It’s Masturbation Month! You know what that means? It means that I get to spend a very pleasant afternoon cooking up dirty stories with which to entertain and inspire you to wank (if you want to), while simultaneously showing a bit of well-deserved love to the excellent companies that sponsor my site and support my work. Regular readers will know that a similar hot wank fantasies exercise last year turned out to be one of the most popular posts of 2019, perhaps because all the stories are short flash fiction so I can let my inner pervert run wild. I thought I’d do the same thing this year, with a few stories that have a lockdown-lust flavour.
I know that These Weird Times mean people are all over the place on the scale from ‘horny’ to ‘don’t fucking talk to me about shagging’, not to mention that although some people have saved money by not commuting, others are in dire financial straits and it’s offensive to suggest they’ll have spare cash right now to buy sex toys. I totally get it. If you do have spare cash, click away and buy some fun stuff to make lockdown less painful. If you don’t, just enjoy the porn and share it with other lovely perverts if you like it. And if you’re not feeling horny right now: don’t stress. A Masturbation Month that falls in the middle of a global pandemic is inevitably going to make a lot of people feel weird if they’re not wanking, but please don’t sweat it. Even many of us whose job it is to talk about wanking are all over the place right now. You’re not alone.
So check out the dirty stories below, buy stuff from my site sponsors/companies who help me out and support me, share the post if you like it, but don’t sweat it if you want to go and do something entirely different.
Dirty stories for Masturbation Month
Practice makes perfect
It’s much harder for him to practice when she stands over him, watching his every movement with intense, dark eyes and a wicked grin. It’s harder, but that’s what he likes. If you want to complete a challenge, sometimes you need some motivation. So here’s the deal: she’s promised him that when he achieves his personal goal – to be able to last five full minutes in the machine without coming – she’ll let him slide his cock out of the sleeve and slip it instead down her throat.
It’s a treat of seismic significance: he’s never been allowed to fuck her mouth before. Fucked her cunt, sure: pounding hard as she flicks her wrist to deliver quick, sharp smacks with a riding crop. Urging him to giddy up, go faster, fuck harder as she closes her eyes and focuses on coming. But he’s disappointed that he often comes before he wants to – the warm, wet depths of her cunt and the hot slaps from the crop are too much for him, and he finds himself spilling his spunk far too soon.
And as much as she adores that panicked look in his eyes when he realises he’ll to come too quickly, she knows how much it troubles him, and really wants to help him achieve his new goal. Come later. Come slowly. Enjoy a much longer journey.
So as he practices with the device, learning to breathe deeply and focus and ride the waves of pleasure without letting them tip him over into the deep rush of orgasm, she stands over him with the crop. Waiting. Watching. Telling him “well done” and “keep going” and “when you hit five minutes I’ll let you unload into my mouth.”
For a long time he only managed two minutes, but last week he was up to three and four, and she rewarded him with extra beatings and post-orgasm hand jobs that made him scream and squirm. When he hit four and a half minutes, she let him spend the whole evening curled up next to her feet, touching himself while she whispered to him what a good fucking boy he really was. What a quick learner. How delightfully committed.
Now, he’s close. He might make it all the way to five.
She smiles as he focuses and looks forward to delivering his reward. Tells him:
“Good boy. Four minutes. You’re almost there – you’ve got this.”
The device teases his cock and he tries not to look her in the eye as she slowly drops to her knees in front of him. A position he’s never seen her in before, which could easily push him over the edge if he hadn’t been doing his training. The device feels intense – lubed up and wet around his cock, and he aches to find out if her throat will feel the same.
Four minutes forty-five, nearly there. He tells himself not to think about it. Focuses on breathing, and holding back the tide.
Four minutes fifty-five. He bites his lip. Gives a full-body shudder that feels like it starts from his soul, and manages – just – to hold back.
Four minutes fifty-nine.
She opens her mouth.
This story is inspired by the MyHixel device + app, which is designed to help with premature ejaculation and which obviously – inevitably – makes me think delightful sexy things about people training themselves to try not to come. Find out more about it on the MyHixel site, use code GTN10 for 10% off, and keep an eye out for a post that’ll go live here soon – I currently have someone testing it out so they can give you an update on how it works in practice.
If you’re on a budget, you can have similar edging/teasing/training shenanigans with the dual-bullet dick-vibe JETT from Hot Octopuss. You strap it to the head of your cock and you (or a horny companion) can control the vibes individually. It’s unique and weird and cool and would work brilliantly for this kind of thing.
If you’d like something more unusual, you need to check out the Viper from ElectraStim (code: GOTN for 10% off)which is an e-stim cock ring that (somehow, I know not how) delivers tingling sensations all over your dick. Sex blogging colleague and all-round excellent human Joanne from Sex Machine Reviews has a detailed review of the Viper here.
Saturday porn swap
At weekends they swap porn. Initially she thought it might be an exercise in futility: the porn was a substitute for each other’s company, so surely even the best of it would fall short. Screens have never felt more two-dimensional to her than they do right now, when she’s thirsting for his touch and longing for connection.
The first weekend they swapped porn, she was disappointed. She adored the scene her lover sent her, but still found it difficult to get into the moment, and therefore tricky to come. The scene pressed all of her buttons but the more fun the hot people were having in two dimensions, the more she longed for an extra one.
But still. It was something. And it led to something else.
In the afterglow of his own orgasm, he picked up the phone and gave her his take on the scene she’d sent to him. He surprised her by being more expansive than he’d ever been in person. Describing the shots he’d enjoyed the most, recalling in vivid detail the power and strength of his wank. She enjoys learning this, and urges him to say more. Who’d have ever thought he’d be so into talking filth? She’s amazed and delighted by how much of the porn dialogue is etched into his brain, and loves the apparent relish with which this usually-reticent guy recites all his favourite lines. Next week, remembering the parts he liked most, she hunts down scenes which might trigger the same response.
At weekends they swap porn. They share the subscription, and each week send each other a link to something they love. Week one she sent him a wet shower scene: tousled hair and firm fucking and droplets of water glistening on naked bodies. Week two she sent him a scene with two women, and was surprised when he reviewed it by writing her into the picture, saying: “The blonde woman has the same pleasure face as you do – head tipped back and eyes closed like she’s eating ice-cream.” Week three she sent him a threesome, obviously, and not only did he praise her eye for detail, he surprised her again by casting both of them in the scene, taking over where the director left off, and giving her more material on which to base next week’s choice.
By week four she’s got into the habit of rewatching the scenes when she’s hung up the phone. With fresh eyes and one hand down her knickers, she relives each one through the new lens he’s given her.
Their routine now, week eight, goes like this: on Saturdays they swap porn. She researches her favourites when she wakes up in bed, lazily scrolling through videos trying to pinpoint ones which match his kinks. She usually gets his link later, when her housemates are up, so she tiptoes back to her room to watch it, piling blankets on top of duvets to muffle the sound of her vibrator. She still struggles to come like this, but she likes the warm-up.
Later in the evening he’ll call her, having watched the scene she sent him, and it’s this bit she looks forward to most of all. Hearing him describe the scene in his own words is like getting the keys to his brain. She can’t reach through the screen and touch the people who are fucking there, or press a button on her phone that makes him materialise in the room, but let’s not dwell on that. Although she can’t reach into the screen, she can reach into his mind – feel the rush of lust as he drinks in the sight of the pleasure on screen. Put her headphones in and imagine that his lips are right next to her ear – tickling her there as his fingers part her cunt lips and he writes dirty backstory for the people who are fucking.
The world has never felt more two-dimensional than it does right now. But in absence of his touch and scent and cock, he uses words. And by his words he shows her his desires, and she realises this is the first time she has ever really heard them.
Yeah this one’s a bit soppy, innit. But fuck it I’m a bit soppy. I’m a big soppy pervert and I’ve been having lots of fun with porn this lockdown, and I wanted to share a bit of the joy I get when porn helps me unlock some of the deeper and more detailed inner-workings of my other half’s perving too.
There are lots of amazing places to find porn that you can share with your lovers – whether locked down apart or together. FrolicMe is a beautiful, ethical porn site with plenty of incredible scenes to entertain you, and if you use the link in this para (or the ads) you’ll get 50% off when you buy a sub.
Literotica is also a brilliant place to find porn to share, and it’s entirely free to access. If you’re interested in VR porn you’ve probably already seen the VR Porn overview from my other site sponsors Sex Tech Guide, but I’m putting the link here on the offchance you haven’t explored it yet.
The first time the new puppy peed on the carpet, she rolled her eyes. She hadn’t wanted one anyway. Puppies are cute, sure, but when they grow into dogs their appeal rapidly deteriorates, and you’re left with a huge, needy animal that sheds hair and licks your bare feet.
The fifth time the puppy peed on the carpet, she decided to ramp up the training. Not for the puppy: for him.
He was the one who’d wanted it, after all. Who’d promised that he would train it well, walk it every day and love it so hard that it wouldn’t need input from her. Who’d replied to her curt insistence that ‘a dog is for life, not just for lockdown’ with fluttering eyelashes and assurances that ‘I know it’s for life, I’ve wanted one all my life!’
One night in bed, as she was untying his wrists from the metal bar at the top of the headboard, he’d looked up at her with the saddest eyes and promised – promised – that the puppy would be no trouble. She can only maintain the cruel-and-heartless-mistress act for a short while, so eventually she said yes as long as he looked after it, fed it, walked it… and trained it not to pee on the living-room carpet.
Yet here she is. Again.
“That’s it!” she declares dramatically, storming through to the bedroom in a t-shirt and no knickers, one of her feet still moist from having washed it clean of puppy piss. “New rule!”
He sits up in bed, bleary-eyed and tousled and deliciously naked, and there’s a brief twitch in his cock as he sees she’s rummaging through the punishment box. As she stands up, she holds in one hand a vicious cane – one they only use for special occasions. He grins and she gives him a playful wink before retreating behind her pantomime mask of imperious fury.
“That fucking dog peed on the carpet again,” she informs him, reaching one hand out to cover his mouth before he can babble an apology. “And I’m sick of your excuses. From now on, you will learn to train it, and if you cannot then you will be punished. Flip over.”
He complies, if only to mask his smile into the pillow. He loves it when she does this, and she’s best at it when she manages to find a reason for punishing him other than just ‘I wanted to.’
“It’s time for training,” she tells him. “Your training. That poor dog is only little, and it doesn’t know what it’s doing. But you? You know better. Get it trained, or get six strokes of the cane every time I accidentally put my right foot in a puddle of wet piss.”
His body twitches at the first stinging stroke, and when he turns from the pillow to look up at her, his eyes are watering at the shock of it. She thinks he’s about to call it off, until she realises he’s still grinning.
“What about your left foot?” He asks, cheekily.
“For my left foot you get twelve.” And at that she brings the cane down again – rapid fire – five strokes, one after the other. Each cutting a neat line that lies almost exactly parallel to the last. By stroke three he’s biting the pillow, at stroke four he lets out a scream. It’s not until the power of the final stroke starts to register, and the burning pain spreads from deep inside his flesh to the surface of his skin, that he realises how hard his cock has become, and how uncomfortably it pulses against the mattress beneath him.
She places the cane firmly across his now-smarting bottom, pressing down on the marks she’s made before, and delights as she realises she finally has an excuse. A reason. A justification for making him her whipping boy.
This story brought to you mostly just by the fact that I love the phrase ‘whipping boy’, as well as the concept of punishing someone for something another person’s done. You can read a story that’s almost the opposite of this at punishment by proxy.
In the meantime, though, if you want to go grab some awesome kinky equipment for your own contrived-excused-to-whip-or-be-whipped, head to EvaAmour who have some lovely bondage equipment on their site, and they’ll give you a 10% discount with the code GOTN10. If you’re specifically after a cane, Bondara has this lovely beginner’s rattan cane for £7.99 or this cruel, whippy plastic one for £16.99 (ouch).
Don’t think about dick
You know that old experiment where psychologists told people not to think about a White Bear? That’s what he’s aiming to achieve. They’re locked down apart and won’t be able to visit each other for a long time. And while they’re apart, he really wants Sam to keep thinking – hard – about his dick.
Last time they spoke on the phone, Sam broke off their dirty talk partway through to call a halt. He confessed that while he enjoyed playing around the edges, he was trying not to think too hard about full-on, lubed-up fucking: .
“It’s tricky for me to think about dick right now. I miss your dick too much. If I think about it too much I’ll end up coming.” He’s decided to attempt some distracting, self-imposed chastity, apparently. Hoping that the roaring buzz of his ongoing frustration might drown out the pain of other things.
“I still touch my own dick, of course,” Sam said, in a confessional half-whisper. “I find being horny is distracting. If I edge myself, I can get my brain so focused on remembering the sensations of your tongue on my cock that it forgets to think about the other things – big things and little things. Health and life and the banana bread I’ve not got round to baking.”
“So why do we dirty talk, then?” he asks, not unreasonably.
“I don’t know.” Sam replies. “I can’t help it. I want it. I just don’t want to come because if I come I’ll have nothing left to focus on.”
This strikes him as troubling. His cute boyfriend, usually entirely unashamed of his sex drive, is now torturing himself into a frenzy because he’s worried that the post-orgasmic drop will be too hard to clamber out of. He does this a lot, does Sam: overthinks until he’s tied in knots and can’t see a neat route out. He’s never done it with sex before, and it’s getting to the point where it might be time to help him through it.
When they fuck on the phone, it’s all grunting and whispered fantasies and aching love and the slapping noise of each of them rubbing hard at themselves, but only one of them comes. Sam lets go of his cock just a few seconds before he reaches the edge, then lets rip down the phone with a moan of exquisite agony – wailing, almost keening with the effort of holding back.
So yeah, Sam doesn’t want to think about dick, and yet all he thinks about is dick. He wants to avoid coming, but spends all his time picturing how he might go about coming, if he wanted to. He likes the distraction of pleasure, but can’t succumb to it entirely lest he blow his load and the fun comes to an end.
How do you get someone out of their head when they seem utterly and completely trapped in it? He has an idea.
Two days later, a box arrives at Sam’s house. Seven packages, individually wrapped and labelled with the days of the week. The first day, Sam opens the package marked ‘Wednesday’ and finds a smooth, slim cock. Glittering blue and white, like summer. The note which accompanies it says ‘stick this above your bed, so when you wake up each morning you have a colourful dick to not think about.’ Sam smiles, then groans, then grabs his own. It throbs and hurts, the way it does all the time these days.
On Thursday, the package contains a larger dildo. Darker colours this time: the purple haze of deep space. As instructed in the accompanying note, Sam sticks this to the wall opposite his bed – pointing at him where he lies. When he wanks himself to the edge of reason later that night, he stares at both the dildos and imagines being ordered to use them both at once. His aching cock tortures him till he finally drifts off to sleep.
The next day – Friday – it’s different again. A wide butt plug with a satisfying-looking swell, and the instruction to put it somewhere near the TV: ‘To distract you from the news.’ Its green-and-gold swirling colours do exactly that. He can’t watch anything now without some part of his mind wandering to that butt plug, and imagining how stretched and fucked he would feel if he sat down onto it.
The next day, and the next, it’s dicks again. Fat, smooth cocks of varying sizes and colours, with playful instructions about where to put each one. ‘By the kettle, so you think about fucking while it boils.’ ‘On the coffee table, so you think about fucking when you reach for your tea.’ Sam does as he’s told and places them around the house: kitchen, living room, bedroom. On one of the days it isn’t a dildo, it’s soap. Cock-shaped soap, coloured bright red, with a note that reads ‘Think about fucking for twenty seconds while you’re washing your hands.’ One must be stuck to the rim of the hallway mirror, so Sam can’t look at his own face without realising how badly he needs fucking.
When he checks his complexion now he notices a subtle change – the dishevelled, hollow panic of six days ago has morphed into a very smutty grin.
On the final day, with the seventh gift lying still unwrapped in the box, they talk on the phone again. When asked how he is, Sam grins – telling a very familiar story of edging and horn and frustration and distraction. This time, though, the tone is different. This time he smiles. It’s weird how you can hear someone’s smile down the phone – you don’t need Zoom to see the joy ringing through someone’s voice.
Thanking him for the gifts, Sam explains that he’s still not come since they spoke last week. He’s been waiting for the moment when it felt right. Waiting for…
“I don’t know what, honestly,” Sam says, still doing that audible grin. “I need something, I think, to help break the spell.”
It takes thirty full seconds of silence before he understands what it is Sam is after.
“You have it.”
Later that night, Sam lies in bed and stares upwards at the cocks stuck to the wall. He bites his lip and rubs himself as he pictures one dildo, and then the next, slipping easily inside him. Remembers the fat butt plug that still sits by his TV, and how he’d feel if he were pushed down onto it and then sat upon, firmly. Like ‘here – sit down. Know your place. Good boy.’ Imagines his boyfriend’s scruffy grin staring up from between his legs, busy hands fucking him with each of the dildos in turn.
Sam nudges himself closer to the edge that he’s avoided tipping over for so long, and grits his teeth as he steels himself to give himself that final powerful push. Reminds himself that coming is not a crime, that relief does not mean giving up. That no matter how intense his post-orgasm drop might be, there are cocks all over his house that will help him climb swiftly back into a state of distracting arousal.
And finally he lets himself dwell on the idea of having permission.
“May I come?”
When he comes, he comes hard. As the first thick, powerful squirts start to thump from the end of his dick, he opens his throat and cries out loud enough to shake the walls. Loud enough to drown out the splatter of cum that drenches his chest, his face, and the wall above his pillow. The droplet that smacks against the dildo still stuck there – the one he’ll be permitted to fuck tomorrow.
This story inspired by the fact that Godemiche now make dick soap, and I liked the idea of including dick soap/20 second handwashing in a dirty story. Obviously don’t put the soap up your arse/in your vag, but do go buy some colourful dildos if that’s what you’re after, and get 15% off everything they sell with the code GOTN.
If you like your dildos harder, you should totally check out some of the beautiful stone and glass ones available at The Pleasure Garden (10% off with code GOTN10). Or if you want something more personal, see how to clone your dick to give as a gift to someone else.
For twenty minutes every day, she grinds down onto a vibrator. No hands, just grinding. She comes from grinding more easily than she does with her hands – years of experience when she was younger with pillows, sofa cushions, and on one memorable occasion the wooden banister on the stairs in her parents’ house. When everyone else was out and she realised she could straddle it at the perfect angle.
Grinding does it for her. Perhaps it does too much for her. As she muffles a shriek from the pleasure/pain of her third orgasm, fifteen minutes in, she stares down the lens of the webcam with wet eyes and begs him for rest.
“No,” he tells her, picking up his wine glass and donning his stern face. “No rest for you yet: twenty minutes.”
The camera is trained on her face, and her face alone. She’s shy about showing him the lower half of her body, where the rumbling toy meets the wet slit of her cunt, and the cushion beneath it grows damp with her come. She’s shy about her tits, too – the way she’ll squeeze eagerly at her own flesh, pinching her nipples with fingertips that she imagines are his.
That doesn’t stop him telling her what to do, though. This time he’s ordered nipple clamps. Connected by a chain that she can tug on as she grinds, digging tightly into her and sending sharp ticks of pain zipping down from her nipples to her clit. The grinding soothes the pain, and the harder her tits jiggle, the more she needs the relief of the throbbing vibe.
“Put the chain in your mouth,” he tells her, and she does. Dips her head to prevent it yanking too far upwards, pulling too tight on her tits. At this angle she has to direct her gaze upwards to see him, so inevitably she imagines how he’d look if she were sucking his cock. Lets herself revel in the imbalance of their power right now, where she’s vulnerable and naked and obeying all his whims, while he stays in control. He sips his wine and issues commands and allows himself a clear head to guide her through twenty minutes of orgasms which come faster and faster each time.
There’s something about his control that she likes. But she knows it’s mostly an act.
Beneath the line of the screen, where the camera cannot see, he’s grinding too. With a butt plug snugly inside him, and the same toy she’s using clenched tight between his buttocks, he grinds. Much more slowly. This isn’t riding the way she’s doing it, but gentle rubbing in tiny hip-circles, so small that he can keep his shoulders still. He rides the waves of the toy, and watches her face, and as she comes he grinds harder – allowing himself a few larger motions, to match the greater intensity of her waves.
There’s something about his control that she likes, so he keeps a straight face where he can. He issues commands and calls her ‘good girl‘ and smothers the moans that threaten to escape from his mouth each time the vibrations throb too strongly through the butt plug and he thinks he might just let rip. She likes it when he takes control, but doesn’t realise her own power: since she first showed him the way she liked to grind, he’s been hooked on doing it too.
So they play their parts, and pretend they are different, when really they’re one and the same. For twenty minutes, every day, they grind together. And he doesn’t let himself come until she’s flushed and spent and aching. When her thighs are too tired to continue, and she’s spent, he flips down the camera so it’s pointed at his crotch, abandons his control, and lets go.
This story brought to you by the Ruby Glow, a sit-upon vibrator invented by the fabulous Tabitha Rayne (who has been contributing some amazing dirty stories to the audio porn project!). Use code GOTN for £5 off if you’d like to buy one.
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I’m going to end this post on a quick note about Masturbation Month. It feels a little weird encouraging people to wank themselves silly when the times we live in are so stressful and hard. One person’s self-care is someone else’s pressure, and I don’t want to add to the tide of people making you feel like you’re somehow broken if orgasms are the last thing on your mind right now. I write these posts because they’re in my schedule, as a way of saying thanks to the companies that help me keep running. But this post was harder to write than all the other similar posts I’ve written in the past – it took me three full days of thinking, staring into space, beating myself up, and eventually managing to find a wave of horn that’d carry me through to the end. I am only mentioning it here for completeness, because I put on a smiley/horny face most days for Twitter, and it feels like lying if I don’t acknowledge that while porn’s a nice distraction, horn doesn’t always come easy.