“I fucking nailed it. I am awesome.”

You are awesome. And something about the way you carry that confidence is beyond sexy. When you’ve nailed something you’re proud of and you carry yourself with a certain kind of swagger… unngh.

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A while ago I was on the tube and I could barely look away from a couple who were… well, there’s no better way to put it: frotting. Not just gentle, subtle touches and rubs – enthusiastic, tongues-in-mouths, full-sex-but-with-clothes-on. I’m a big fan of public affection, but this probably went a tad further than I’d applaud, given that kids could have entered the carriage at any moment, but nevertheless the sheer casual lust was an amazing thing to see.

Because trains tend to make me horny, I associate public transport with some of the hottest moments of my life. I sincerely hope that both the people in this couple remember their tube journey for a long, long time. If nothing else, it’ll make up for all the stares and tuts they had to endure from frowning tourists on their horny journey. I hope they got home and tore each other’s clothes off with a desperate passion, and had wild sex in the middle of the hallway, then made cups of tea for each other and blushed with the knowledge that everyone on the Central line knew that was exactly what they were going to do.

Although there are clearly some things which are beyond the bounds of most people’s tastes, and acts which you’d never want to do when kids might hop on at the next stop, it made me wonder just what the cut off point was for ‘OK, you’re just horny’ to ‘I’m going to have to throw you off the train now, madam.’ A kiss is surely fine. A touch barely noticeable. A hand slipped up a jumper or under the hem of a skirt? Sure. A hand down top, squeezing nipple perhaps less so. And surely a hand job on the train is – if not illegal – then certainly contravening a number of railway byelaws.

So in honour of the frotting Central line lovebirds, here are some 100% made up stories about things that I have absolutely never done on public transport.

Getting horny on the night bus

It’s… how late? About 3:30 am I think. The night bus rolls with the weight of the drunks and the disgusted-at-drunks. He’s sitting beside me and I can’t stop touching him. I’m not a millionaire, and Zone One living is laughably out of reach, so you can guarantee that if we hop on a night bus in central London it’ll be a hell of a long ride home.

He smells perfect. Like sex and whiskey, with a hint of the warmth of whatever deodorant he wears, the remnants evaporating from him as I bury my lolling, drunken head into his shoulder.

His bag is on his lap.

I run my hand up to the top of his thigh and he leans in to me, inhaling the smell of my hair, and no doubt the remnants of my own boozy night as well. His dick gets harder – pressing strongly against the crotch of his jeans. He shifts his bag to cover things, as I unzip him and reach inside.

Touching on the train

The train is almost empty. One or two seats occupied at the other end of the carriage, but around us there’s silence. The sleepy, lazy arousal caused by hours of sitting next to each other on a plane – wanting to touch but too close to others for comfort.

I bury my head in his shoulder, pretending to be asleep. He watches the door at the end of the carriage for a guard. Whispers things in my ear. Things that start with a fantasy about exhibitionist fucking, and end with my favourite words:

“…touch me.”

And I do. With my jacket draped over his lap I can run my hand over him. Slowly. Shifting gently. Gripping him tight through the fabric of his jeans and feeling his cock pulse under my palm.

“Is anyone looking?” I whisper. I feel him shake his head. Swallow. That gulp of nervous lust that wants me to do it. To touch him. To run the tips of my fingers around the head of his dick. I unzip him and reach inside.

Fucking on the coach

Again, sleepy. Drunk. Horny. Could keep my hands off him if I had the inclination or willpower, but I don’t. With his big arm around my shoulders, I press myself into the warmth of his chest. I can feel his heart beating, and hear his breath catch as I cup his crotch.

I squeeze gently – just cannot get enough of that throbbing, growing sensation as his dick twitches, hard in my hand. There’s no one else at the back of the coach: it’s quiet. The lights are off – the driver kindly letting us sit in darkness to more fully appreciate the bright lights of the M4.

I squeeze harder. He swallows. His breath catches again. He lays my coat out on his lap – an invitation to do exactly what I want: unzip and reach inside.

I yawn. Feigning tiredness for an audience that’s not there, and wouldn’t care even if it were. I lie my head on his lap, put the coat over me, making a tent to hide what I’m about to do.

I unzip.

I take the head of his dick in my mouth, and I lick him slowly. I can feel him tense as I do – bracing his feet against the foot rests, grabbing a handful of my clothing to steady himself. My head rests awkwardly on his stomach as I take him in. All soft wet lips and no momentum – no pressure. I can’t make him come, I know I can’t. He’ll need more: speed, rhythm, the clench of the back of my throat around the tip as I swallow every inch of him. But it can’t happen here – there’s too much danger. People at the front of the coach who might hear rustling.

So I lick. Gently. I let wetness dribble from my lips right down the shaft of his cock and I rub it softly with my fingers. He holds his breath. Pushes back against me – ever so slowly. That desire to slide more in, that physical whimper of need. A twitch that says ‘pleasepleaseplease.’

With a silent request that’s so deliciously desperate, how could I possibly not? One quick shift, as if I’m sleeping lightly, and the rustle of my jacket covers the change in position.

I slide further down onto him, until I can feel his swollen cock blocking the back of my throat. I hold my breath and stay there, still, as he shifts his hips slightly to push it more firmly into me – his favourite part. The only thing that’ll bring him to the edge. I can feel him trembling with a desperation to make some noise – any noise that will encourage me to keep going. I imagine the cries in his head: “please please don’t stop. Harder, more, deeper. Please.”

But we’re on a coach, and there are people at the front, and I don’t want to rustle so I take things slowly. Wet lips, slow movements, running my tongue around the head, and occasionally – very occasionally – swallowing the full length of his dick and causing those deliciously tense, silent whimpers.

The streetlights flash past the windows, and we cover nearly sixty miles. Finally – as the coach turns from the motorway and onto the crowded streets of London, he grabs the back of my hair and gives it one final push. Dumping hot squirts of come into the back of my throat, and giving me shivers of aching arousal.

I hold it in my mouth for a while. Just a few more seconds, savouring the illicit taste of that awesome fuck. Then, reluctantly, I pretend to wake up.

 

This post is also available as audio porn. Click ‘listen here’ above or visit the audio porn page for more sexy stories read aloud. 

The clinking sound of metal-on-metal gets me horny now. Ever since we got a spreader bar (far later in my life than I’d have expected to, given my intense delight in anything restraint-based). I rarely see him get it out, because before he does he’ll make a specific order:

“Bend over and close your eyes.” or “Lie face down on the bed.” or “Face the fucking wall.”

And I stand, trembling, waiting for him to lock my ankles in the stocks, and put me in an off-balance position.

I used to think that the point of spreader bars was to keep my legs open: giving easy access and a view that makes him hard. A display that’s a cross between arousing and humiliating for me: open and ready for him to touch, to stare at, to fuck. But it’s more than that: it’s not just about access but control.

With my legs spread wide by the bar and my wrists cuffed to it, every muscle in my legs and back is tense with the effort of staying balanced. Sometimes I’m on the bed, crouched with my face buried in the bedsheets and my back arched in a way I could never hold on my own, arms stretched beneath me reaching down to the bar. Twisted in a way that highlights my discomfort, and helps me embrace the shivering relief of pleasure as he fucks me with quick, long strokes.

Sometimes, though, I’m standing up – wobbling on uncertain tiptoes, relying on him to hold me still – hold me stable – while he fucks me.

There’s something about being slightly off-balance.

Strength, power, and spreader bar throatfucking

I’d like to say that I don’t care if he can fuck me with power and strength: that a gentle shag is as fun as an angry one. But I’d be lying. I like feeling weak and small and vulnerable. Trembling and wobbling and knowing that the only reason I’m upright is that he’s got a fistful of my hair.

He pulls my head back and forth. Quickly at first. Getting the full, satisfying length of his cock in my throat. Down right to the base so I choke, holding me there for exactly as long as I trust him to, then pulling me back. With my wrists and ankles restrained I can’t move away. I must stay until my eyes water and he deigns to pull me back – spluttering and drooling and covering him in wet spit.

Then more slowly. Holding me at the right position so I can just wet the tip. Licking around the head. Hair straining against his hand and the backs of my knees starting to wobble. And as they start to go he pushes me back down, until my face is buried in his crotch and he’s throatfucking me with care and precision.  The back of my throat contracting against him as he calls me a good girl.

I feel more solid on my feet, but it’s harder to breathe: a trade-off that he has the power to balance perfectly. He switches me between fast and slow – trembling and choking, secure and nervous. Happy and happier.

When he starts to fuck me, the tremble sets in again. I want to grip my ankles, or lift my hands to hold onto something: the bed, the wall – anything. But each stroke of him fucking me makes me tremble harder, feeling like I’m teetering on the brink of collapse. Muscles tense, cunt tightening, knees twitching and about to crumble.

He likes the twitching, I think. He can feel my muscles tense as he grips me, and he can feel me pushing back to take him further inside me – part satisfaction and part safety: the harder I push back the easier it is to stay stable. I think he likes the clinking sound of metal-on-metal too – it means my hands are still cuffed to the spreader bar, and the rapid tinkling as my ankles wobble and my legs start to really shake means I’m close enough to coming that he can speed up to bring himself there. Fuck me harder, faster. The swift, angry strokes that give me both release and permission. I can come because I know he’s about to. The twitching climax as I come on his cock brings him to a harder orgasm.

He grips my hips to keep me upright as he empties himself inside me.

He keeps his hands on me even after he’s done – maintaining balance, unlocking me from the spreader bar, and letting me gently down onto the bed, or the floor. I can feel his spunk dripping down the inside of my thighs, and his big hands on my hips and wrists and ankles. Perfectly balanced, and strong enough to keep me from falling.

 

This post is also available as audio porn. Click ‘listen here’ above or head to the audio porn page to find more sexy stories read aloud. 

You know how sometimes a particular smell evokes a really specific memory? Hot days smelling like childhood holidays, Baileys smelling like Christmas or – if you want to be less saccharine and cheesy about the whole thing – dick that smells exactly the way your ex used to?

I have a style of skirt that reminds me of my first spanking. No, really. It was grey, and patchwork – silk and corduroy and cotton and linen all sewn together in a rough pattern, draped perfectly over my hips and arse. It was one of the best items of clothing I’ve ever owned, and I can’t work out if that was because it sat just right on my bum, tight enough to cling so I could feel it when I walked, but loose enough that the material would billow out around my thighs when I walked somewhere, or if it was the best because it reminded me of spanking.

The first spanking

I’d been slapped before – occasional smacks on the bum as I walked naked to the bathroom. Boys who’d slap it when we were flirting after school, or boyfriends who’d give it a whack when they ironically ordered me to the kitchen for beer. But I’d never before had a proper spanking.

I arrived at his house at the usual time – what we’d have called ‘after work’ because we were students, but something far closer to 3pm. I’d been away for a week or so and I couldn’t wait to see him. This guy. This dream-come-true. This person I jokingly called The One when he was out of earshot.

He didn’t think much of me back then. We were mates who fucked, but while we were both equally enthusiastic about the fucking, I suspected there was a serious imbalance on the ‘mates’ front. He was my best and my almost-only – the one I’d seek out and chase and invite to every occasion. I was the one he ditched when something more interesting came along.

Still, we were pretty happy, not least because each time one of us came up with something new to do with each other’s genitals it would be greeted with an enthusiastic and husky ‘fuck yeah.’

When I came in he gave me a brief hug. We did some small talk. He told me to bend over a chair and flip up my patchwork skirt.

He could almost certainly feel the wetness through my knickers. He ran his hand over me quickly – not savouring the feel of my cunt through the fabric, just planning where his first slap would fall. He pulled down my knickers and settled for my left cheek.

Smack.

Firm, stinging, perfect. I yelped.

He adjusted my skirt, hitching it higher to stop the hem falling back down over my thighs. I was bent almost double over the chair – the wooden back digging into my stomach, hands gripping the front legs to try and keep my balance.

Smack.

He was testing us both. Trying something that neither of us had done with this level of seriousness. Playful slaps turned to full-on, powerful blows and I made enough of a racket that he asked me to sssh. His housemates weren’t in but that didn’t mean the neighbours weren’t.

Smack.

I imagined him rolling up his sleeves.

Smack.

One stroke fell slightly left of its mark, half of it catching me in the crotch where I was wet and sensitive and raw.

Smack.

This time right in the middle of the cheek. Satisfyingly thuddy and good enough to make me wriggle.

Smack.

Enough of this now.

Smack.

I said ‘enough.’ I said ‘I really need you to fuck me.’

Smack.

He held me firm – one hand on the crumpled skirt pulled up to the small of my back.

Smack.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes. I like it. But I need you to fuck me.’

He paused for a while, and I could almost hear his indecision. Feel the stiffness of his cock pushing through his jeans and against my hip as he took a step to stand beside me. He ground his dick into me and my legs started to tremble. I asked again. ‘Please fuck me.’ Note the ‘please’. I asked nicely. I choked out the ‘please’ like if he didn’t fuck me, I’d cry. To be fair, I would have.

He told me I’d get six more slaps and that I’d have to count them. And he said they’d be hard enough to sting his hand.

After he’d delivered the spanking, I was a mess of arousal and emotions and red, raw pain. I pulled down my knickers as quickly as I could and pulled him into me, feeling his dick fill me up seemed to push the pain away. With each stroke I twitched and tensed the muscles in my legs, worried that I’d knock the chair over.

As he fucked the frustration out of me, and came hard into my aching cunt, his hands gripped the patchwork skirt around my waist, pulling my sore arse back to the base of his cock, to get the most pleasure possible with each angry stroke.

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Listen up, people! I have googled around a bit and have been unable to find a word that sums up the level of knicker-moistening excitement that I experience when a gentleman lets me suck him off while he codes, so I invented one: Vimphilia. To mean: a kink/fetish for programmers.

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