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On number 24

This is the sort of thing I like to wear to parties. Related fact: I am not often invited to parties.I tend to avoid athletic boys. With their muscles and their energy and their ability to go for hours I fear that they’ll put me to shame. The sex they have is impressive – powerful, beautiful and hard. The sex I have is desperate – moaning, panting, begging. It’s not about athleticism, it’s about lust.

But number 24 was athletic.

I met him at a posh event where he was surrounded by friends and I was surrounded by strangers. I was awkward in high-heels and a dress, and he was funny, fit, bald, with nerdy glasses and a quick mouth. I wasn’t completely smitten but I was getting there, and just drunk enough to approach someone who would otherwise fill me with terror. Someone who was far cooler than me, more attractive than me, more athletic than me. Number 24 was a lad – the sort of boy who won at sports day while girls like me were hiding behind the bleachers smoking fags and comparing fake injuries. He was holding the room with effortless confidence – drunk and getting drunker, leering and joking and scanning the party not for girls who looked pretty but girls who looked willing.

So I did what any slightly curious, drunk girl would do: I took him round the back of the building for a blow job.

The briefest of kisses ended with me on my knees in the mud, feet and knees wet through as I tore at his flies. He whispered in the dark – angry and lustful encouragement just loud enough for me to hear but not loud enough to give us away. When I put his dick in my mouth he already tasted salty with precome – rock solid. He held the back of my head and pushed me down until my lips touched the base of his dick and I choked.

“That’s it.” And he shoved it in harder. He wanted the control – he wanted me reeling, unbalanced in the mud, with nothing to grab onto but him. He wanted my hands cupping him and stroking as he thrust his dick harder into my mouth. I ran my hands over his unfamiliar body – solid thighs, a tight arse – a genuine honest-to-god six pack. Athletic though I wasn’t, he liked seeing my lustful take on blow jobs – he liked my pervy enthusiasm, and he liked it when I looked up into his face with eyes watering.

“I’m going to come.” I moaned as he said it – a choking, wet moan as I opened the mouth he was fucking to suck in the air that would take me through to the end. Excited by the thought of his hot spunk hitting the back of my throat. I sucked harder, pulling as much of his dick into my mouth as I could.

But he didn’t come in my mouth.

He pulled his cock out, and with one hand rubbed at it frantically. Pulling on my hair, he tipped my head back and looked into my eyes. He saw my face wet with spit and precome, and – with grunts and twitches – he came. Thick spurts of his spunk covered my cheeks, dripping into my open mouth, plastering loose strands of my hair. He didn’t just want to come – he wanted to come so that his friends would see, when we walked back inside, that he’d had me. He’d fucked me. And he’d left me covered in him.

Up to that point I was, despite the humiliation of having to avoid kissing people goodbye, still in my comfort zone. I’d showed the cool kids how the dirty goth girls can fuck. He’d humiliated me, but I’d had him – I’d owned him. I’d had his twitching prick in my mouth.

But later that night he followed me back to my hotel room and fucked me like an athlete. Flipping me over, picking me up, bending me over the desk and forcing his spit-lubed dick into my ass. Quick, curt thrusts punctuated by sharp exhales of breath. Porn fucking, with a porn audio track.

“You. Like. That” as he slapped me. “Fucking take it” as his cock slammed deeper into me, with him holding one of my legs at an angle so acute he could reach every inch of the inside of my cunt.

Muscular arms bending me into different shapes, holding me wide open so he could get at me. He couldn’t sit still when I sat on his dick. Instead he grabbed my arse and fucked the rhythm out of me, until it was all I could do to hold still, squeeze my cunt around his dick, and enjoy the rapid forceful pounding of his powerful hips.

It felt like a fight, like he wanted to show me what he could do. He was performing, like a gymnast performs a routine, like a runner sprints in front of a cheering crowd. He was faster, harder, stronger than me, and he wanted me to know it.

It wasn’t just a fuck – it was a competition. And although he was the most athletic, I think, on reflection, I won.


  • D says:

    Sounds like everyone won there.

  • Chaz says:

    Yet another wonderfully hot account from you. One thing that does concern me, when you write things like “forcing his spit-lubed dick into my ass”, I wonder if you take proper precautions? Not to put a dampener on things but, from your writing, it doesn’t sound as though there was much time for condoms. You may, of course, be using artistic license, but I hope you’re looking after yourself, hon x

    • Girl on the net says:

      I do take precautions – thanks for asking. To be honest I strongly suspect if I didn’t many boys would run a mile (and rightly so). Here’s a post what I wrote about condoms, and why they’re important despite being not massively fun:

      But yeah, ‘spit-lubed, safely-condom-clad dick’ doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. I probably wouldn’t mention condoms in stories like this, in the same way as I would gloss over the bit where I got my hair caught in his watch strap, or accidentally headbutted him during a particularly tricky position. Thanks for caring, though – I promise I will always be good with this shit, because – not wanting to be dramatic or anything – it’s really fucking important.

    • rtttst says:

      Good point. And you can’t jizz on someone’s face with a condom on.

  • Auto says:

    “squeeze my cunt around his dick”

    More women need to do this, flexing the pelvic floor muscles to tighten around the cock.

  • Ash says:

    Ah boy. Must type comment, then go have a wank.

    I myself was quite an athlete in my school days before injuries and inertia set in (and I discovered that playing in a band got me as many or more chicks with less physical effort). But I like to think I can still fuck like an athlete as well as a man whore.

    Anyway, in my final year when it was well established I was not an athlete anymore I started dating a girl who was a really good hockey player. So good, in fact, that she was selected for the national adult team. To celebrate, we had sex for the first time (I had held out for six weeks) in my car. Let’s just say that girl athlete fucking is a breed all of its own.

  • oversharing says:

    They should teach this post in schools if they want to raise kids’ interest in PE.

  • J says:

    To borrow a phrase from my school days he sounds like a “soccer twat”. I’ve never got the whole jizzing on someone’s face thing outside of the realms of pornography (a bit dribbling out her mouth is a different matter entirely though). But if that’s what floats someone’s boat then OK. But I got the impression – from the narrative at least – it was done less as a turn on for him or you but an attempt to humiliate. I guess one someone less forthright than yourself it would/could have been. I think you won too but I hope he realised he lost!

  • Flelth says:

    Wait, so you met a guy at an event then an hour or so later he’s spunking all over your face in an alleyway… What kind of magical porno universe do you live in GOTN?

  • Ash says:

    This kind of thing is part of why consent isn’t this simple thing that men should be expected to easily understand.

    A stranger gives a non-consensual facial (holding you in place by your hair, with no prior warning or discussion). Since, as it turned out, you enjoyed this humiliation, he is treated to more sex later that night, as opposed to being the offender in a MeToo story.

    What does or doesn’t constitute sexual assault seems to be determined by whether or not the woman happened to enjoy it, rather than by whether she gave any consent.

    • Girl on the net says:

      We had spent, like, at least an hour getting horny and chatting each other up before this happened – flirting, talking about what we wanted to do to each other, etc. And even though this was many years ago, I can tell you exactly what will have happened beforehand – we will have discussed the kind of fuckers we are, and the kind of sex we enjoy, and that discussion won’t just be what fed into us doing this – it will have been the vehicle by which we chatted each other up. I know this because *drumroll* it’s one of the ways I used to chat guys up (if they showed any interest in dirty stuff, and did the reciprocal-escalation thing that meant they were at least in theory up for it).

      I’m writing this very carefully so you can see here what went in to establishing consent. That’s because here I am giving you a report, not telling you the sexy bits as I was in the story above. So first point: you are (either deliberately or accidentally) mistaking an erotic retelling of an event for a detailed report of everything that happened.

      Now, I’ll concede that this was written a long time ago and I suspect if I were to write it today I’d probably be much better at writing in all the little bits and pieces that go to make up consent here: the things I said to him, the things he said to me, the body language and enthusiastic noises and all that shit. But even in this post there is plenty of that: from ‘my pervy enthusiasm’ to ‘I tore at his flies’ and more. He even told me he was going to come, and when, and then whipped his cock out: if I’d not wanted him to come on my face I’d have said so because his actions were all about *actively giving me a way to opt out if I didn’t want him to do that* and the way we’d been fucking before was one in which both of us were paying pretty careful attention to the gestures, words, and noises the other person made, and using them to guide us through the fuck.

      So I genuinely can’t help but wonder if you even believe what you’re actually saying, or if you’re just picking this post out because you want to find some way to try and argue the toss with me because you think it’s impossible to tell if you are sexually assaulting someone. On the off chance that you aren’t doing that, and you genuinely are struggling to understand consent, it kind of demonstrates the point that consent education would be a really good idea.

      And maybe this is a side-note but… ‘he is treated to more sex later that night’… He wasn’t ‘treated to’ anything: we fucked later that night because we both wanted to. Like I say, possibly a side note, but also possibly one of the core reasons for your confusion here. He entered into a fuck with me fully understanding the kind of things I liked and wanted – and he *believed me* that I liked and wanted them. You, on the other hand, have read this account of an eager, enthusiastic fuck that I had and concluded not only that I didn’t consent but that my consent and enthusiasm was something I only really settled on *after* the fact. That is not how sex works. That’s not how my desire works. That’s not how any of this works.

      As I say, I wrote this a while ago and I probably could have written more on the build-up, but I genuinely cannot see how you could come to the conclusion you have without either a lot of ignorance or a whole heap of wilful misreading.

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