched my back slightly for the second blow.
Thud. Ouch. On and on until my eyes watered. Each one in exactly the same place, the stinging heat growing more intense with every stroke. I could feel from the strength and impact that he wasn’t just testing me – he was drawing his arm back and whacking me with full force. Unable to see him, I pictured it in my head – his arm drawn back above his shoulder, hand holding the slipper, face placid and expressionless, then the twitch of a sadistic smile as he whipped it down again. My stomach thumped with arousal.
“Keep your head down,” he said. “Eyes closed.”
I disobeyed him – I wanted to see what he was bringing next. Through semi-open eyelids I watched him stride across the room: no rushing, still oozing calm control. He opened the wardrobe then did one of the hottest things dominant guys can do before a beating: he rolled up his sleeves. At that point I put my head down, revelling in the anticipation of the unknown. I’d told him before I arrived that I wanted him to hit me – hurt me. Push me with pain I didn’t truly like – less thudding and thick slaps, more thin whips and tingling canes. He took me at my word.
The first stroke didn’t hurt for two seconds – I just heard the whish-click as it landed across the top of my thighs. Then the sting came. Red-hot and searing through my skin, cold metal and hot coal and ice and fire and pain.
“Good,” He crooned. “Good-” whip “-girl.” smack.
He used the wire on me a few more times – each time putting a bit more swing into it, bringing it down a bit quicker, harder. I bit down on the strap and let out a muffled cry. He moved around me, no longer standing at the side but directly in front of my face. I could see his dick pushing tight and hard against the crotch of his trousers. I arched my back further and pushed my stinging arse into the air. He leant forward and hit me again – three more times, harder than he had before, until my head was swimming with pain. I dropped the strap from my mouth and groaned.
“Ow.” Once more – whish-click. “OW! Fuck. Please. It hurts too much.”
He dropped the wire and bent forward over me. I felt his hands on my arse, rubbing, kneading, pushing the pain deep into my muscles and away from the raw surface of my skin. His hands were cool, and I wanted him to keep them on me, still and calm, until the pain was over.
But he didn’t.
He stood up, unzipped his trousers, and lifted my head up so he could slide his dick into my mouth. I sucked him, hard, wanting to feel his dick twitch like I’d twitched when he hit me. When his spunk hit the back of my throat it was as warm and welcome as the stinging slaps he’d given me.
On uncontrollable desire: lust that goes beyond ‘I fancy you’
When I was young I had a teacher who gave me butterflies in my stomach. Scratch that – not butterflies, and this wasn’t a teenage crush. Neither of these things comes close to describing the way this teacher made me feel. Sick and excited and aching with desire. I didn’t fancy him, I wasn’t ‘keen’ on him: I lusted him. Hot and angry and sweating and desperate.
Someone else’s story: joyous abandon
Last week I wrote about cheese-sandwich sex. The kind of easy, everyday, sex-for-need that you have when you just need a quick fuck. Today’s exceptional guest blog is right at the other end of the spectrum: this is 12-course gourmet sex. The kind of sex you dream about, have, then think about for the rest of your life.
Both the story and accompanying picture are courtesy of @HigherKinks, who you should follow on Twitter if you love hot pictures, and the gleeful, lusty delight with which a pair of perverts go about enjoying each other.
Joyous abandon
One look from a lover can last you a lifetime.
She was kneeling in front of me, naked. This happens a lot.
She was breathless too. Not from thrashing about, I realised – though there had been an agreeable amount of the bouncy stuff prior to this particular moment – but from something more subtle. A tiny gasp, reminded me that some joys are so exquisite to contemplate, that you momentarily forget to breathe. This doesn’t happen as much.
She looked up at me, eyes wide, lip slightly bitten. And that was when I saw the look that I will carry with me into dotage. It was the look of someone who digs you, seriously fucking turned on. Like, stupidly, impossibly, nothing-will-ever-feel-quite-the-same-again turned on. But it was more than that even. It was a look also of acceptance, of longing, of trust and of urgent desires that needed to be quenched. Some folk call it the look of love, but unless you’ve been in this exact scenario I’d invite you not to consider me a twat for suggesting that. (Oh, and there was a gentleman sucking my cock two inches from her face. I maybe should have mentioned that). She moaned at the sight and orgasmed on the spot. This had never happened before.
Some context for you.
New Years Day. Two lovers with no obligation to anyone but each other that day. No work. No kids. No stress. A lot of fucking, obviously. There had been pillow talk.
“We could call him..”
“He says he’s a bit tired and hungover…”
“We don’t have to do anything, just hang out…”
“Yeah.. he’s texted. He’s on the way…”’
It wasn’t much of a gamble. He was her friend, someone we liked and respected, and was good company. But we weren’t sure anything would happen. Or even if we’d want it to. After an enjoyable evening, and perhaps sensing a moment alone was needed, our friend went to the toilet. We looked at each other. We both knew what the other was thinking. She grinned the grin that says “Can we?”. By the time he came back downstairs, she was kneeling over me on the couch, skillfully rolling her tongue around the end of my penis while I babbled something about inviting him to join us or something – I can’t remember exactly what I said because he agreed inside 2 seconds.
From this point on, my memory is jumbled. A highlight reel of joyous abandon and giggling depravities. We undress her. I watch her beguile his cock, watch him eat her out. I get so excited I have to slide myself down her throat as she stretches under us and for the next few hours it just feels like we are drawn from one intoxicatingly filthy scenario to the next like a little boat magically propelled to different islands, each lovelier than the last. That might sound twee, but one of the fantasy islands we visited was the island where the lady gives head while her lover fucks her steadily to orgasm in the ass. Always wanted to visit that one.
In between bouts, we smoke, drink and lounge around, marvelling at my girl’s beautiful body and the pleasures of consenting, carnal adult activity. We talk about other folk we’d like to fuck, of experiences and delights yet to be had. We get so randy we fuck all over again. It was a stupefyingly good night. We took lots of pictures. Like tourists on holiday.
But here’s the thing. When you find someone you love, who you never want to stop shagging, it’s amazing. But when that person sees no reason for you both to not fuck other people together too? How can I explain this to the nerd generation? It’s like levelling up while playing the best computer game ever.
On typical sex
I’ve been having a lot of typical sex lately. You know, the sort of sex you have when you just fancy some sex but have no particular desire to put a cherry on top. Basic sex. No-frills sex. If exciting and boundary-defining shags are the equivalent of a twelve-course tasting menu, then what I have been doing is eating cheese sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner for a whole month.
And guess what? It’s brilliant.
I love cheese-sandwich sex to almost exactly the same degree as I love twelve-course fancy sex.
My typical sex
It starts with a suggestion by one or other of us. Not a gentle touch or a barked command, or anything designed to elicit a specific sexual reaction. I’ve had shags that have started with playful sofa-fighting, and ones which I’ve kicked off by simply pulling my knickers down and offering my naked arse to the gentleman in question. Typical sex isn’t like this, it begins much more simply.
“Fancy a shag?”
“Yep.”
There’s a pristine beauty and simplicity to it. It’s not overworked, which means that if the second person doesn’t fancy one they’ll know it’s not the end of the world to decline. Nor is it overly-prescriptive. “Fancy a shag?” leaves you open to developing a particular type of shag if you like. I could respond with “yes, will you fuck me over the bath?” or “no, but I’d love to suck you off while I rub my clit through my knickers.” In short, ‘fancy a shag?’ tells me that you’re horny, and asks if I am too. All the rest is up for grabs.
Once it’s been established that both of us fancy a shag, we touch. Although I’m generally a fan of variety, in this specific scenario, when I am in the ‘typical sex’ mindset, I get off on the predictability of it. He grips me around the waist and immediately slides his hands down to my arse. There’s a delicious familiarity there – the exact size and shape of him is satisfyingly unsurprising. The exact degree to which he squeezes me has been carefully calibrated over years of ‘a bit harder’ and ‘oh God yes that’s it’ until he’s got just the right pressure to get me dripping.
The same familiarity comes, of course, from his dick. I know how quickly it gets hard, what motions will best help it to get there, and exactly how to open this specific pair of trousers (seducing someone new is great fun, but I never seem quite as suave as I’d like because I fumble with unfamiliar trouser openings). His dick has a very specific weight in my hand, and I’m an expert on just how to hold it and squeeze it to ensure that the typical fuck takes its course.
There’s no detour here for blow jobs – I’m describing my typical shag. And typically I don’t have time to take him slowly into my mouth, because we’ll both be too keen to start fucking. So fuck we do.
And the best part is that as soon as we begin, it’s all about the end. This is an ‘everyday’ fuck – something at least as fun and functional as masturbation.
He’ll fuck me with quick, efficient strokes – touching the bits that give him extra shivers through his dick. I’ll push back and squeeze around him so I can feel as much as possible inside me: so that every atom of my cunt is pushing into part of his cock. There’s no pretense that we’re trying to impress each other, or even making an effort to get each other off: we’re doing it because we need to, and because each of us is as keen as the other to feel those first twitching waves of orgasm grip us in the pit of our stomachs.
‘Typical sex’ doesn’t mean ‘boring sex’
It’s a fuck you have because you both need it. It’s even better than wanking because it’s a mutual pleasure, and is therefore sociable: like monkeys picking fleas off each other or you scratching an itch that I just can’t reach on my own. And the moans and ‘oh yes’s and sighs at the end don’t just signal joy or sexual ecstasy – there’s a definite tone of relief. We’ve soothed and satisfied each other.
That’s why I love the everyday fuck. I love it easily as much as I love the special ones, the exciting ones: the ones with extra people or special toys, or words that make me growl with lust. Because while twelve-course meals are undoubtedly exciting, sometimes you just want a cheese sandwich. Something you eat while standing up in the kitchen, dropping crumbs onto the counter and forgetting to put the butter back in the fridge. It’s everyday, it’s typical, it’s nothing fancy, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t delicious.