Category Archives: Filthy ones
On sexy accents
The other day a guy jokingly told me to ‘get tae fuck’ in a drawling Scottish accent. It was so thick and deep and heavy I felt like I was being beaten with it. His words were good, but his accent laced them with a thoroughly silky sexuality that left me reeling a bit. In my fevered imagination later that day, the guys who play out porn scenes in my head adopted the same sexy accent – rolling their rs as they pounded six shades of fuck into me.
Is it a direct association? One of the men I have loved deeply in my life was Scottish. I sat for hours with him on the phone, enjoying even his most tedious of stories as he muttered them down the earpiece and directly into my brain. But it can’t all be down to direct association – some of my favourite sexy accents come not because I’ve fucked a speaker but just because I’ve listened in gaping, lustful awe as a hot guy on telly spits sexy rage in a specific dialect.
My own accent is – for the most part – boring. It swings between posh-phone-voice and drunken slag, depending on how many glottalstops I bother to suppress. I’m sad to have no sexy voice of my own to exchange with gorgeous men, but for the record here is a subjective and inexhaustive list of five sexy accents that make my legs quiver.
Top five sexy accents
5. Southern US
Spot five on my ‘sexy accents’ list swaps in and out depending on my mood, and is usually dictated by the latest sexy thing I’ve seen on telly. Currently it’s the Walking Dead, in which Daryl Dixon plays a crossbow-toting, hunt-and-shoot sex God of undeniably epic proportions. His accent isn’t thick, but there’s just enough of just the right tone to make me imagine him drawling ‘git back here, woman’ as I get out of bed.
4. Irish
I KNOW RIGHT. I am as shocked as you that this doesn’t take the top spot. For years Ireland has reigned as the country with the sexiest accents, and not just because of amazing sex words like ‘ride’ and ‘lad‘. From Irish barmaids offering to top up your pint to Irish gentlemen offering to get on their knees and pleasure you with their grinning, eager face, most people I know have had a fantasy about someone inviting them to bed with lilting, singsong tones. It’s up there as one of my favourites, though, and I think it always will be.
3. Scottish
I don’t blame you guys if you vote for independence I just… can I make a small request? Don’t be strangers. Call us up every once in a while and say ‘pish’ down the phone, and bark sexy swearwords into our eager ears, because everyone knows Scottish is officially The Best Accent To Swear In. In fact, even if you do vote for independence, I will still love you just as much as I do right now – I think we’ll reach Peak Excellent Swearing Point if an entire country full of Scots rise up as one and, in a booming, angry voice, tell England to “get tae fuck.”
2. Northern
Say ‘butty’ – go on. Say ‘last’. Say ‘bastard’. Say ‘I’m going to fuck you nice and deep in the cunt.’ If you’re crooning these words and phrases in a creamy Lancashire accent, congratulations: you are sexy. You have a sexy, sexy, sexy accent and I want to eat you all up.
1. German
German is given a really fucking bad press as being an ‘ugly’ language, and it’s always annoyed me a bit. Sure, if all you watch is Nazi documentaries on the History channel it’s probably hard to find German sexy – it will have far too many negative associations, and a distinct lack of poetry. But listen to the amazing soundtrack to the spectacular musical ‘Cabaret’ and suddenly it becomes a silky, soft, yet powerful accent. Combining gentle ‘ch’ and ‘ssh’ noises with hard ‘ah’s and sibilant ‘ist’s. I cannot get enough of it.
Before I die, I want to find a man who speaks German and loves spanking. I will seduce him with cake and promises, and he’ll return the favour by whispering gentle filth at me while I suck him off. Then he’ll beat me with a belt while counting ‘eins, zwei, drei’, just to give me a benchmark against which to compare all other sex.
On why penis does not equal power
Yes, we live in a patriarchy. And in our patriarchy, men are generally at a bit of an advantage in terms of money, power, opportunity, and so on. But I’m not going to talk about that today – I want to talk about power and penetration. Specifically the idea that the power in any kind of sexual play is, by default, in the hands of the penetrator.
The other week I wrote something disgustingly filthy about pegging (aka strap on sex). In subsequent discussion, a few people talked about me ‘having the power’ and ‘being the dominant one’, which was interesting. Even when I’m fucking a guy with a big fake cock, I don’t tend to feel that dominant. I get waves of it occasionally, but it struck me that we do tend to assume that strap on sex gives the wearer an immediate power boost. That it’s the cock that’s synonymous with power. That no matter how doe-eyed and submissive I usually am, just by strapping it on I have performed a transformation into a powerful sexual superhero.
Are strap ons powerful?
Of course, there are a lot of expectations around being the penetrator. Watch most mainstream porn, or even most mainstream romance, and men tend to be seen as the ones in control – the ones doing. Men fuck, women get fucked. But of course, although this is the way the story tends to play out, there are a hundred different problems with it, as there are with most of our expectations around gender.
Naturally the obvious point is that not all men have dicks, or indeed want to be the penetrators. Likewise there are many women who can be powerfully sexual, who can penetrate and fuck, while their partners (male or female) prefer to be more passive, more laid-back. And – in the kind of situations I enjoy – there are many people who switch between the two.
I enjoy sex in which I am the fucker rather than the fuckee, and to be honest I don’t usually need a strap on in order to do that. In the right mood and with a fair wind behind me I can shag a guy using only my delicate, weak, unpowerful vagina and he’ll still feel as if he’s been used like a fucktoy.
Your dick as your weakness
Not only can you be powerful with no dick at all, but there are certain sexual situations in which a penis can be the very opposite of a powerful tool: it can be your weakness, your misery, and one of the ultimate symbols of submission.
Knowing you can penetrate me with your dick might give you power in the eyes of a society with a skewed view on genitals, but it’s not going to make you feel that powerful when you’re lying on my bed, constrained by an order not to come, twitching and moaning as I rub lube gently into the aching head of it. Nor when I squeeze it to just before the point of pain and you beg me to put it in my mouth. And certainly not when I lie on my back, with your bound wrists behind my neck, and tell you to fuck me without coming.
As you pull out, shaking with the need to come and pleading with your eyes, your penis doesn’t feel very powerful, does it?
A dirty story to illustrate the point
So are strap ons powerful in and of themselves? The fact that they don’t give direct pleasure to the wearer does give the wearer a certain element of control. Maybe I’m the ‘powerful’ one when I fuck a guy with a strap on purely in virtue of the fact that I feel nothing – that I’m wholly focused on what I can do rather than what I can feel.
Except even that doesn’t really work, because this lack of feeling can also be harnessed to make the wearer feel deeply cowed and submissive. Ask the guy who loved the trembling feeling of submission so much that I used to wrack my brains in bed at night trying to think of new and better ways to make him feel small – the guy who, eventually, I ordered to fuck me with a strap on.
He got hard and shook and begged me to let him fuck me – wrists bound behind my head, as above. I turned him down and dressed him in the strap on harness instead, letting him fuck me with cold, rubber strokes until I came – twitching and clenching around a cock that couldn’t feel it. A cock with no desire, no sensation, no power. Then I told him I was done, and he curled up hard and aching and unable to fall asleep.
What makes a powerful dominant?
Power isn’t contained within a penis – real or fake – and it doesn’t accrue to you just because you are the penetrator. This is one of the many myths we’ve been fed for a number of years, which we still tend to play up to in much of our fucking. I certainly do most of the time – as a straight female submissive, dominance and dick usually go hand-in-hand. I want to be on the bottom, I want to be penetrated: I need to get fucked.
But it’s nice to take a step outside this every once in a while – think about what it is, exactly, that makes someone powerful. It might be different for different people: what makes him powerful is his voice, and the way he has with commands and words. What makes her powerful is the way she can speak volumes just with her eyes or a turn of her head. What makes them powerful is their imagination – the fantastic new things they can order their sub to do, that brings both parties to the brink of shivering climax.
Power isn’t contained within a particular object, or act, or person: it’s a complex, intricate thing. And it’s good to remind myself of that every once in a while – not only does it give me a better perspective on what I truly love about dominance, it also gives me loads of new ideas.
On Japanese love hotels, and other sex spaces
It’s late, you’re tired and horny, but home is a long way away and the alleys are riddled with CCTV cameras and drunk revellers, giving one no privacy in which to administer a suck-job to an equally horny friend. At these times, the UK is ill-equipped to cater to your deviant lusts, unless you’re willing to pay a week’s rent for one night in a scummy hotel.
When it comes to impulsive sex spaces, other countries do it far better.
Korean DVD bangs
In Korea, there exist special rooms called ‘DVD bangs’. At least, there used to. It’s been a while since I was there, and they’ve probably now been replaced with ‘video streaming bangs’ or ‘Angry Birds bangs’ or whatever the kids prefer these days.
In Korean, ‘bang’ means ‘room’, and so DVD bangs were essentially just places where you’d go to hire a DVD and watch it on a big telly – the kind you either couldn’t afford to have at home or would reject because its gigantic size made it impractical for anything other than a dividing wall. You enter the complex, pick a DVD, thumb through your phrase book to work out how to say ‘how much?’ in Korean, then the person behind the counter takes your money and directs you to a room with a number on the door.
We picked something appalling and shit – I cannot remember what. Some bullshit early-90s movie that we’d seen a million times before. We weren’t there for the DVD so much as the ‘bang’, and the idea of being able to hire a private room for a couple of hours for less than the cost of a vodka and tonic was just about perfect. The room itself was small – dark and dingy and furnished with just the aforementioned TV, a sticky leather sofa and – we took this as proof that it wasn’t just for watching – a roll of toilet paper.
Japanese Love Hotels
When you mention quick fucks in paid privacy, lots of people will leap up and shout “ooh, do you know in Japan they have kitsch hotels designed just for fucking, with pictures of Hello Kitty in bondage ropes on the walls?”
To which I reply, “yeah, except there’s usually more bondage than Hello Kitty if you pick the right ones.”
As he emerged from the Subway exit I went a bit weak at the knees. This guy had swept into my life on a wave of filth and heat and the fear that our time would be short. We didn’t touch in public, but at the entrance to the station I turned him east and pointed out my favourite love hotel. A beaten-up, garish building which featured a room I’d wanted to use for a long time.
It had chains all over the bed – cuffs and collars and even some medieval stocks – positioned right at the end of the bed so you could either get in doggy with your head through the hole and be fucked in a way that wouldn’t kill your knees, or standing up on the floor, with your partner gripping your hips as you choked happy fuck noises in the other direction.
They say Japan’s got it nailed when it comes to quickie shags. To be fair, the sweaty, desperate, let’s-try-it-all-before-time-runs-out shag I had with that guy certainly put it on the leader board. But as far as I’m concerned, if you’re wandering the streets late at night with a horny partner, there’s one place that hits the perfect spot.
Amsterdam sex booths
It stinks in here: sweat and spunk and sorrow. A thousand lonely wanks by a thousand lonely people crouched in this wipe-clean booth. We bundle in, hoping we snuck past the guy on the front desk without him realising there were two of us. We huddle together on the damp bench, push the door closed. There’s a mirror on the door and a TV behind the bench – an awkward way to get round the problem of space.
When you put a Euro in the slot something filthy starts playing, and you watch the reflection in the back of the door while you wank yourself to a climax.
Unless you’re us. If you’re us you smoosh as close as you can together, pushing fingers and hands inside each other’s clothes. Rubbing, kissing, crushing forearms against mouths to prevent any noise. You pause – one beat, two beats – hearing tinny music from outside and the oh-so-dirty shuffling from the booth next door. The rhythmic shuffling of a guy on his own.
I press a button, flip the porn, browsing the five or six available channels to find one that isn’t awful. Two women. Three women. A gaping ass. A gang bang. Mascara-streaked, sobbing, guilt-inducing shit. Ah, better: a fuck. All we really want.
I drop to my knees and start sucking him – the smell of his shower gel mingling with the musky post-jerk-off spunky scent of others. It’s like being in that sex cinema all over again – the ghosts of wankers past linger through the fluids they left behind. He pushes my head down onto his cock, puts another Euro in the slot. Reclines.
I turn around, face squashed against the door of the tiny booth, barely room to move. Yet somehow I manage to get my knickers down just far enough that I can sit on it. Squish. Slick. He lets out a muffled cry and I bite my lip. At least one of us has to remain quiet. Quickly, silently, I fuck him with hard strokes, trying not to touch the walls too much, struggling to keep time as my legs start to tremble with arousal. I slip.
It’s easier on the floor. Squatting in front of the bench I can grip his thighs for balance, feeling the wet lust dripping into my knickers and the twitching of his arousal in my mouth. He puts in another Euro and whispers “please. Please. I’m going to come.” So I suck him harder, I push my head as far down on his cock as it will go so I get to feel the pressure as the jet of spunk hits the back of my throat.
His legs tense up, and he presses the button – flicking quickly through all the channels. Two girls. Three girls. Gaping ass. Gang bang. A montage of porn that he’s no longer really watching, just a visual collage to hammer home the seedy, desperate nature of the booth itself. As he comes in the back of my mouth I close my throat, collecting his spunk there while I breathe in through my nose.
Sweat. Come. Guilt. Sadness. Lust.
All for just three Euros.
On thongs, french knickers, and everything in between
Like a friendly wedding DJ, I’m always happy to take requests. The most recent one came from a gentleman who emailed me to ask about thongs. Specifically he asked if I could write about them in-depth, presumably so that he could read the entry with one hand down his own pants and an eager smile on his face.
Problem is, I’m personally not that bothered about thongs. I discovered them when I was younger and – initially – I was a huge fan. I had exactly the kind of arse that looks brilliant in them, and to be honest a decent thong frames someone’s bum in a beautiful minimalist way – slim fabric tracing the line of their crack and curving round the top of each buttock like a ribbon decorating a present. Lovely.
Thongs as sex wear
Unfortunately, my ‘oh God thongs are so hot’ phase clashed horribly with my ‘wearing corduroy trousers that were always a size too big for me’ phase. This led to some deeply hot moments – a mate picking me up, throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me across a bowling alley while the then Love Of My Life looked on and bit his lip with poorly-disguised lust.
When we got home the first thing he did was shove both hands down the back of my trousers and gulp “I’ve been wanting to do that ever since. I just want to fucking bite you.”
But these hot moments were greatly outnumbered by the not-so-hot ones. Catty whispers from people nearby when they noticed the slim fabric line peeking out of the top of my trousers. Guys who thought they were breaking new comedy ground by slipping their fingers beneath the fabric and twanging it like giggling schoolchildren.
The guy who emailed me to ask about thongs made very specific mention of the fact that he thinks they’re especially hot on ‘corporate’ girls. By which I can only imagine he means ‘women who work in offices and generally dress in suits.’ Apparently the tantalising glimpse of thong fabric is especially good when it appears above smart trousers, ideally in a meeting of some sort.
Sadly I can’t really see the appeal in this. I struggle in an office environment anyway – the clothes are uncomfortable, and always coupled with a dread that I’m not quite professional enough – not polished enough. The idea of colleagues also spotting the line of my knickers poking out the top of my smart skirt sends shivers down my spine. I’ll put this down to the aforementioned childish knicker-twangers: selfish twats who’ve ruined thongs for me forever. Not to mention that a bit of the credit should go to men who leer openly at women they work with, as if their boners are as normal an addition to an office environment as photocopy paper or unnecessary spreadsheets.
The sexiest knickers
Still, the absence of thongs does not mean that I never put on a new pair of knickers and say ‘oh God that’s great’. Although I don’t have quite all the gorgeous knickers I want – I’d love a pair of caged-back ribbon knickers, in case anyone’s planning Christmas gifts this early and wants a massive hint. But I have got a fair few pairs that make me feel awesome as soon as I pull them up to my waist. Here are my top three.
French lace knickers
These give excellent bum coverage, while still being shaped nicely enough that they make my arse look excellent. Bought from Primark for about a quid, they’ve been jizzed on, shoved into my mouth, pushed to the side for easy-access quick-entry hard sex, why – they even featured in one of these blogposts a couple of years ago – I’ve definitely had my money’s worth.
Boy shorts
I don’t understand why underwear must be so gendered – I love wearing boxers designed for guys just as much as many guys I know love the silky feel of a pair of well-made knickers. But still – ‘boy shorts’ that are designed for girls do give an excellent level of comfort, and they also cover just enough that I can wear them around the house with just a t-shirt – tantalising the boy with occasional glimpses of the bottom of my arse cheeks without terrifying the neighbours into buying new blinds.
Burlesque ruffle pants
These are pants designed to make your bum look bigger, and they are so stunning that I often put them on just when I want to have a wank – bent over in front of a mirror so I can imagine someone coming all over the back of them. I have occasionally been known to change into them before a guy comes round, so that when I let him in I can just lie on the bed and wait for his inevitable ‘mmmm…’
On first time pegging
I love a good first time. Not just first time sex, but the first time I do anything that’s fun: driving on the motorway, eating halloumi and wondering where it’s been all my life, swimming topless in the sea, etc. There’s a lot to love about that initial kick of novelty.
This post isn’t about my own first times, though, it’s about those of other people. Because, although I have only ever had one guy’s virginity (which was very willingly given), when it comes to anal sex I’ve taken a few more.
Not naturally dominant, strapping on a dick and holding a guy’s legs up to his chest while I fuck him is something of a nervewracking experience. What if I’m not the kind of awe-inspiring dick-wielder I dream of being? What if he decides he doesn’t like it, and his memory of me is forever tainted by the disappointment when his prostate didn’t thrill with joy? Well, via the medium of Three Stories About First Time Pegging, let’s see, shall we?
The enthusiastic
This section is an extract from my book – if you’ve read it just skip to the next subhead.
He lay on his back on the bed, naked from the waist down, and I could see how much he was looking forward to this. His cock stood straight up in the air, solid and thick and glistening at the tip. I pushed his knees up towards his shoulders, knelt on the bed between his splayed legs, then wet the tips of my fingers and traced them around and around the head of his cock.
‘Do you want me to fuck you?’
He nodded.
‘Tell me. Tell me you want me to fuck you.’
‘I want you to fuck me.’
‘Say please.’ I reached for the lube as he babbled, desperately.
‘Please fuck me. Oh please fuck me. I just want to feel you in me, I need to come.’
I had one hand on his dick while my other hand squeezed the best part of half a tube of lube onto my own.
Although it wasn’t something I’d fantasised about, something intangible about this situation made me tingle with arousal. There was no pain, no spanking. I wasn’t being submissive. I was just kneeling between the boy’s legs, pressing the tip of my fake dick right up against his ass, and yet something was giving me that lustful kick.
‘Touch your dick.’
He obeyed immediately. Quivering with lust and nervous about being fucked for the first time, he stroked himself slowly, not wanting to come before I’d had him. He was close enough to coming just from the anticipation of what we were doing, so when I slid first one then two fingers inside him he tensed up.
‘Ah, no, please.’
I stroked his prostate, very gently, and felt every muscle in his body tense as he tried not to come. I’d never been so powerful. ‘You’re going to come when I fuck you.’
‘Yeah.’ He nodded a few times, more a reflex twitch than a nod of agreement. He stared at me with wide eyes and bit his lip, as I used my lubed-up hand to guide my dick into him. He groaned.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Yes. But it’s good.’
‘How good?’ I tentatively slid it back out, then in again, a bit further this time. Another groan. A twitch.
‘Good.’
And I knelt up, put a hand on each of his raised knees, and pushed them backwards, opening him up and pushing him back, as I slid in and out of him. His face was tight in an expression of both pain and ecstasy, knit with concentration in an effort not to come. But I wanted him to come. I knew that the build up and the nervousness and the panic and the joy of being fucked in a whole new way would lead to an orgasm that shot from deep inside him, spraying mouthfuls of spunk over and across his whole body.
I fucked him harder, and I grabbed his dick, and it happened exactly as I’d hoped: he shot ropes of spunk that hit not just his chest and face but the wall beyond his head. He moaned and cried out, his stomach tensing as he did and he raised himself up slightly towards me. I felt a slight movement on my dick as his ass tensed with the impact of the orgasm, and his own cock jerked violently in my hand.
The disappointed
“It’s… ow. Fuck.” He furrowed his brow. “It’s harder than I thought it would be.”
I knelt over him, red straps at my waist and frustratingly unfeeling cock about an inch deep inside him.
“Perhaps a different angle?” I suggested, shifting slightly. I don’t know why I cared so much but I really wanted him to like it. After helping the first guy reach the kind of orgasm he’d never had before, I wanted this next guy’s reaction to be the same. A wide-eyed ‘oh God it hurts but please don’t stop’ building to a shuddering, twitching, frowning climax and spunk plastered liberally over the head of the bed.
“I’m not sure.” He twisted again, trying to get it in further at a different angle. I pushed it in.
“No. Fuck. Argh.” I pulled out. He clamped his legs together reflexively. “I don’t think I like it.”
I held his dick, massaging lube from the base to the head. He moaned softly, and his frown faded.
“Maybe we should try again?” I shook my head. The fucking itself was pretty hot – feeling the power of being above him, on top of him, controlling his pleasure with every inch of my fake cock. But that feeling only worked if there really was pleasure. I wanted to fuck him into that kick of joyful novelty, to give him something new and filthy, not to tease and encourage him into it the way you would persuade a fussy eater into broccoli.
I didn’t want his face to tell me ‘ow. I hate it. It hurts’ – I wanted ‘that’s it. More. Please.’ So I grabbed his dick with my hands and made that face happen instead.
The best response to first time pegging
You know what the best one is, right? The best is a guy that takes that enthusiasm – that desperate horny lust – and begs for more of it until I can fuck him with power and force and the kind of all-out brace-yourself energy that he’ll aim for when he’s fucking me.
And that’s exactly what happened.
With the third guy, I knew he’d been wanting it for a while. Playful conversations about me fucking him had led not to giggles or ‘maybe’s but to a very open, certain ‘yes please.’ A bold declaration that he knew this would be good. And it was.
He was blindfolded, strapped by the wrists and ankles to the bed frame. I’d lubed up his cock, with the aim of testing some new wanking sheaths and seeing if I could do the kind of teasing denial-play that he’d spectacularly fail at if he weren’t restrained. Lacking imagination, and basing most of my proactive sexual moves on the things that appeal to me, I thought he might enjoy being bound and filled to stretching point with cock.
I put a plug in him and instructed him to push down onto it. He squirmed, bucking slightly, enjoying exactly that ‘filled’ sensation while I put on a harness and cock. I unstrapped his ankles from the bed, lifting his legs up and back. I pulled the plug out and he moaned.
“Are you getting ready to fuck me?” No fear, no apprehension, just raw excitement.
“Yes. Do you want me to?”
“God yes.”
I slipped into him slowly. My memories of the second guy had made me cautious, wanting to give him time to adjust and relax as I fucked him with very slow strokes. Instead of wincing, however, he urged me on – more, harder, deeper. He shifted position, pulling his knees closer to his chest so I could get my dick further into him.
“Do you like that?”
He answered with a nod and a guttural moan, then twisted around to part his legs further. Nothing tentative about it – he wanted something no one else ever had: a first time pegging that was full-throttle. Power and speed rather than a gentle introduction. My hands gripping his hips and him bucking and writhing onto me. The full length of my fake dick and my lubed-up hands on his. The ache and pain and lust as I slammed it with force deep inside him: a first time pegging that felt like a practised fuck.
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