Category Archives: Filthy ones
The sex-snippet bus tour of my misspent youth
“See that field?”
“Yeah.”
“I once sucked a guy off in that field.”
“OK.”
“See that bus stop?”
“*sigh*”
Hand jobs on the train, and other things that didn’t happen
A while ago I was on the tube and I could barely look away from a couple who were… well, there’s no better way to put it: frotting. Not just gentle, subtle touches and rubs – enthusiastic, tongues-in-mouths, full-sex-but-with-clothes-on. I’m a big fan of public affection, but this probably went a tad further than I’d applaud, given that kids could have entered the carriage at any moment, but nevertheless the sheer casual lust was an amazing thing to see.
Because trains tend to make me horny, I associate public transport with some of the hottest moments of my life. I sincerely hope that both the people in this couple remember their tube journey for a long, long time. If nothing else, it’ll make up for all the stares and tuts they had to endure from frowning tourists on their horny journey. I hope they got home and tore each other’s clothes off with a desperate passion, and had wild sex in the middle of the hallway, then made cups of tea for each other and blushed with the knowledge that everyone on the Central line knew that was exactly what they were going to do.
Although there are clearly some things which are beyond the bounds of most people’s tastes, and acts which you’d never want to do when kids might hop on at the next stop, it made me wonder just what the cut off point was for ‘OK, you’re just horny’ to ‘I’m going to have to throw you off the train now, madam.’ A kiss is surely fine. A touch barely noticeable. A hand slipped up a jumper or under the hem of a skirt? Sure. A hand down top, squeezing nipple perhaps less so. And surely a hand job on the train is – if not illegal – then certainly contravening a number of railway byelaws.
So in honour of the frotting Central line lovebirds, here are some 100% made up stories about things that I have absolutely never done on public transport.
Getting horny on the night bus
It’s… how late? About 3:30 am I think. The night bus rolls with the weight of the drunks and the disgusted-at-drunks. He’s sitting beside me and I can’t stop touching him. I’m not a millionaire, and Zone One living is laughably out of reach, so you can guarantee that if we hop on a night bus in central London it’ll be a hell of a long ride home.
He smells perfect. Like sex and whiskey, with a hint of the warmth of whatever deodorant he wears, the remnants evaporating from him as I bury my lolling, drunken head into his shoulder.
His bag is on his lap.
I run my hand up to the top of his thigh and he leans in to me, inhaling the smell of my hair, and no doubt the remnants of my own boozy night as well. His dick gets harder – pressing strongly against the crotch of his jeans. He shifts his bag to cover things, as I unzip him and reach inside.
Touching on the train
The train is almost empty. One or two seats occupied at the other end of the carriage, but around us there’s silence. The sleepy, lazy arousal caused by hours of sitting next to each other on a plane – wanting to touch but too close to others for comfort.
I bury my head in his shoulder, pretending to be asleep. He watches the door at the end of the carriage for a guard. Whispers things in my ear. Things that start with a fantasy about exhibitionist fucking, and end with my favourite words:
“…touch me.”
And I do. With my jacket draped over his lap I can run my hand over him. Slowly. Shifting gently. Gripping him tight through the fabric of his jeans and feeling his cock pulse under my palm.
“Is anyone looking?” I whisper. I feel him shake his head. Swallow. That gulp of nervous lust that wants me to do it. To touch him. To run the tips of my fingers around the head of his dick. I unzip him and reach inside.
Fucking on the coach
Again, sleepy. Drunk. Horny. Could keep my hands off him if I had the inclination or willpower, but I don’t. With his big arm around my shoulders, I press myself into the warmth of his chest. I can feel his heart beating, and hear his breath catch as I cup his crotch.
I squeeze gently – just cannot get enough of that throbbing, growing sensation as his dick twitches, hard in my hand. There’s no one else at the back of the coach: it’s quiet. The lights are off – the driver kindly letting us sit in darkness to more fully appreciate the bright lights of the M4.
I squeeze harder. He swallows. His breath catches again. He lays my coat out on his lap – an invitation to do exactly what I want: unzip and reach inside.
I yawn. Feigning tiredness for an audience that’s not there, and wouldn’t care even if it were. I lie my head on his lap, put the coat over me, making a tent to hide what I’m about to do.
I unzip.
I take the head of his dick in my mouth, and I lick him slowly. I can feel him tense as I do – bracing his feet against the foot rests, grabbing a handful of my clothing to steady himself. My head rests awkwardly on his stomach as I take him in. All soft wet lips and no momentum – no pressure. I can’t make him come, I know I can’t. He’ll need more: speed, rhythm, the clench of the back of my throat around the tip as I swallow every inch of him. But it can’t happen here – there’s too much danger. People at the front of the coach who might hear rustling.
So I lick. Gently. I let wetness dribble from my lips right down the shaft of his cock and I rub it softly with my fingers. He holds his breath. Pushes back against me – ever so slowly. That desire to slide more in, that physical whimper of need. A twitch that says ‘pleasepleaseplease.’
With a silent request that’s so deliciously desperate, how could I possibly not? One quick shift, as if I’m sleeping lightly, and the rustle of my jacket covers the change in position.
I slide further down onto him, until I can feel his swollen cock blocking the back of my throat. I hold my breath and stay there, still, as he shifts his hips slightly to push it more firmly into me – his favourite part. The only thing that’ll bring him to the edge. I can feel him trembling with a desperation to make some noise – any noise that will encourage me to keep going. I imagine the cries in his head: “please please don’t stop. Harder, more, deeper. Please.”
But we’re on a coach, and there are people at the front, and I don’t want to rustle so I take things slowly. Wet lips, slow movements, running my tongue around the head, and occasionally – very occasionally – swallowing the full length of his dick and causing those deliciously tense, silent whimpers.
The streetlights flash past the windows, and we cover nearly sixty miles. Finally – as the coach turns from the motorway and onto the crowded streets of London, he grabs the back of my hair and gives it one final push. Dumping hot squirts of come into the back of my throat, and giving me shivers of aching arousal.
I hold it in my mouth for a while. Just a few more seconds, savouring the illicit taste of that awesome fuck. Then, reluctantly, I pretend to wake up.
This post is also available as audio porn. Click ‘listen here’ above or visit the audio porn page for more sexy stories read aloud.
Guest blog – nostalgia wanks
Ah, guest bloggers. You make me laugh, cry, masturbate furiously, and want to hug myself with sheer delight that there are so many horny pervs out there who are just like me. This week’s guest blogger, Walter, has done exactly that. He’s captured the sense of delicious and electric arousal that comes from a seriously horny memory. Those fucks you know will never leave your head. The sex you return to over and over again when you need relief.
Please welcome Walter, who has a filthy hot story to tell about nostalgia wanks.
Nostalgia wanks
The initial spark can be small; an arousing image, a few words that make me go: “Mmm, that’s hot”, sometimes a mere suggestion of a particularly sexy activity, and there it is: a familiar twitch between my legs tells me that for the next couple of minutes my thoughts will be preoccupied with one thing. What can I say? I’m young and my sex life is less intense than I would like it to be. What I need to start wanking is more of an excuse than a reason.
But once I get started, things change. As I give myself a tentative stroke, as I feel the blood rushing, my cock swelling, as I finally reach down and squeeze it, enjoying the feeling of bare skin in my hand – that initial impulse is no longer enough. It’s too late to put on porn (it’s hard to type with one hand), so I search in my mind for something that will make me harder and desperate for release. I try to create an other: a mate, a partner, a fucktoy or a mistress that will make me shoot spunk all over myself and possibly my surroundings.
But imagined people don’t do it for me. They’re blurry and abstract, more a collection of body parts – a pair of tits, a cunt, a tongue, an arse – than a person. I need someone tangible. Someone with a voice, a smile, a personality. Someone real.
Quite often, I settle on ex-lovers, resulting in what I call “nostalgia wanks.” One reason is that I know them fairly well. I can remember what made them unique: the way they kissed, how their cunt hair felt on my face, how one of them used to say “Come” while gently pulling me deeper in just the way that made me squirt-come inside her in a matter of seconds.
Of course, it’s not just their bodies that become so arousing. It’s the emotions as well. In my mind, I go back to the beginnings of Us – the nervousness of our first dates, the excitement of first being naked together; the first time she took me in her mouth, and the first time I heard her come.
I also go back to the ending: the sullen fucks after a fight, with me biting her shoulder and roughly fondling her tits, reaching down to grope her cunt and see if she’s wet yet, her reaching behind and yanking on my cock. I imagine all that was, all that could have been, and sometimes I make up scenarios improbable or downright impossible…
I imagine our meeting, a little awkward at first, after all this time. We sit in a café, talking about our lives now, catching up. She seems happy and confident. She smiles a lot and throws me long looks, which I’d have no trouble interpreting if it wasn’t for our mutual history. Surely she wouldn’t want…?
“How about,” she says, moving closer, “we go to your place?”
A nod is about all I can manage.
I’m still hesitant when we arrive, but she kisses me just as the door closes behind us. One of my hands rests on her back, the other instantly finds the familiar curve of her hip. I pull her closer, our bodies touching. I’m hard and I think she can feel it, too.
“Do you want it?” she asks, stopping for a moment.
“Yes,” I gasp, and she reaches towards my belt.
We move into my tiny flat, pulling shirts over our heads, not bothering to turn on the light. All I see are glimpses of her body, brought out by the street lights from outside: her pointy breasts, high cheekbones. I kiss her neck, immersing myself in the familiar, intoxicating smell. A part of me wants to savour the moment, but I’m too hungry for her, to desperate to lose myself in her. I hear her sigh and I nearly come, pressing my cock to her stomach.
But she has other ideas.
She pushes me onto the bed, then reaches down to pull her pants from underneath her skirt. She straddles my face; I can smell her cunt, want to dive right into it. I grab her arse, try to push her a bit lower…
“Don’t be so impatient,” she says mockingly, and I obey, give in to her completely.
I hear her breathe once, twice, then something wet falls on my face, something warm and salty.
I start to protest, but it turns me on too much. I strain my neck upwards, lap her piss straight from her cunt. I grab my cock and start pumping.
“Do you like that?” she asks.
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you want to fuck me?”
A vigorous nod.
“Well,”she says, as the stream of piss stops. “Bad luck.”
She gives me a kiss on the cheek gets up, picking her shirt from the floor. I want to say something, but I’m too close to release, so I keep moving my hand faster. As the door closes behind her I come, hard, with a choked gasp.
I open my eyes and come back to reality, feeling wonderfully empty and calm.
The trembling off-balance spreader bar fuck
The clinking sound of metal-on-metal gets me horny now. Ever since we got a spreader bar (far later in my life than I’d have expected to, given my intense delight in anything restraint-based). I rarely see him get it out, because before he does he’ll make a specific order:
“Bend over and close your eyes.” or “Lie face down on the bed.” or “Face the fucking wall.”
And I stand, trembling, waiting for him to lock my ankles in the stocks, and put me in an off-balance position.
I used to think that the point of spreader bars was to keep my legs open: giving easy access and a view that makes him hard. A display that’s a cross between arousing and humiliating for me: open and ready for him to touch, to stare at, to fuck. But it’s more than that: it’s not just about access but control.
With my legs spread wide by the bar and my wrists cuffed to it, every muscle in my legs and back is tense with the effort of staying balanced. Sometimes I’m on the bed, crouched with my face buried in the bedsheets and my back arched in a way I could never hold on my own, arms stretched beneath me reaching down to the bar. Twisted in a way that highlights my discomfort, and helps me embrace the shivering relief of pleasure as he fucks me with quick, long strokes.
Sometimes, though, I’m standing up – wobbling on uncertain tiptoes, relying on him to hold me still – hold me stable – while he fucks me.
There’s something about being slightly off-balance.
Strength, power, and spreader bar throatfucking
I’d like to say that I don’t care if he can fuck me with power and strength: that a gentle shag is as fun as an angry one. But I’d be lying. I like feeling weak and small and vulnerable. Trembling and wobbling and knowing that the only reason I’m upright is that he’s got a fistful of my hair.
He pulls my head back and forth. Quickly at first. Getting the full, satisfying length of his cock in my throat. Down right to the base so I choke, holding me there for exactly as long as I trust him to, then pulling me back. With my wrists and ankles restrained I can’t move away. I must stay until my eyes water and he deigns to pull me back – spluttering and drooling and covering him in wet spit.
Then more slowly. Holding me at the right position so I can just wet the tip. Licking around the head. Hair straining against his hand and the backs of my knees starting to wobble. And as they start to go he pushes me back down, until my face is buried in his crotch and he’s throatfucking me with care and precision. The back of my throat contracting against him as he calls me a good girl.
I feel more solid on my feet, but it’s harder to breathe: a trade-off that he has the power to balance perfectly. He switches me between fast and slow – trembling and choking, secure and nervous. Happy and happier.
When he starts to fuck me, the tremble sets in again. I want to grip my ankles, or lift my hands to hold onto something: the bed, the wall – anything. But each stroke of him fucking me makes me tremble harder, feeling like I’m teetering on the brink of collapse. Muscles tense, cunt tightening, knees twitching and about to crumble.
He likes the twitching, I think. He can feel my muscles tense as he grips me, and he can feel me pushing back to take him further inside me – part satisfaction and part safety: the harder I push back the easier it is to stay stable. I think he likes the clinking sound of metal-on-metal too – it means my hands are still cuffed to the spreader bar, and the rapid tinkling as my ankles wobble and my legs start to really shake means I’m close enough to coming that he can speed up to bring himself there. Fuck me harder, faster. The swift, angry strokes that give me both release and permission. I can come because I know he’s about to. The twitching climax as I come on his cock brings him to a harder orgasm.
He grips my hips to keep me upright as he empties himself inside me.
He keeps his hands on me even after he’s done – maintaining balance, unlocking me from the spreader bar, and letting me gently down onto the bed, or the floor. I can feel his spunk dripping down the inside of my thighs, and his big hands on my hips and wrists and ankles. Perfectly balanced, and strong enough to keep me from falling.
This post is also available as audio porn. Click ‘listen here’ above or head to the audio porn page to find more sexy stories read aloud.
Do you have a sexual type? I don’t. But I do.
“Of course I don’t have a ‘type’,” I lie. “I’ve fancied so many different people that the idea I’d only go for one type of guy is laughable.” I tell this to people I know and love, and I tell it to myself. And it’s bollocks.
Much as I’d love to not have a type, I do. Oh how I do.
There’s a certain kind of man that gives me a certain kind of feeling. Not pitiful butterflies in my stomach or shivers down my spine or any of that saccharine crap: these dudes make my cunt wet and my eyes water and they send my heart into an angry, drum-beat overdrive of panic. They make me afraid.
These men with their lithe, casual hotness. Slightly (or incredibly) nerdy, playing nervously with glasses on the bar, or with cigarettes in their hands. Men with wet eyes and eager smiles, and the tiniest hint of a late-lost virginity that gives them extra enthusiasm for fucking. Men who wank creatively: with buttplugs and lube and grotesquely unconscionable fantasies.
There are two or three in my head right now (get out get out get out). There are a couple in my back catalogue who – if I walked down the street and bumped into them – would wonder why I was physically staggering with shock, or shaking in an effort to hold back the urge to kiss them. Not kiss them, sorry, that’s wrong: bury my face in their neck and just… fucking… bite them.
I don’t want to have a type, but I do. It’s these guys: the ones who hold back dark secrets and stutter through chat ups and joke that ‘oh of COURSE you won’t fancy me but on the off-chance you did I’m quite into choke-fucking if that’s your thing?’ Men who call me ‘mate’ and who smell so filthy and good when they hug me. Whose cocks press tight against the inside of scruffy jeans. I can’t see but oh sweet Lord how I can imagine.
They make me cold with fear.
I’m terrified of these guys because they are the ones with whom my self-control goes out of the window. Making me wonder – and quite rightly – whether I can claim to have any self-control at all if it disappears in a spray of jizz when the right kind of temptation sidles into view.
What’s your sexual type?
I’m not telling you what my exact sexual type is in case you either:
a) are it, in which case things will become awkward at parties or
b) are not it, in which case if we’ve ever fucked, or ever might fuck, you’ll mistakenly assume that because you don’t ‘match’ I won’t enjoy it. I still will.
I’m reading a book by Marian Keyes at the moment in which she describes heart vibrations – how two people can be perfect for each other because their souls give off the same rhythmic vibe. That’s obvious twaddle, of course, but it made me think of the feeling when I meet a guy who’s ‘my type’ – a similar gutpunch of obvious attraction, similar vibrations. Except it’s not my heart that’s quivering.
I want to fuck all these bad men
I’ve met some ‘types’ recently and it’s all I can do to bite my lip and smile and say ‘nice to meet you.’ I chit-chat with them and laugh at their jokes and pray to Christ they laugh at mine. I introduce myself to their girlfriends, and say goodnight at the end of the evening. Just ‘goodnight’! When what I really want to say is ‘oh please please please fuck me. Fuck me so hard it makes me cry. Please put your hands on me – anywhere – and just squeeze and rub and slap and punch me and make me feel better about feeling like this when I shouldn’t. Take away the misery of unrequited lust, and tell me I’m a bad bad bad fucking person for wanting you.’
It’s not their fault, of course: it’s mine. To paint these guys as tempting architects of my failure at monogamy would be to pretend that I have no agency: no morals. But although they can’t help striking exactly the chord that has me throbbing with need, I have to avoid them, and come across as either rude or awkward. I can’t help it.
While one of my types is nearby my mind will do bad things: flash images and scenes of him fucking me against a wall. Or pulling my jeans down to below the crack of my arse and rubbing a trembling hand between my legs. Slowly and deliberately opening one button on my shirt, and grinning as he reaches in to put cold fingers on my nipples. Wrapping a belt round my throat and choking me with it while he fucks me – while he whispers ‘you shouldn’t be doing this and you fucking know it’, pauses for a beat… two beats… lets me take a breath… then slaps my face as he pushes his cock harder inside.
Do you have a type?
I hope some of you know what I mean. Some of you conjured an image of a particular type of person – that person who sets you on a course of lustful flashes, and for whom your attraction feels almost dangerous. I feel like this about certain guys regardless of anything else that might be going on: whether I’m currently with someone who is also my ‘type’, for instance. And I laugh and point out hot men and go ‘that one there – he’s pretty’, and I point out interesting men and go ‘him: I’d go for him’ and all the while I’m thinking ‘yeah, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? I’d go for anyone with a good sense of humour and a pair of hands to grab my arse with. My type is something stronger, and utterly intangible.’
So when you ask me if I have a ‘type’ that’s the reason I’ll lie. I’d rather say ‘no of course not’ than give someone the full, disgusting truth. I do have a type when it comes to sex, and it’s undiscerning, perverted, and arational. It doesn’t matter in the slightest if these guys are bastards, if they’re already attached or totally disinterested. My cunt doesn’t care whether they’re the kind of people I could live with forever or the ones I’d throttle after 10 minutes. It doesn’t care how many of them there are: there is always room for one more.
I say I don’t have a type, because with enough love and enough interest I’ll have this passion for anyone. But these guys… these guys… these insta-lust ‘types’ that my brain hates but my body needs like sunlight: when I’m on my death bed and watching the guilty replays of my life’s mistakes, it’ll be these guys who play the starring roles.
My nerdy, horny, depraved and desperate men. My weaknesses.
My types.