Search Results for: lust
On knowing when to stop
As I write this I am bleeding quite heavily from the ass.
Bear with me – it’s challenging enough writing when your hands are shaking with shock, without having to turn anal fissures into something resembling a sex post. But I love a challenge.
As I’ve said before, I love buttsex. It hurts and is dirty and brilliant.
Boys with a desperate urge to fuck me somewhere painful hit my ‘oh holy fuck yes spot’ like nothing else.
Just the sound of a guy spitting on his cock, followed by the feeling of the head pushing nice and tight up against my ass gives me a powerful kick-in-the-gut of lust.
“Roll over and put your face in the pillow. I don’t want the neighbours to hear you crying.”
And the main reason I like it is because I don’t really like it. I like that he wants to do it. I’d be happy never having an orgasm again if I knew I could be used by all the men I love, in all the ways they’d love to use me.
“Bite down on this, because I’m going to fuck you somewhere it really hurts.”
Turning it down
And I can’t say no. I can’t. I can pull away if it really hurts, and I can say “please use more lube” and I can say “I can’t, I can’t, please” but I’m always a tiny bit sad if I have to make the sexy things stop.
If he carries on I’m in pain and if he pulls away I’m disappointed. The only solution in these situations is to cover his dick with lube, smear it all over, fill my ass with it and hope I don’t scream loud enough to scare the cat.
Preventing injury
If you have similar issues, there are lots of things you can do to prevent buttsex injuries.
But there’s nothing you can do to stop the very real problem – being a complete moron.
Because yesterday, as I buried my face in the pillow and raged silent screams into this one boy’s bedlinen, all I wanted was for him to keep fucking me. To force his dick harder into me. To spit on it more, grip my hips in his beautiful big hands, and pull me back onto his thick cock with quick, hard strokes.
I wanted him to keep doing it, and doing it, and doing it. To call me a filthy girl and tell me I’d take it even though it hurt, and tell me I was good, and it’d be over soon.
And as he panted and grunted and shoved himself harder into me, it didn’t hurt nearly as much as the pain in the pit of my stomach, the pain that I’ll feel until he comes. I won’t be complete until I’ve heard him moaning and panting for the last few thrusts, while his cock is twitching and pumping spunk deep down inside me. That pain hurts far more than my ass hurts while he’s fucking it.
Who’s to blame?
Oh, society, why do you make me do these sexy things?
I’m joking – it is very loudly and clearly my fault. Just as the smoking is my fault, and the excessive drinking, and that one time at the age of nineteen when I discovered what coffee was, drank 18 cups in one day, then blacked out in a car park.
As in the rest of my life, the injuries I sustain at the hands of whatever ridiculous pervery is floating my boat this week are all self-inflicted. And I know this. And I know that sometimes it’s bad for me. But at the time I’d no more tell someone to stop than I’d turn down a cheque for a million quid.
But somewhere in the pit of my still-quite-queasy stomach, I have a feeling that I should stop. Not just on the one or two occasions where I’ve caused myself actual damage, but permanently. Perhaps, just as I should pack in the cigarettes I so idiotically enjoy, I should also stop fucking in a way that hurts me. Maybe I should learn when to say no. Maybe I should turn in early, sober and alone, with a good book that won’t make me wank before bedtime.
But it doesn’t really work like that, does it? There’s only so much sobriety and calm and reason one person can take. I like to think that the filthy fucking is a trade-off for the things that I haven’t done – properly experimented with class-A drugs, or been in a real-life fight. When I’m actually injured and bruised and broken I am miserable at myself for having no self-control. But I think I’d be far more miserable if I didn’t do any of this stuff at all.
So the answer can’t be to stop it all completely – I’d be sad and alone and miss out on the most fun I ever have without spending any money. I’d miss pushing the boundaries and scaring myself and the brilliant minute just after I’ve done something truly horrible when I turn to a boy and he grins and says “fuck, that was filthy. Let’s do it again.”
Disclaimer: This entry is being published a while after it was written, to preserve the anonymity of the boy in question, and prevent him from being so horrified that he never fucks me in the ass ever again. So thank you for you concern, I am completely fine now and no longer bleeding from the ass.
Wanking on the train: I can’t be the only one…
One of the most difficult fears to overcome is the fear of being weird. That’s partly why I write this stuff – I want people to read it and say “Oh, she does that as well. Perhaps I’m not abnormal after all.” But far greater than that is my need for people to tell me that it’s OK. That I’m not odd. That they do this sometimes too. And by ‘this’ I mean ‘wanking on the train.’
On number 20, who liked to watch women wank
Initially I thought number 20 was a massive liar. I only saw him once, but he was great – beautifully scruffy, with a lopsided smile and a penchant for getting so stoned I could feel the high through his tingling skin. It was good, for a first date. But I still thought he was a liar.
On number 2
Update 2024: there are some problematic concepts in here, such as the idea of virginity, but fuck it I wrote it when I was over a decade younger and more ignorant than I am now. Adding this note when I add the audio – here’s more about the concept of virginity. Otherwise just enjoy this as porn.
God I loved number 2. Brash, funny, intelligent, and – to my unfading delight – a virgin.
We were frustrated friends. I had a boyfriend, and he’d never had anyone. We’d joke, and play, write filthy notes during English lessons, and brush up against each other on the bus. When we hugged I quivered at the feeling of his thick, satisfying erection pushing against my hips.
I wanted him so badly I utterly ached. We’d sleep at friends’ houses at parties, me lying next to him panting with longing, while he slowly ran his fingers over my nipples. He never tired of the feel of them – the miracle of keeping me on a knife-edge of desire for so long. By the early hours when we finally managed to sleep, my nipples would be red-raw and throbbing with pain.
One night, in bed with a few others asleep beside us, he got brave enough to inch his hand lower. Tentatively, he slipped it down into my knickers. I was slick with frustrated desire – wet as only an 18 year old girl can get. He was trembling with lust, and fear, and guilt. He was so hard I worried I’d hurt him if I squeezed his dick with any kind of vigour.
When his hand reached my cunt and he realised how wet I was he couldn’t keep silent – he moaned.
Just remembering number 2’s surprised, lustful moan is one of my hottest memories.
Taking his virginity
After hearing his stifled cry, I couldn’t leave without doing something. At that point I’d have traded my money, my youth, even my as-yet-unfinished A-levels just to have him in me.
I whispered to him, grabbed his hand. We left our friends sleeping and scurried into an empty bedroom.
We fell onto the bed – me in a panting, aching heap and he in a trembling, terrified one. I kissed him, I told him I wanted him. I fluttered my eyelashes and begged him to fuck me.
He couldn’t fuck me.
He was so scared that he couldn’t get hard. I sucked him gently, I told him he was hot, I told him I was desperate for it, and eventually I got him just hard enough to roll on a condom and try. I climbed on top of him, slipped him into me, and sat down slowly on his semi-hard cock. But it was clear that it just wasn’t happening.
He’d lost his virginity – just. But he’d mislaid a fair portion of his dignity, too, and it broke my heart to think that instead of remembering me with a gleeful nostalgia, he’d look back on the whole thing with shame.
Taking his virginity far more successfully
A couple of weeks later, at his house, he was relaxed. Not calm, as such – his cock was straining at the fabric of his jeans – but he was much readier to fuck.
“What do I do?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Can I do this?”
“Yes. Please.”
“What if I’m crap?”
“You’re not.”
He rubbed himself frantically against me, touching wherever he thought he was allowed. I pulled up my top, unhooked my bra, guided him. I wanted to show him he wasn’t just allowed – he was needed – I needed him to touch me, to fuck me. I needed him inside me, to quell the aching hurt in my cunt. He didn’t need to make me come, he just needed to be in me, to give me some release.
He panted, and moaned, and struggled to take off his jeans – his hands shook with lust and he moaned with frustration. I helped him get them off, wrapped my legs around him, and held myself up – nice and wide and easy so he could slide himself in.
With his hands each side of my head he pushed his cock into me – deep and rock hard. Hard like I longed for. Hard enough that I felt it stretch me out, open me up – scratch the itch that he’d created during those long nights of furtively stroking my nipples. The itch he’d created with that anguished desperate moan.
As he fucked me he looked surprised, confused and delighted. I was relieved to be rid of the throbbing, aching need to fuck. I grinned, forced myself up – thrust angrily against him so he could feel every movement. As he sped up he let out a strangled cry – “Oh” – so I squeezed him with my cunt and my thighs as I felt him come hard inside me.
It was possibly the best five seconds of my entire fucking life.
Spit: all the ways I love using spit during fucking
We all like this, right? Saliva? It’s nature’s lube. It occurred to me this morning, as I was giving a boy a sayonara blow job before I ran off home, that it’s not just good because it makes things wet – it’s the sound of it, too. And the look and the sensation and – oh, everything. I fucking love spit.