Tag Archives: stories
Someone else’s story: sexual anticipation
You know how sometimes something’s so good you can’t keep it to yourself? When you’ve done something utterly disgusting and you just have to tell someone?
I’ve annoyed/amused my best friend no end by occasionally texting him to let him know whether I got laid and how I got on. And once, in a rather misjudged boast, I told him that the morning after I stayed at his house, I’d sat cunt-first on one of the bedposts in his spare bedroom while a boy I was with tried to fuck me in the arse.
Don’t give me that look – I wiped the bedpost down afterwards.
Well, the point I’m tortuously getting to is that sometimes girls send me these stories. About what they’ve done, about what they want to do and (in the case of the lady in this post) what they’ll be doing soon.
I enjoy these stories almost as much as I enjoy the cock pictures. At my request, and posted with her permission, I hope you enjoy the following story too…
Guest: anticipation
I have pictured this for so long. How decorous we will be in public then, as soon as we are in the hotel room, you push me up against the wall. You kiss me fiercely, one hand clutching my breast, the other slides up my thigh, under my skirt, two fingers push inside my pants, inside me and finger fuck me to oblivion.
Or maybe you’ll put a finger on my lips, tell me to be quiet, to kneel, you’ll make me wait as you slowly undo your belt – I will be gasping for you, my mouth dropping open, expectant.
Or maybe we’ll fall on the bed, ripping clothes as we struggle to join.
I want to feel your hips buck under me, your cock pulse inside me. All I know for sure is that first time we will still be clothed, our joint impatience predicts it. Then afterwards we peel each other down to the skin and really start to explore.
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 my sexy Christmas wish: a casual gang bang
A while ago I asked people for their sexy Christmas wishes. What sexual favours did they want for Christmas? Things they wouldn’t normally get but would normally get wet for. Only one person replied, which I can only assume means you’re either all prudes or you’re all already so sexually satisfied that nothing short of a jizzbomb to the face would satisfy your devious ends.
On number 9
“She fancies you.”
“No she doesn’t.”
“She does.”
“She definitely doesn’t.”
“You should fuck her.”
“But I’m not even bi.”
“But you fancy her.”
“…”
“Fuck her.”
On number 22
Sometimes sex is serious, and intimate, and meaningful. It’s passionate and intense and every shudder and pant and drip of sweat makes you fall that bit more in love with them, even if you’ve forgotten their name.
That was not how it was with 22. He was glorious and fun, although I’m going to refrain from the word ‘childlike’ – I don’t want to be put on a register.
22 was a cutie, and fucking him was a burst of unexpected joy. Like walking home through the park at midnight, and treating yourself to a cheeky go on the swings.
It was his birthday, and I didn’t know him that well but the birthday was a great way in. We were with friends who were preoccupied with drinking and having fun
“Do you fancy a birthday shag?” He looked more surprised than he should have been, but nodded. I grabbed his hand and dragged him into the lifts up to my room. Awkward chat ensued, as both of us realised that we didn’t have much to say to each other, or any idea what the other one would find sexy.
I’d done the equivalent of rocking up at his house, asking if he could come out to play, then realising I had no idea what he liked playing, or if he even had a BMX.
Luckily, he was fine with that – he just wanted to play, and was happy to do it without an awkward preamble or time-consuming seduction. He started unbuckling his belt as we got in through the door, and once it was closed he pushed me backwards onto the bed and started tearing at me. He was far more beautiful than I’d expected – the sort of muscles that make me suck my own stomach in and realise I don’t deserve this.
He kissed like a 16-year-old, and got excited each time we changed up. Everything we did was like him unwrapping another layer of a pass-the-parcel – his eyes lit up, he grinned, and tore back in. Sex with 22 was like playing in the park, and being rewarded with sweets when I got up enough speed on the roundabout.
He was enthusiastic in a way that’s pretty rare, and daring in a way that more men definitely should be. He pulled my hair and whispered things, and let me lick his armpits and squeeze the base of his cock to feel how hard he was before he put a condom on.
And when I was done, and tired, and ready to rejoin the party, he let me take him deep in my mouth, and he pushed my head down so my lips were right at the base of his cock while he twitched, and shuddered, and came into the back of my throat.
We only ever did it once.