When Valentine’s Day comes around I’m struck by the uniform nature of seduction – if we’ve decided to spend the 14th having a sexy evening in, we’re expected to conjure romance and sexiness using lingerie, rose petals, and a strategically timed raise of the eyebrow. Words like ‘intimate’ and ‘sensual’ are hurled around with casual abandon, as if these are things anyone can just conjure out of thin air. As if all sex starts with a soundtrack and a flurry of silk sheets and voile.
I can’t help but think I’m expected to charm guys into bed with grace and dignity, ideally leaving a waft of some expensive perfume leaving a trail from the doorway to the bed.
That is not my seduction style.
This one time at a spanking party
I went in, dressed in exactly the kind of outfit I hoped would attract dudes: tiny skirt, fishnets, tight shirt unbuttoned to the waist and an underbust corset to shove everything up as high as it would go. I wouldn’t say my tits were magnificent, but they were as close to ‘great’ as they ever get without photoshop. My partner wandered in beside me in jeans and a t-shirt, because that’s how he rolled and he looked really fucking sexy like that. We greeted old friends, made a few new ones, and I necked a glass of wine as a starter for ten.
It wasn’t long before my dude had the attention of a few people, because he was shy and skinny and hot and there were a couple of dom dudes who went for that sort of thing. So I stood in a corner slicking my knickers for a while, watching them paw and swat at him, before stalking off to find a guy who might be willing to do similar things to me.
And it. Was. Hard.
Like, really hard. There were a bunch of people there who I’d played with before, a whole tonne of whom I fancied, and at least three guys of exactly the type I was after: older gents with a dirty teacher look about them, and big hands gripped round drinks glasses that’d be perfect for smacking me raw. And yet, despite an abundance of guys, not one of them had outright asked me “hey can I take you upstairs and do bad bad things to your arse please?”
Not a one.
I flirted, and I smiled, and I necked more wine, and I tried to tempt one away from the conversation he was having. He flirted back repeatedly until I was practically shaking at the knees.
And still he remained neutral, asking questions like ‘so, do you come here often?’ and ‘how about I feed you what is really obviously a chat-up line without actually asking you to fuck?’
As you can tell, I was a bit frustrated.
Eventually, he started to twig that I was up for playing. Probably about halfway through the detailed explanation of exactly what I wanted a guy to do to me, when I screeched from the third-person ‘he/they’ and replaced it with a second-person ‘you’ and an irritable raise of my eyebrows.
“Do you… do you want me to spank you?” he asked, and I managed to maintain my mysterious allure by giving a simple nod of the head. Haha, I’m joking of course. While I’d love to think I had the willpower to appear cool, what I actually did was splutter “YES PLEASE” then run for the bedroom like a dog that’s on a promise of ‘walkies’.
When we got into the bedroom – set up with a couple of spanking benches ready for the party – I hurled myself over a bench, spread my legs open, and panted ‘hurt me hurt me hurt me.’ The guy in question spent a precious three minutes explaining that he hadn’t want to appear too forward downstairs, and that he thought I wouldn’t want to play with him because he was so much older. After I’d snorted rather unattractively and assured him that he was exactly the sort of person I wanted to play with, we established a safe word and he got down to it.
And he did properly get down to it, to be fair. He was excellent. As I’d suspected when I made my initial approach, this wasn’t a guy prone to fucking about with a gentle warm-up spanking or keeping his distance while he worked me over. His first whack was so hard it knocked the breath out of me, and as further slaps fell, he pressed himself to the side of my hips so I could feel his growing erection. Using his other hand to press down hard on the small of my back to keep me in place, he alternated between slapping me and squeezing me – pinching and stinging my arse until I could feel my arousal soaking through my knickers.
At that moment I’d have given anything for him to whip them down and fuck me over the bench. But he didn’t. He kept beating and beating until I was raw and involuntary tears slipped down my cheeks. I pressed my hip closer against him and felt the stiffness of his cock grinding into me. And I needed a fuck. I needed him to touch me. I wanted to be the seductive, playful, graceful girl who could – with one word – communicate exactly what I needed.
But I wasn’t, of course, because in case you haven’t yet realised, my seduction style is best described as ‘petulant child.’ I took the beating for as long as I could, then moaned the safeword with a combination of arousal and abject despair. He rubbed the stinging heat out of my arse and moved his hand ever so slightly towards my aching cunt. At which point I sealed the deal by shouting:
“For fucks sake, just TOUCH IT.”
So there you have it: my appalling seduction style. I could cook a romantic meal, dress up in the sexy lingerie, at a pinch I could even spread rose petals. But come bedtime I’ll be lying semi naked on the living room floor, arse in the air and knickers round my ankles, shouting “Jesus Christ will you please just FUCK ME ALREADY.”