I was introduced to today’s guest blogger, Clara (@author_dunn on Twitter) by another incredible writer, who popped up in my DMs singing the praises of Clara’s cunt-dripping filth. And they were right: her filth is absolutely glorious, I adore it. There’s a softness to the feelings that surround the intensity and directness of the actual fucking, and that kind of writing presses so many of my buttons. I loved it so much I have another piece from Clara coming up in a few weeks too. For now, enjoy this delicious story about birthday sex, Harry Styles and soundtracks to (not) fall in love to…
Birthday sex: don’t fuck to Harry’s House
I’m not very good at casual sex. At least, I haven’t yet found a way to do it that hasn’t given me some kind of “inappropriate” feeling, like jealousy or the shifting gears of my sappy wiring. Having been the uncomfortable mistress before, when I met C______, I was careful to stress that there did have to be friendship and affection between us, that he would have to spend whole nights with me. More by chance, the timing of when we met and how well we got along, he was around when my birthday rolled up, and more than willing to provide the birthday sex I’d wanted since I left home for university six years before.
Picture the scene: an empty, white bedroom, pretty much just the bed, bare save for the mattress protector and rust-orange sheet on top of it (and I would go on to soak both of these). It’s the end of May and unseasonably warm outside, but the room is like an icebox, and we did shiver the whole time the birthday fucking went on.
It’s my 24th birthday and I’m in my best lingerie – a cami and shorts, sort of a slinky snake-skin look on them – and my fingers are tangled with his. I’m already pink and flattered by the birthday present I didn’t expect (four cans of mango-flavoured IPA) and the strawberries he’s picked up for us to eat afterwards.
This is not my bedroom, but it is currently empty, and the bed has a headboard. I like to grab headboards – or at least, I started to like it, to need to do it, when I started fucking him.
There wasn’t any special prelude. I don’t remember having any ready dirty talk or elaborate choreography in mind. Probably we just started kissing, fumbled around undressing and fell onto the bed.
Inevitably, as with pretty much all of our fucks, I took a seat on his face. That’ll be when I held onto the headboard with white knuckles – because he knew exactly what he was doing by then, that is, knew to put his fingers just an inch or so inside my ass while he sucked – and I’m sure I tipped my head down onto the headboard and let loose noise that I’m pretty sure the upstairs neighbours did not appreciate.
It never took long to get me to come like that. If he ever gagged sucking down the cum that rushed out of me, he hid it well.
I shuffled back and kissed him, took the taste of myself into my mouth and onto my tongue. Then let’s say we laughed and moaned and rolled.
And I set out to be adventurous with him – and we did try things I hadn’t done until then, like DP – but we settled easily into the same pattern.
Missionary, close and desperate. Hand-holding and intent looks and smiles and kisses, with him riding against my endless shuddering orgasms.
Then an easy flip and I would ride him for urgent minutes. I’d always had trouble with riding guys – wrong angles, worry about doing it wrong or how different it was than with my dildo, whatever – but it happened so easily with this one. And he did this thing when I rode him, thrust up when I was bucking down. Oh, it made my eyes roll back. And it made me squirt, hard, and so much.
Then, doggy. A little rougher, his nails on my waist and a hand on my shoulder. Always last, if we wanted a long session, because I think he rarely lasted ten minutes taking me from behind (talk about pussy power). I masturbate about that to this day, how quickly he would come like that, and how loud he could be then. He was louder than other guys I’d been with and it was catnip to me. I fucking loved it, always wanted to do whatever it would take to get that noise out of him. And after he would come, after we would come like that, the way he would gently pull me up against his chest and wrap an arm around me.
I always want more than they do, and he knew that, and he accepted that, and maybe even really really liked that. So with my back to his chest and his arm around me, on my breasts or over my belly, and his mouth on my neck, I put my little vibrating wand to my clit and had a few more orgasms, just enough to feel a little numb and a little limp, to get close to that hazy, fucked-out feeling.
After, we lay together on the sheet and caught our breath. Quiet in the room, heavy breaths and the breeze and the birdsong outside. I know we talked, but I don’t remember the words. I got up, cracked open one of the beers, took the time to pour it out into my best glass. I said we needed music.
And he’s the boy who converted me on Harry Styles, and Harry’s House was gorgeous in its newness then, so I put the album on shuffle and we got back to business.
That next round was a copy/paste of the one before. Probably there was a blowjob in there. He always tasted good and he had a cock I could stare at all day. So thick. Red at the head – so red, livid red. Anyway, it was the same as before, with two exceptions.
First, I was probably lip-syncing along to Harry. We might even both have been.
Second, I called a time-out. I rose half-off his gorgeous cock and leaned out of bed and fumbled with my phone. I apologised, even as I typed. I didn’t show him what I wrote, but it was this:
And we are two rocking needy bodies and your eyes are hot on mine and the music is loud and is this the soundtrack that we fall in love to?
I know. Imagine trying to act normal after writing those words astride the sweet guy you’re only supposed to be seeing casually.
I was barely listening to the music then. It was only as we fell apart, slick and pink and worn out, that Harry started to come through to me.
Matilda, of all the songs: you talk of the pain like it’s all alright.
And his fingers were on my shoulder or my arm, somewhere innocent, and we weren’t even kissing, and this dry sob burst up out of me. I don’t think tears really came. Just the shakes and the blue feeling and the huge weight of the more-than-casual feeling I had for him.
Point is, don’t fuck to Harry’s House. Just don’t.