“Let’s get some dick in you.”
Storytelling is like sex: so much of it is about the angle. And there are two ways I can tell this dirty story. One ends with a punchline, the other with a perfect climax.
As this is the filthy version, I’ll give it to you quick and hard.
We were staying in a stranger’s cottage, miles away from anywhere. We’d been out till midnight dancing, so when we got home our feet ached and we were dripping with sweat.
I was hurting with lust for him. He’d spent the day dressed in a suit, so his usual scruffy aesthetic was replaced with a weird, buttoned-down maturity. He looked almost like a different person – different enough that I could pretend I was bad when I took sidelong glances at how his dick filled out the suit trousers.
And that’s before you get to the best thing about a suit: how messed-up it gets after a night out dancing.
When we danced together, I pushed my face against his shoulder and drank in the sweaty scent of him.
When we took a break, I’d watch the way he rolled up his sleeves and imagine him slipping two fingers deep into my cunt.
When we walked home, all I could think about was his dick twitching in those smart suit trousers, the head swelling slightly each time our talk turned filthy.
He knew this, of course. And he made the most of it. When we got back inside the cottage he followed me to the bedroom. Pushed me down so I was bent over the bed, and started to slide the silky fabric of my dress up higher, until it was over my waist.
“Take your tights off,” he said “then let’s get some dick in you.”
Each word of that phrase was so perfectly tuned to exactly the kind of pervert I am. Not ‘let’s make you come’ or ‘let’s fuck’, but a tone that implied use. Function.
Not for mutual pleasure, just a vessel into which he could squirt his spunk.
Let’s get this done.
I dripped wetness down my thighs and into my tights, which I hadn’t quite removed – just pushed down far enough to let him slide in his cock. I gripped the bedsheets with both hands, planted my feet firmly on the floor, and pushed back onto him so I could get his dick in deeper.
Hard strokes. Like smacks of the belt.
Oh I wanted him to smack me with the belt. Fold it in half twice to make a short, hard leather strop and beat me to make me stay still. Instead, just the strokes of his dick. One. Two. Three. FourFiveSix. Vicious and efficient.
When my legs went weak he took me to the living room and ordered me into a ball on the floor. Kneeling, then curved over, a cross between hiding and presentation. My face was buried in the carpet but my cunt and arse was exposed to him. He’d hitched my dress up round my shoulders to expose the pale, cold skin of my back.
He made me wait before he started.
“Stay like that. In a ball. That’s it. Legs pressed together. Get your cunt nice and tight for me.”
I did as I was told.
“Now put your arms behind your back,” he said, and I obeyed – gripping my wrists to bind my arms together, so he had something to hold onto. “Hold still like that for three minutes. No noise. No movement. Just stay there and let me fuck you. OK?”
I mumbled my assent. The idea of being used like this makes my eyes water almost as much as it makes my stomach ache. The twisting, horny, pain that comes when I’m able to let go of any responsibility: to be just a receptacle. A mouldable, posable, almost inhuman thing. Just something for him to fuck.
Viciously. Urgently. Hard and fast and sweaty.
For three perfect minutes.
But sexy storytelling is all about the angle. And the whole thing could be told in a very different way…
Part 2 – a very different version of the same dirty story – is live now.