All the times I definitely did not fuck in that hot tub

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

“Greetings friends! Welcome to this lovely rented lodge! Isn’t it gorgeous? And we got it for such a bargain! Just call me the Queen Of Booking Getaways That Just Happen To Have Hot Tubs. It’s so lovely to hang out with like-minded people, who all know there’s far more fun to be had in a house with people you love than a hotel where you could bump into a stranger at any minute. Before we kick off this mini-break by opening the prosecco, there’s just one thing I’d like to make clear: we might have arrived two hours before you did, but we definitely didn’t fuck in that hot tub.”

You’re not meant to fuck in hot tubs: that’s the rule. They might look like incredibly saucy places to get it on – what with all the nudity or semi-nudity that happens within, and the accidental brushing against each other beneath the modesty screen of swirling bubbles and jets – but the rules say you’re absolutely, definitely, 100% not meant to fuck in a hot tub. So here are some examples of times when I totally didn’t.

The first time I did not have sex in a hot tub was at a log cabin type affair somewhere outside of London. We were going away for a long weekend with friends, to have the opposite of wholesome fun. Our plan was to get tanked, play board games, mess around, and spend every single evening drinking cheap Cava in a hot tub.

The rules for the hot tub stated, sensibly, that you shouldn’t spend more than half an hour or so in the bubbling water. And you should take extra care if you’d had a glass of wine or two – the heat makes you drunk quicker, you see, so you might accidentally slip on the floor. On top of this, our friends had pointed out, and we’d concurred, that fucking in a hot tub was likely to get you all manner of weird infections. So although they hadn’t stated it on the ‘rules’ list, we were all pretty clear that one shouldn’t fuck in a hot tub.

So we didn’t. We stayed up late into the night drinking and chatting and telling each other stories of times we’d fucked in the past, but at the end of the night we sensibly donned towels and went back inside before any of us imploded with horn.

Later, we stayed in a hotel that had a hot tub on the roof, and we didn’t fuck in that one either. He didn’t straddle me with big thighs and lean over for a deep kiss, whiskey-and-smoke-scented and powerfully dominant. He didn’t order me to put the tip of his cock in my mouth and hold it there – just above the bubbles – while he sipped wine and smoked a joint and looked out over London.

He never held my head down while I practised sucking his cock underwater – gasping and shaking each time I’d pop up to the surface, then hoisting huge gulps of air into my lungs, determined to try again. We didn’t spend hours perfecting the art of underwater blow jobs: where he trained me, over the course of four or five hours, to take the full length of his dick into my throat while I was underwater. Holding my head down while I jammed my feet against the other side to try and prevent myself from floating to the surface. Squirming to cram as much cock in my mouth as possible, while he gripped me with big hands and tried not to come in the water. We didn’t do that – that’s against the rules.

I never leaned on the edge of the tub, making a pillow with my arms and staring out into the night, while he sat behind me, caressing the curves of my hips and pulling the crotch of my bikini to one side so he could get a better view of my cunt. I listened to the sounds of London at 4 am, but I did not wiggle or urge him closer. When he pulled me back onto him and stripped me to the waist, I definitely didn’t squirm in his lap so I could feel his aching erection against my bum.

That time when he knelt up on the seat beside me, his cock bobbing on the surface of the water, and looked down at me with dark eyes and a wicked grin. When he leant over then tilted my head back so it rested on the side of the tub, and kissed me firmly as if to say ‘here. You’re staying right here.‘ We didn’t fuck that time either.

The way he stroked his dick at me, a simultaneous invitation and challenge, before I climbed into his lap for a satisfying, bubbly wriggle. That wasn’t fucking either.

Sometimes these heteronormative ideas about what does and doesn’t count as ‘sex’ can really work in my favour. Because we’ve never fucked in a hot tub, not like that. He’s never slipped his dick inside me, nudging aside my natural lube and replacing it with chlorinated god-knows-fucking-what, until he jizzes inside my cunt.

But maybe that’s why I really love not-fucking in hot tubs. They’re risky sex for scaredy cats: the kind of fuck no one would blame you for, but you know you’re not meant to do. So I retreat into horny, frotting teenager mode: leaning over the edge to reach for a glass of wine or a cigarette, then pulling the knickers of my bikini aside to give him a flash of my cunt. Slipping in with an orgasmic groan, then sliding off my top so my tits can float free and I get to watch him growing hard under the water.

Rubbing his cock with my feet while I sip prosecco, and pretend to myself that this thing isn’t fucking – not really. The way ‘jumping feet first into a swimming pool’ doesn’t count as diving, so I’ve never broken the rules on that one either.

We have sucked and played and wanked and snogged and dirty-talked until both of us are panting and moaning and ‘please let’s just go back to the room so we can work this frustration out before we relax’, but I assure you, friends: we’ve never ever fucked in that hot tub.

Much.

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