Guest blog: Talking very dirty

Image by the always fantastic Stuart F Taylor

Today’s guest blogger is Zoe, who writes a travel blog over at The Zoeverse (and who you can follow on Twitter, Insta, Facebook and Patreon too). I absolutely loved the idea she pitched me – a filthy hot fantasy about a guy she’d met but not got round to shagging on her travels. I love the idea that outside the Zoeverse, her encounters with people she’s met on her travels live on in her head, as deliciously horny stories such as this one. In this story, Zoe is going to tell you about her Sicilian lover, and a story about talking very dirty indeed…

Talking very dirty

I met him in Palermo, at a restaurant: my Sicilian lover. This organic, seasonal, vegan, grain free, health conscious place was his choice, but I approve. Having that in common is always a powerful draw.

The lights are low, the tables are clothed with brown paper. We talk fitness and nutrition and health and polyamory and work. He’s a lawyer. I have questions about the law in Sicily, he has endless questions about polyamory, as he’s never had a chance to actively practice. I answer them honestly to his rapt attention, until he stops me.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that… you’re so beautiful. Can I take a photo of you?” he asks. I oblige.

He focuses intently and yet allows for his own internal distractions, which I find pleasingly mature in him. He’s 6”2’. Tall. Fit. Rich. Handsome. Not my usual type.

I wonder for a moment if that’s not my usual type because I am not confident. Because of insecurity and self-denial. Have I bought into the story of worth that we tell? Is it all a story? He’s obviously put more energy into himself, dealt more readily with his trauma, and done the best he could with the cards he’s been dealt. Is he worth more? Are any of us? Does it matter when I’m in Palermo for one night only?

I notice how often my mind tells me I’m not beautiful. I think of the men that have cried to hear that.

“Will you take me back to your Airbnb?” he asks. We’re standing at a corner and he’s looking at me, but also past me.

“I would love to, if we’re both comfortable that this will be the only time.” I say. I’ve learned from recent failures. I’m leaving on an airplane tomorrow.

“I so want to kiss you,” he says, so I kiss him. He tastes of mint and fruit.

There’s something so intimate yet at the same time so distant about him. He puts me onto a pedestal in such a delicate way. As though I am invited into viewing at the bottom as well as exposing myself at the top.

And speaking of exposing myself, soon I’m naked and he’s still fully dressed. I’m seated in a comfortable chair and he is walking around me, admiring me.

“You are so beautiful, I have never seen anyone shaped like you.”

I notice how often my mind tells me I’m not beautiful. I think of the men who have cried to hear that.

I’m trying to take it in. His eyes on me are penetrating, they cross the physical distance between his body and mine. I feel them roll over my curves.

I can see his cock outlined against the grey seam of his slacks. Hard. When he sees me looking it twitches. The mixture of analysis, restrained desire, and exposure has me frozen. Submissive. And just a little turned on.

He dives to his knees in front of me and stares into my pussy. His body is trembling slightly, high frequency, but I can still see it moving him.

“Can I taste you?” he asks, looking up at me.

“Yes,” I allow. I’m cool, I haven’t had many of the triggers I relate to as desire, but I am ready to receive pleasure. He treats me like a porcelain doll. Like I am so delicate I will break. He touches me gingerly, at arm’s length.

The way he licks me is the same. Too clinical and careful to be hot. I struggle to focus on the sensation because the energy feels so contrived.

It takes me a long time to come and he beams when I do. His exaggerated reactions seem genuine, but they just don’t do it for me. I don’t get why he is so excited about something that wasn’t that great, and I don’t have the heart to tell him.

“I want to see you pleasure yourself.” I say.

He gasps.

“Really?” his face is red.

“I love to watch.” I purr at him.

“God you remind me of a porn actress right now,” he says, unbuckling his belt.

The sound of a man’s belt has always been a turn-on for me. There’s something signature in the sound, metal of different sizes and shapes against other metal. Sliding leather against fabric. Metal against leather. Leather against leather. I’m not into leather specifically, it can be fake. It’ll still do the trick. It’s what the sound signifies that gets me anyway. There’s disrobing around the sound of a belt, but even the robing turns me on. Watching a man strap himself in.

And so this is what I focus on as my lover removes his belt. The sounds and the ways I relate to them. I’m searching for the turn-on. He then unbuttons and unzips his pants in one motion and pulls them and his boxers down in another to reveal a beauty of a cock. He wraps his hand around it, squeezes beads of liquid from the tip and grunts.

“You stepped out of some fantasy Renaissance world into mine and you’re letting me look at you, you little slut.”

I startle. Not expecting this dirty talk. My pussy throbs. The turn-on has found me.

His hand is still around his cock, slowly squeezing, sequentially sliding his palm a millimeter along from base to tip.

“I wonder how many nasty men you’ve met off Tinder and let touch that beautiful body of yours. No one should touch you. You’re a work of art. How many men have you let inside you? All of them? I know they all want you. How could they not?”

He gasps, breathless at the last sentence, a mixture of a hiss and a moan. Angry and hopeless. Milking himself slowly.

I look at him with a smile and run my hands over my body. Let them linger around my breasts, circling them. Trace the hourglass down my hips and legs. Lean forward.

He winces with pleasure.

Turns his head away from me for a second and then back, clucks his tongue and takes a ragged breath, and then grips his cock and starts beating himself as though he’s tried not to and is still trying not to. Moving his head around like he wants to snake his way out of what he’s doing.

“Oh no, you fucking whore look what you are doing to me. Look what you are making me do.” He moans, holding on to the last vowel. Composure cracked. Masturbating like there is no one in the room but himself. His left hand hanging and bouncing uselessly at his side as though it wants to distance itself from the shameful action.

I trace my toes with my fingers, looking back and forth between my hands, his hands, and his eyes. He slows his pace a little.

I caress my ankles, moving my hands slowly and sensuously in figure eights over my skin up my legs, over my hips and belly to my breasts again, and then my neck, and then clasp them both around my neck and give a squeeze to simulate a moment of choke, staring him in the eye to see if strangling turns him on and I can see that contrast in his reaction.

It does. And yes, he detests that it does.

“Fucking cunt,” he says sharply, and bends over forwards as he swiftly works his cock. His composure slides further. The sound of the slickness of his skin and the motion of his fancy watch and his spit-addled breathing makes my clit swell.

I keep one hand around my throat and suck my other finger. Start to languidly play with my clit.

“You can’t fucking do that,” he cries. Literally. Tears roll out of his eyes as they narrow at the corners. His face is red. “Can’t you see what you are doing to me?” he pleads.

“I can see. You’re nothing but a dirty little boy who can’t take a real woman or real sex or receiving pleasure and has to stand at a distance because you want something you can’t have. You want something you don’t deserve.”

I test his frequencies. It lands.

“Fuck you, you sexy little bitch. I’ll show you what you deserve,” he sobs angrily and with this there is a hint of an Italian accent and I see him red faced, jerking himself off with no reservations, passionate, and mad.

And with this we are staring into each other’s eyes, furiously fingering ourselves, as if there is glass between us and it is a fucking race. Or a war.

It’s a tie. A draw. My body starts to harden and back arches in the chair, and as I do he quickens to a furious pace.

“Oh no you don’t you fucking cunt, don’t you fucking make me do this. Puttana.” He sputters. His lips are spread, teeth bared, body shaking with the rhythm of his wank, eyes rolling back in his head.

I shake while screaming to a shockingly powerful orgasm.

“I’ll do what I want,” I say breathlessly.

“You did this to me,” he screams. He strains without breathing, hand working himself at a frenzied pace until it stops, frozen, at the base of his cock and his body snaps still for a second and then he howls with all his lungs as he shoots jets in my direction that – though long – never make it, splattering the tile floor.

My Sicilian lover is shy and polite and kind and stays for tea, with pinky raised. And conversation about safe topics and soft kisses before delicately excusing himself with a sweet, wistful smile.


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