Tag Archives: fun sex
On whether I’m good in bed
Being a sex blogger is great, because people assume that I’m fucking dynamite in bed. People sometimes email me dirty stories that I star in, and – I have to be honest – in these stories I am always good in bed. Occasionally I demonstrate a level of sexual prowess that would stun even the most avid pornography fan. They’d certainly surprise the fuck out of any guy unfortunate enough to have been at the receiving end of my incompetent humping.
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 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 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.
On number 16
Number 16 was a rare find – a genuinely good mate with whom I spent many a brilliant hour getting utterly pissed and chatting about anything and everything.
The first time we had sex was a complete accident – I don’t think either of us had entertained the notion until one night, after downing enough tequila to fell an elephant, we ended up snogging mid-karaoke in a dirty pub at 2 am.
Oh. We’re doing this, are we? OK.
That initial shag eventually led to a comfortable routine – beer, more beer, yet more beer and then a pissed stumble back to his flat where we’d swap stories of past sexual conquests, smoke an obscene number of fags, then undress each other and fuck like we were playing tennis.
I don’t want to describe a specific incident, but I would like to make an observation – number 16 made noises.
The sex itself was vanilla – frantic, hot, pissed and desperate. We’d both decide we’d had enough of drinking and went into his room to strip off. And while we were stripping he’d talk, and while he was cupping my tits in his hands he’d talk, and when we were fucking he’d talk. And it was so. Fucking. Good.
He spoke to me, he moaned, he said ‘oh yes’ when I did something nice. He sucked in big gulps of breath while I had his cock in my mouth. He sighed. He moaned a bit more. He went ‘ugh’ when he came.
Number 16 said things and talked dirty. He told me he was hard, that he loved how it felt when he was inside me. He told me how wet I was. He asked me if I liked it. He groaned and sighed and climaxed with vocal, lusty relief.
Good lord the world could do with more vocal boys. Vocal boys make me feel so good. I love the challenge of doing things to make them go ‘aaah’ and if I get that feedback I’m going to keep doing it again and again. If I could request anything from the gentlemen of this world it’d be to turn up the fucking volume.
You don’t have to shout it from the rooftops, you don’t have to scream and cry and wail like a mourning widow. But don’t lie there in silence, humping me stoically with a face of concentration like you’re solving a particularly difficult crossword puzzle. Come on boys – make some noise.
___
We’re still mates. He has a girlfriend now and is almost like a proper grown-up. They go on holiday and have dates and are serious with each other, and when we get together for beers he tells me about her and I’m pleased that he’s got the secure happiness which, let’s be frank, I can’t give to guys.
But I still look at him and want to tear him apart.
I see his sexy, filthy hands gripped round a pint glass and remember how he’d take his rings off before plunging his fingers into my cunt.
How he’d hold my hair back so he could watch me taking the length of his cock into my mouth.
How he’d squeeze my tits nice and hard, and tell me that I liked it.
I mostly remember the noisy sex – what he sounded like. What he’d say to me, how he’d moan and sigh. Best of all that wonderful, audible moment when he’d shudder and – with a muffled cry – come deep inside me so hard I could feel it.