Tag Archives: porn
Guest – adult chain story: a trip to the woods
Remember those ‘Choose your own adventure’ books? Well, this guest blog is a bit like one of those, only it’s pornographic. And instead of turning to page 24 to decide what the characters should do with their shivering arousal, I’m throwing it open to you to write the next chapter of the story.
When Steve got in touch with me to share a hot story he was writing, the fact that it had a ‘to be continued’ ending opened up a whole bunch of possibilities. I had a fairly clear idea in my head of what I wanted to happen next, but it occurred to me that others might have equally strong, but completely different ideas.
So here’s the deal: read the filthy sex story below, have a think about what you’d like to happen next, and leave a comment at the bottom of the post telling us what you think should happen in the next chapter. The guest blogger and I will pick one of the suggestions, and pass the story on to you to continue. Then someone else will pick up where you leave off, and so on, until our characters have gone on a rollercoaster ride through different fetishes, perspectives, sexual experiences, and sticky fun. A kind of adult chain story. Sound good? Sweet. Read on…
A trip to the woods (part 1)
The car engine judders to a stop, the sudden absence of noise exacerbated by the stillness and quiet of the woodland where we’re now parked. We’d driven here so fast that the journey had seemed like a blur, buildings and trees flashing past as we sped out of the city and onto the country roads. We both knew why we were coming here, to this deserted clearing in the woods, so the sense of urgency and anticipation had been strong.
But now we’re here in this woodland clearing – no sign of another human being for miles around us. The woods are eerily quiet now that the throaty rumble of the engine had died away. There’s just the faint ‘tink, tink, tink’ of the car as the engine cools.
We step out of the car, blinking slightly in the bright sunlight. You turn the full force of your smile on me, a smile which has the power to quicken my pulse and start my brain racing. I lean back against the car door and take your hands in mine, pulling you close to me. I can feel the heat of your body through the thin, summer dress and there’s a mounting feeling of excitement as you look up at me with those big, soulful eyes.
I feel your hand slide down my body and come to rest on my belt buckle. You look deep into my eyes and give a look that says ‘shall I?’ but without uttering a single word. I give an almost imperceptible nod, and stroke the palm of my hand over your cheek, before kissing you on those full, tempting lips.
Your fingers fumble briefly with the belt, finding the fastening and pulling it free. Then you start to unbutton my flies, revealing the inviting bulge inside my boxer shorts. In the harsh sunlight, the light casts some appealing shadows across my boxers, outlining the shape of my cock, already swollen and hardening at the thought of your touch.
You softly brush your fingers over the contours of my hard dick and give a mischievous giggle as you feel me twitch. I slide my hand down so that it rests on top of yours and our fingers entwine, both gently stroking along the length of my cock through the boxers.
You lean in for another soft kiss. Then, very slowly, you bend your knees and squat down in front of me, your hands reaching for the waistband of the boxer shorts as I lean back against the cold metal of the car. You tug hard on the boxers and pull them down just enough for my cock to spring forth. The thought of your touch has worked its magic and the shaft is hard and engorged, ready to please or to be pleased.
You lean in even closer, so close that I can feel your warm breath on the tip of my cock. You look up at me, checking the reaction, as I stare down at you, desire written across my face. You place one solitary kiss on the tip, your lips soft and tender as you run them down the shaft towards my smooth, shaved balls. I feel the warmth of your fingers reaching up to caress my balls, and then your lips are around the tip, taking me into your hot, inviting mouth and making me tense my hands against the cool metal of the car door.
Your mouth feels so hot, your long hair brushing against my stomach and my naked balls as you delicately suck on me. I run my fingers through your hair as you slide your lips back up along the shaft and let the wet tip slide out from between your lips.
You stand up and lean in to kiss me, so I can taste my own cock in your mouth and feel the tip of your tongue gently exploring mine. Then you pull back and gesture that we should move to the back seat of the car. I take your hand and open the door, wondering what pleasures await us…
To be continued…
If you want to continue the story, drop a comment below with a brief explanation of what you want to happen next, ideally something that is both a) sexy and b) carries on the plot of the story. Where do these people go next? Do more people arrive? Is there a car chase or alien abduction? Whatever your imagination throws up.
Usual erotica/decency rules apply: nothing illegal, discriminatory, etc. If you want to be picked, you need to use a real email address (which won’t be published) so I can contact you to let you know the baton is being passed to you. There won’t be a deadline, though, and it’s not a test, so don’t be shy. And, of course, you’ll receive the same payment as all other guest blogs and (unless you’d rather remain anonymous) you’ll have the chance to plug your own blog/Twitter feed.
What would you like to happen next? Let us know.
What does ‘female gaze’ mean?
“Argh you’ve ruined porn for me.”
This is often how conversations begin in my house. After talking to the boy about traditional pornographic tropes, and the way some pornographers are challenging them by making ‘female gaze’ porn, he says he cannot see a traditional extreme porn close-up shot without thinking “oh, that’s very male gaze.”
Hence, I have ruined porn.
Thing is, I find it hard not to notice this stuff too. Having learned a bit about female gaze porn (and as most of what I’m learning about porn I’m learning from Pandora Blake, it’d be remiss of me not to link you to her excellent discussion of female gaze in art and pornography), I’m trying to work out exactly what it is that I like about certain scenes and films that utterly turns me off about others. It’s hard to explain exactly what ‘female gaze’ is in just a few words – the idea is that much of our art and entertainment uses a ‘male gaze’ perspective – in which women not so much ‘portrayed’ as ‘ogled’. ‘Female gaze’ on the other hand, tends to take a different approach – trying to use images and story that would work to tell a story either from a female perspective or to a female audience. In ‘female gaze’ porn, it often translates into wider shots, more dialogue, more rounded characters or a greater focus on female pleasure.
What interests me, though, is that while video porn is something that – although traditionally assumed to be a male product – is now being targeted at both genders, when it comes to written erotica, the vast majority of it is marketed solely at women.
Which is ridiculous, when you think about it. Porn is a genre of entertainment like anything else – open to different interpretations and nuance and style, each of which will appeal differently to different people. Like the difference between a traditional retelling of Shakespeare and a Baz Luhrmann film with guns and stabbings and car chases, what makes porn sexy for one person but shit for another often just comes down to how you tell the story.
Here are two stories. Which do you prefer?
Version 1: A story about fucking
Girl meets boy. She’s wet. Soaking wet so you can see the slickness dripping from her open cunt. She’s smiling, enjoying it. Cupping her own tits in her hands as she lies back on the bed. Open. Waiting. Eager.
He’s hard – his broad hands stroke his fat cock as he stands over her – taking in every inch of her silky, taut, nakedness. Her nipples are hard, and he teases them with his prick. Rubbing the end over them as she moans faintly. The wetness from the tip of his cock leaves a trail on her chest, and she runs a finger over it then licks it off. She smiles.
He moves down her body, touching each bit of her – squeezing her tits, pushing the palm of his hand onto her stomach, running his fingers down through her wet slit. She moans. Kneeling between her legs, he spreads her thighs wide, holding the tip of himself against the entrance of the hole he’s about to fuck.
“Please fuck me.” No pause, straight in. The request made and granted almost simultaneously. He plunges himself into her and she squeals, reaching down to grip his arse with her hands. He fucks her – swift strokes that make her tits jiggle and her breath quick. She gasps, moans, and looks down to see his thick cock pushing into her.
In. Out. Again. More. Harder.
She flips over, presenting her arse for him to fill. As he slides his cock in his big hands grip her, slapping her and leaving red imprints. She moans again, arches her back, pushes herself onto him as he gets closer to coming.
In. Out. Again. More. Harder.
And it’s there – he pulls out, his dick twitching and glistening with the juices from her cunt. He grips the base and – with measured strokes – rubs out arcing ropes of spunk. They splash over her – drops and pools of come all over her arse. A river drips down the crack of her arse, mixing with the wetness in her cunt. His dick twitches a few more times: a few more drops.
And they’re done.
Version 2: A story about fucking
Girl meets boy. She’s halfway between nervous and excited: watching him undress has her nipples feeling tight and cold, and her cunt aching to be touched. She pulls off her knickers and lies on the bed, all the better to take in the view as he pulls off his clothes. His dick’s hard already – thick and pronounced through his tight black shorts. He hooks both thumbs under the waistband and pulls them down – grinning as he watches her eyes grow wide.
She’s touching herself – she can’t help it. The sordid hotel room and the look of this guy and the excitement of knowing she’s doing something new. She’s squeezing herself – teasing her own nipples as she hopes he will soon – hinting that she needs him near her.
She wins. With his dick in his hand he approaches her on the bed, not bothering to hide his enthusiasm – she likes that. He’s stroking himself and wants to touch her – as he rubs the tip of his cock on her nipples she can’t help but let out a moan. No words as such, but they both know this is a ‘yes please’ moan – an ‘oh God do more’ moan. So he does it again, and she moans again, using a finger to trace the wet trail he’s left on her nipple, and licking it off. Revelling in the fact that she’s done this to him.
He moves down her body, touching every inch of her – making the most of what they both know will only happen once. He cups her tits in his hands and squeezes, the firmness and her moaning making his cock twitch and his stomach kick with excitement. His palms flat on her belly, his fingers trailing down to her cunt – he doesn’t know which of them is more excited. Which more aroused. It probably doesn’t matter: all either of them wants is the culmination of this night: the tipsy flirting, the hands-under-skirts under the table, the whispered ‘fuck me upstairs’ that she gave him in the lift. The ache he’d been carrying, semi-hard, in his trousers from that moment.
He’s kneeling between her open legs, savouring the look of need in her face, the way she arches her back ever so slightly to make it easier for him to enter her.
“Please, fuck me.” She begs, half-smiling half-frowning as she thrusts herself towards his dick. He does – long, hard strokes, filling her up and making her cry out with satisfaction. She shudders with the delicious feeling of fulfillment, and glances down to watch as he works his cock in and out of her.
In. Out. Again. More. Harder.
He’s close, he can feel it – deep in the pit of his stomach he can feel climax rushing through him. He should pause, he knows, and wait until she’s had more pleasure from him. But the sight of her face twisted into lustful satisfaction, and the sight of her tits jiggling up and down with each stroke it’s… close. It’s tricky. He wants so much to come but he wants to watch her for a bit longer, hear her cries of joy a few more times. Know that he’s doing this: he’s making her cunt twitch and her eyes light up and her nipples tingling and hard.
She flips over, and he takes a second to calm himself. He squeezes the base of his cock. Blinks once, twice, breathes deeply. She’s doing the same – breathing deeply. Reveling in the power she has to take his orgasm from him. She arches her back, pushing her arse out towards the tip of his cock. Groaning loudly as he enters her.
In. Out. Again. More. Harder.
He bites his lip as he comes – a last-ditch attempt to hold himself back and give himself more time. She grips the pillow with her hands, squeezing it as she’s squeezing him, wanting to milk every drop of enjoyment from this evening. He pulls out, gasping as he reaches the peak of his climax, shooting ropes of spunk over her – twitching from his dick and signalling the end he didn’t want to reach just yet.
She feels the jets of spunk hitting her arse – forceful, strong, and copious – and she aches with delight. She locks the feeling away in her head, as she’s locked the sounds of his grunting gasps and the sensation of his cock tracing the outline of her nipples.
While he’s wishing he’d had more time, she’s pulling up her knickers and wishing herself home. So she can relive her triumph alone.
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 celebrity crushes (part 2: crushing on porn performers)
Given my apparent inability to meet celebrity crushes and speak to them like a normal human being, I have made a quite concerted effort not to meet my heroes. At events where interesting science-minded people give talks that make me fall in love with their knowledge, I’ve usually steered clear of them at the post-talk drinks, run away if I see my friends with them, and all but hidden in the toilet if I bump into one.
On speed wanking
The average adult reads at 250 words per minute. That means that the average person will read this blog post in under three minutes. As you’re reading that online, most of you will naturally read faster than you would if you were reading print, potentially skimming through a few sections of text as you skip ahead to particularly fascinating subheadings.
Frantically rubbing my clitoris
As you read this post, I want you to imagine the stage you’d be at if you’d started masturbating at the beginning. During the first sentence you opened your fly, pulled down your pyjama bottoms, or lifted your skirt and yanked your knickers to one side – whatever best fits your own masturbatory routine.
By now you’re about ten to twenty seconds in. For some of you, you’ll be in the ‘early arousal’ stage – just starting to get wet, or hard, or tingly, perhaps licking your fingers or reaching for the lube to speed things along.
Others might get there a bit more quickly – you’ll have graduated beyond the initial fumblings and be furiously frigging yourself, making all the delicious slick-wet or dry-rub noises that you most associate with this pleasurable past time.
If you read at the average speed, we’re now about thirty to forty seconds in.
If you’re me, you will have come already.
Speed wanking, and why I’m a bit odd
As a child I was a big fan of the film Grease. Big songs, big hair, and John Travolta in a tight leather jacket – what’s not to love? Somewhere in that film there’s a line about sex taking “just fifteen minutes.” Because I was young and inexperienced, I took this not just as a casual joke but a cast iron biological fact with the result that, during my teenage years, I was beset with occasional bouts of intense worry. I thought that either:
a) I wasn’t doing wanking right, because it was taking me between 30 and 45 seconds to come, and that if I kept doing it for longer I’d experience a ‘proper’ orgasm. This didn’t work too well, because too much wanking post-orgasm caused me much sadness and occasional intense pain. So the only other possibility was that:
b) I was a biological anomaly, and when I eventually got into bed with a man he would scream and run as soon as the first waves of orgasm twitched around his totally normal, 15-minute-ready dick.
The grass is always greener in someone else’s pants
Now that I’m an adult, I’m pretty used to my personal body quirks, and although things naturally take me a bit longer when I’m shagging, as a general rule my wanking has remained pretty quick. Thirty seconds, give or take.
I don’t usually think about it but the other day I had a conversation with a guy in which he told me – in exquisitely growling and lustful detail – about evenings he spends treating himself to extended masturbation sessions. These are the opposite of 30-minute wanking sprints – they last from when he walks in the door after work to when he finally ejaculates at bedtime. Porn, more porn, toys, slow rubbing on the sofa, frantic bouts of near-orgasmic frotting, pausing just before he comes, breaks for coffee, cigarettes and phone calls. Everything you’d do if you had all the time in the world and nothing but your genitals to play with.
I’m sad that I can’t ever really enjoy the kind of extended sessions guys like him have told me about – edging for hours until they’re ready to spurt at the lightest touch, or calmly stroking themselves to a plateau of not-quite-coming as they enjoy a particularly horny video. But even when I try to do this I fail miserably. If I watch porn (which I do, although probably not as often as people who are conoisseurs of it) I’ll watch it for about five minutes, find a section that I really like, then immediately initiate the frenzied clit-rubbing that’s so speedy and loveless I can almost hear the Countdown theme tune in my head.
It’s not that I hate wanking and need it to be over as soon as possible, or even that I’m biologically incapable of drawing it out. I wonder if it’s because when I’m alone and horny, spending longer than is strictly necessary feels like a disgraceful and guilty indulgence. If it took me half an hour to come I’d feel that was half an hour well spent. But if it only takes 30 seconds, spending longer on it might seem a bit excessive. Like preparing a gourmet meal when I’m not hungry, or wearing high heels to do the gardening.
How long does it take you?
It’s a nice trick most of the time – I don’t know many people who could pop the kettle on then guarantee they’ll have frigged themselves to orgasm by the time the water’s boiled – I’m not complaining as such. I just wonder if I’m the only one. Perhaps I’m walking through a world where most people spend two to three hours a week on masturbatory self-care, in which case I’ll kick myself for being the overly-efficient robot who bashes them out in less than a minute, never stopping to truly enjoy the build up.
If you made it to the end in less than three minutes: congratulations on your reading speed. If you went back to the beginning and started wanking to see if you could finish before the last full-stop: well done, and I’m sorry it didn’t contain more filth. And if you managed to both read it and orgasm in less than 30 seconds, perhaps we should start a league.