Search Results for: lust
On nice surprises
Role play, like having a threesome, is incredibly tricky to do in a way that keeps everyone happy. Whether you’re a fireman, sex slave or naughty schoolgirl you’ll always have a certain idea in your head of how the scene will play out, and your partner(s) will have their own ideas. Very rarely does everything combine perfectly, meaning that there are often surprises.
Usually I rage against surprises – I have very specific fantasies, and the best sex is usually that which comes closest to the things I imagine when I’m alone at home with my knickers halfway down my thighs, scratching an itch I’ve been thinking about since a very specific scene popped into my head. But sometimes surprises can be good – things I’d never have considered doing or imagined could be hot. The right kind of person can show me things I’d never have wanted to do in a way that makes me achingly desperate to do them.
Surprises
It started exactly as I’d imagined it would. They came to the bedroom – a boy and a girl – and accosted me, berated me, called me a bad girl. They bent me over the side of the bed – she beat me with a leather strap, while he held me down, pushing my face into the bedclothes so I wouldn’t scream too loudly.
They took me downstairs into the lounge, where they had an array of equipment laid out – straps, whips, floggers, and (shudder) canes. They took it in turns to punish me – one lifting my skirt and pulling my knickers down while the other held my head in their arms and crooned words of comfort.
Slap
You’re a good girl. You like this, don’t you?
Slap
Don’t you?
Yes.
Slap
They stripped me and examined me, touching me all over, and hitting the parts that were softest.
Slap
And I loved it. I felt her hands all over me, and I saw his cock throbbing and pushing against the tightness of his trousers. I was wet and burning with pain, and desperate for him to fuck me. For her to fuck me – for someone, anyone, to push something solid into me and let me clench my cunt around it as I came.
They dragged me back upstairs to the bedroom, and I thought I’d get what I wanted.
‘Please. Please fuck me.’
He slapped me in the face and told me no. And she giggled with laughter that genuinely scared me. She was dominant and cruel, but did everything with a twinkle in her eye. She did things not because she was playing a game, but because she liked doing them. She liked scaring me with stinging cane-strokes that were just a bit too hard. She liked to show me that being submissive wasn’t just about taking pain that felt good. She’d beat me into a trembling pile of arousal and fear. She was, in short, spectacular.
‘Please fuck me?’
‘No.’ Said with conviction and more than a hint of cruel delight.
‘We’re not going to fuck you. Lie face down on the bed and pull your knickers down.
‘I’m going to give you an enema.’
I didn’t believe her. I didn’t really even know why an enema was supposed to be hot. I was horrified and humiliated and horny and confused, but that didn’t prevent me from being desperately curious. So I did as I was told. I lay face down on the bed, pulled down my knickers, and she gave me an enema.
I’ve never been so disgusted with myself and so aroused at the same time. When she’d filled my ass with water, she told me to stand in the corner of the room with my hands on my head. My legs shook and my stomach turned over and I counted down the agonising minutes while the two of them chatted. They discussed me, they dissected me, they contemplated beating me again. They appraised my tits, my arse, my thighs, the fresh, stinging whip marks across my buttocks and my back.
And I waited, and waited, and waited until I thought I was going to faint.
When they finally gave me permission to go I could barely walk. The stress of keeping everything in, holding myself straight and tight and still for what can’t have been more than five minutes, made it hard for me to move and gave me an agonising throb deep in my stomach that told me I needed to come.
When I finally made it to the bathroom, I sat in shame and miserable unsated lust, listening to her giggling outside the door.
On cognitive dissonance, hypocrisy and tits
There are few things that make me want to rub one out more than a seriously lovely pair of tits. Firm, perky tits trapped in something really tight – a corset, a low-cut t-shirt, or occasionally just squished together with a belt or a length of rope.
I was casually perusing the internet recently when I came across a fantastic example of this – a woman with beautiful, hard tits wearing a top stretched tightly over them, with a hand-sized peephole in the middle displaying cleavage, and a rise in the top beneath so you could see the curve of the underside of them. Stunning.
Naturally, I immediately pulled down my jeans and rubbed quick one out – imagining a guy pushing the end of his dick against her chest and wanking until he spurted thick spunk through the hole in her top.
Hypocrisy and self-disgust
Immediately afterwards I felt pathetic and amoral. Not for wanking – if I felt bad for wanking I’d have lost the will to live before I hit my fourteenth birthday. No, I felt pathetic because the picture was:
a) not of a real woman, but of a video game character
b) being used to illustrate an article about the objectification of women in video games.
Not only did I crack one off to an article that explicitly frowned upon crack-offable video game characters, but I subsequently read the article and agreed with it.
Some video game design is shockingly objectifying, and borderline offensive. The women are usually inhumanly pert-breasted, unnaturally slim waisted and wearing clothes that are deeply impractical for fighting. Even the moves seem designed to draw attention to whichever feminine features are expected to most excite teenaged boys. Those who learn the right Dead or Alive moves will be rewarded with a flash of Kasumi’s panties, or a hypersexual throw in which she leaps, cunt-first, at her opponent’s face, squeezing her muscular thighs around their cheeks before hurling them to the ground.
On an intellectual level it disgusts me. But on the very basic, primal level at which I operate when I’m at home in my knickers, it makes me wet. Playing video games against women with massive, hard, well-framed tits leaves me panting and desperate to be touched. I see Ayane’s tits jiggling and I want boys to touch mine. I see her being hurled to the ground and I want to be hurled to the ground. I imagine that after a fight her opponent takes her into the woods, and she stares in awe at him with her impossibly-wide manga eyes as he triumphantly seals his victory by fucking her in the mouth.
Just show me your tits
It works no matter which role I’m in. Whether I’m playing as a male character or a female one. Playing Xbox with a boy today, in between bouts of screaming “die, DIE, eat my fucking AXE, you cuntbag” I was imagining my male character pinning his girl to the floor, and taking her with quick, rough, angry thrusts. Ripping her clinging top from her jiggling tits and spraying jizz all over them.
But although I’ll revel in it at the time – trash talk my opponent and encourage him to join me in my questionable perving (“Look, kiddo – I can see your fucking panties. When I’ve beaten you we’ll watch the replay together so you can imagine me tearing your top open“) – I know it’s wrong. It’s not bad to look at tits, but it is bad to appreciate these particular tits, which have been put there by designers with teenaged boys and quick sales in mind. The game’s been drawn so that – in between beating monsters and stabbing slick-haired sword-wielding princes – players will be imagining the characters fucking.
I don’t know what my conclusion is here – I want there to be something that will square the circle, and explain away my vague sense of self-disgust. I want an excuse for wanking to material that morally I should condemn.
But I’ve got nothing. So I suppose this is a bit of a plea – tell me what the answer is. I figured if anyone would know about masturbating to pixellated images of tits it’d be the friendly hordes of the internet.
So, people – is this OK, or is it reprehensible for a feminist? Should I carry on, safe in the knowledge that no kittens will die in the making of my tragic wanks? Or should I pull up my knickers and grow the fuck up? If you can think of a way I can fight to end female objectification while simultaneously pressing buttons to make tits jiggle, I’d be ever so grateful. I don’t have a penny for your thoughts, but I can start by offering you this picture.
On number 24
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.
On bad things my mind does when it’s unoccupied
Suffering from painful and embarrassing writer’s block, I set to Twitter to ask people what they wanted to read. Rather unsurprisingly, the answer was ‘porn’. But some people specifically requested a fantasy. A wise choice – there’s only so much of my own sordid sexual experience that anyone can take. So for only the second time in however-long-I’ve-been-doing-this, here’s an untrue story.
On 50 Shades of Grey, and other people’s porn
As a purveyor of dirty blog porn, I have an inherent bias towards masturbatory material that involves words instead of pictures. Bottom line: I want more people to read more porn.