Category Archives: Boys I’ve had
An important relationship principle, learnt via cock rings
“You’ve put it on the wrong way.”
“I… no I haven’t.”
“You have it’s… look, the vibrating bit goes next to the balls.”
“No it fucking doesn’t.”
I own a few different cock rings, most of them fairly simple rings with one bullet vibe attached. I mainly own these ones because, until the encounter mentioned above, I always thought that the WHOLE POINT of a cock ring was that I could grind my clit happily into the buzzy bit, then have an orgasm intense enough that my cuntspasms would induce orgasm in the gentleman I was grinding against.
When I discovered that is not necessarily the case, my tiny mind was blown.
It turns out that he’d used cock rings before during masturbation, and had particularly enjoyed the tingling sensation that comes from putting a cock ring on upside-down, and feeling it tickle his balls. This put me in something of a quandary, because I’d always thought that cock rings were meant for me. To discover that these joyful parcels of sexy sensation might, in fact, be something that I had to share gave me a twitch of selfish rage akin to a child being told she has to let other kids play with her Lego.
Four ways to use cock rings that won’t end in a fight
I have come up with four solutions to this problem.
1. Keep the cock ring on my way, grind against him and get him to play with my tits until the resultant orgasmic wave washed over me. After which point I’d take a short break to remove the ring and put it on his way (i.e. the WRONG way), then continue humping until he spaffed. This worked pretty well, but had the drawback that we had to stop shagging just after I’d come, when my knees were weak and wobbly and I was therefore quite likely to fall off the bed, thus shattering my illusion of erotic expertise.
2. Use two cock rings at the same time. I haven’t actually tried this one, but I imagine having two means not only that you can have one the right way up and one the wrong way, you also get an extra boost of a cock ring’s best superpower: the ability to get and keep a guy harder than he’d usually be, for as long as it takes for you to ride him like a horny pony. On the downside, as one commenter pointed out, it’s probably not particularly comfortable.
3. Turn around. I’m on top, so I can technically dictate exactly where my clit goes, and therefore by simply turning around I can make sure that it buzzes against me, and against his balls, thus keeping us both happy. Thing is, while plenty of guys I know are generous enough to appreciate the sight of my arse – even if they have their glasses on and are stone-cold sober – I quite like having my tits played with. In fact, my favourite thing about being on top is that I can grab his hands and place them firmly on my tits, feeling him squeeze and support them like an enthusiastic bra-butler.
4. Get one that has two vibrating bits.
The moral of the story
Relationships are usually about give and take – going out of your way to ensure your partner’s pleasure, and putting their needs first. But occasionally – very occasionally – they are about spending twenty quid on a dual-vibrating cock ring to ensure you have no further arguments on the subject.
If you’re going to get a dual-vibrating cock ring, here are a couple of suggestions: this one’s a budget version if you’re tight on cash, and this one’s a slightly more expensive version but I reckon has a few more possibilities depending on which way round you put it on. This one is out of stock at the moment, but I’d quite like to have a go because it has a sort of cage thingy instead of just a ring, and therefore I suspect is REALLY GOOD at the diamond hardness thing. Use the code GOTN10 at the checkout if you want to get 10% off.
On why absence makes the heart grow fonder
This is a weird one because I’m writing it while the subject is in the next room. Sitting in his pyjamas, frowning at the mysterious black box of web code while he does magical things with his fingers that make the internet happen.
When we’re together, we watch TV. We paint walls, we count pennies, we laugh. And, of course, we fuck.
He’s good at touching me. He touches me all the time – playful slaps on the arse when we’re making dinner, a casual grope while we catch up on Game of Thrones, kisses and sly strokes that end with his hand down the back of my knickers, warm and soft against my arse.
If I wanted to, I could walk through into the next room to touch him right now. But I won’t.
I’m crap at affection
Despite being a filthy girl, keen to be used and abused, I’m not so great at touching. While I’ll happily sit and stroke someone for a while, or get comfy in the crook of their shoulder as we watch TV, I reject casual affection the way you’d swat away a mosquito.
Fuck off, I’m busy.
Don’t touch me, I’m eating.
Cooking.
Doing the washing up.
Just… get your hands off me. I feel trapped.
Because I associate hugs and affection with a certain kind of choking panic, I anticipate that every hug I enter into could end up siphoning five minutes of otherwise productive time out of my day. I’m an idiot, of course – if affection and touching were as terrifying as my knee-jerk reaction tells me it is I wouldn’t have spent half my life in bed with guys who make me cry with orgasmic joy.
And yet I look for escape routes. I watch the clock over his shoulder. I forget that, actually, I do really enjoy this when I can just shut my brain up for five minutes and settle into it.
The hotness helps my brain do exactly that. A cuddle for the sake of a cuddle brings on trembling and twitching – an unnecessary and irrational this-isn’t-getting-the-bills-paid panic. But a sly hand down the back of my jeans, cupping one of my arse cheeks and pushing two fingers’ worth of knickers into the crack of my crotch? That’s distracting. That’s fun. That’s the button I need pushed before I can sigh relief and hug back with enthusiasm.
An absence of affection
As I say, I could touch him now if I wanted to. I could wander into the next room, strip to my underwear, and slide his laptop off his knee. I could straddle and fuck him on the squeaky sofa, pushing my nipples into his face and reveling in his delighted moans.
But I’m not going to do that, because the anxiety tells me that I shouldn’t be fucking, I should be working, and affection can wait until later. It can probably wait until tonight, when we’ve both clocked off. Sadly then I might not be in the same hungry-horny mood: the waves will have subsided and I’ll be back to pushing him away, twitching at his deliciously warm hands teasing my cunt while I’m trying to cook dinner. At the time I won’t regret it – I’ll see myself as the sensible one, She Who Shan’t Be Distracted, who Gets Things Done.
It doesn’t really matter today, when he’s nearby, but when this blog goes live on Sunday, I’ll be far away. Creeping hands and playful slaps will be replaced with curt texts and joky emails, and all the ‘Miss you’s and ‘Love you’s that I forget to say when he’s around. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it also makes the brain realise what an incomparable prick it can be when it has everything at its fingertips.
I won’t be able to walk through to the next room to touch him. I won’t be able to bury my face in his stomach and tell him he’s delicious. I’ll feel, but be pathetically unable to articulate, just how fucking stupid I am for knocking him back day after day. His hands won’t be on me, and I’ll have all the time and space and independence I am usually crying out for.
And because I’ll have it, I will hate it. And I will miss him.
On intense pain
When I think about pain, there’s one particular guy who comes into my head. Many of the guys I’ve been with have helped me squirm in delicious agony, but there’s one in particular who hurt me more than any other. Exquisitely.
Everything that happens in this story was heavenly. To this day, I still daydream about it when I’m horny and itching and only some hurting will do.
Softly softly
This guy was only a few years older, but light-years ahead of me in maturity. He had a neat haircut, wore suits, was chivalrous in an old-fashioned way that I’d have found adorable in someone less dominant. He had a calm, detached air – the kind that comes from knowing I’ll do exactly what he says. He treated me as if I was utterly fragile, yet still his to break.
I rang the doorbell, having refused his offer to escort me from the tube station: something about the cold walk to his house helped to focus my mind. He opened the door with a courteous smile, and ushered me inside in a way that his curtain-twitching neighbours would have approved of.
Then he closed the door with a controlled ‘click’.
“Take off your boots.”
I took off my boots.
There was silence – one beat, two beats.
I lined them up neatly next to his own shoes by the door.
Three beats. Four beats.
Then he pounced.
Grabbing me by the hair he pushed my face up against the wall, twisting my neck awkwardly so I was poised in a semi-standing crouch. Makeup smeared against the wallpaper, hands pressed against the wall to hold myself steady.
Keeping my hair firmly gripped in his hand, he used his other hand to grope me – to inspect me. His roughness didn’t outweigh his calm, though. Every movement was carefully measured – squeezing one of my tits, sliding slowly down over my waist and hips, carefully pulling up the hem of my skirt so he could run his fingers against the crotch of my knickers.
“You’re wet.”
“Yes.” I was dreading what was coming next. Please don’t make me say ‘sir’, please don’t make me say ‘sir’, please…
One beat, two beats…
“Yes what?”
“Sir.”
A few ‘sirs’ and light slaps later, and he was leading me by the hair into his bedroom. This was essentially what I’d turned up for. It’s all very well being told off in a hallway, but I wanted him to turn his controlling nature to pain.
I’ve never been much of a pain slut – I enjoy being spanked not because I like the feeling of the slaps, but because I love that the guy in question gets off on it: I like that hearing the thwack of belt on skin makes him hard. That I get to feel dirty and bad even as I’m feeling ecstatic.
He didn’t disappoint.
Stripped to the waist, with skirt hiked up around my middle, he pushed me face down on his bed.
“Knickers down.”
I wriggled out of them.
“Hands behind your head.”
Again, I did as I was told.
“Bite down on this.”
He placed a leather strap in my mouth, and I had a nervous three seconds to wonder what he was going to hit me with before he brought a slipper down onto my arse with a solid, painful thump. I twitched, and arched my back slightly for the second blow.
Thud. Ouch. On and on until my eyes watered. Each one in exactly the same place, the stinging heat growing more intense with every stroke. I could feel from the strength and impact that he wasn’t just testing me – he was drawing his arm back and whacking me with full force. Unable to see him, I pictured it in my head – his arm drawn back above his shoulder, hand holding the slipper, face placid and expressionless, then the twitch of a sadistic smile as he whipped it down again. My stomach thumped with arousal.
“Keep your head down,” he said. “Eyes closed.”
I disobeyed him – I wanted to see what he was bringing next. Through semi-open eyelids I watched him stride across the room: no rushing, still oozing calm control. He opened the wardrobe then did one of the hottest things dominant guys can do before a beating: he rolled up his sleeves. At that point I put my head down, revelling in the anticipation of the unknown. I’d told him before I arrived that I wanted him to hit me – hurt me. Push me with pain I didn’t truly like – less thudding and thick slaps, more thin whips and tingling canes. He took me at my word.
The first stroke didn’t hurt for two seconds – I just heard the whish-click as it landed across the top of my thighs. Then the sting came. Red-hot and searing through my skin, cold metal and hot coal and ice and fire and pain.
“Good,” He crooned. “Good-” whip “-girl.” smack.
He used the wire on me a few more times – each time putting a bit more swing into it, bringing it down a bit quicker, harder. I bit down on the strap and let out a muffled cry. He moved around me, no longer standing at the side but directly in front of my face. I could see his dick pushing tight and hard against the crotch of his trousers. I arched my back further and pushed my stinging arse into the air. He leant forward and hit me again – three more times, harder than he had before, until my head was swimming with pain. I dropped the strap from my mouth and groaned.
“Ow.” Once more – whish-click. “OW! Fuck. Please. It hurts too much.”
He dropped the wire and bent forward over me. I felt his hands on my arse, rubbing, kneading, pushing the pain deep into my muscles and away from the raw surface of my skin. His hands were cool, and I wanted him to keep them on me, still and calm, until the pain was over.
But he didn’t.
He stood up, unzipped his trousers, and lifted my head up so he could slide his dick into my mouth. I sucked him, hard, wanting to feel his dick twitch like I’d twitched when he hit me. When his spunk hit the back of my throat it was as warm and welcome as the stinging slaps he’d given me.
On why driving is sexy
As ever, I’m giving directions.
“Straight on here,” as we hit the roundabout, and he follows. A quick check in his rear view mirror to see whether anyone’s behind us. They’re not – it’s dark, late, and a much quieter road to the ones we’re used to. He lays a hand on my thigh, pushing my skirt up, never once taking his eyes off the road.
I love watching guys drive
Despite being so old that my fascination with it is bizarre, I find driving incredibly sexy. Not when I do it, of course. On the rare occasions I get behind the wheel it’s less of a journey than a slow, arduous panic-attack from A to B.
But the teenage girl I wish I still was loves watching boys drive.
The physicality of it is hot, naturally. Driving involves lots of showing-off of hands, one of the sexiest physical features. Gripping and releasing the handbrake, curving a hand around the gearstick, gently flicking accelerators and letting the wheel slide smoothly through their palms.
Not to mention that driving, much like playing Xbox, is an activity that requires so much concentration I am barely a distraction in the corner of his eye.
Most importantly, the driver is always the most powerful person in the car. The one who chooses the music, decides when you can stop, tells you to stop mucking about. The driver is the person who decides to pull over.
We’ll get back to that sexy bit now, shall we?
He flicked the indicator when he spotted a layby – behind a row of waist-high bushes, just enough for some vague cover but not quite enough to make me feel wholly comfortable. He parked the car and undid his seatbelt, reaching over for mine at the same time.
I grinned, and looked up at him in the way I imagined I would if I were genuinely nervous. I shifted in my seat, pulling my skirt up further so my naked cunt touched the seat.
“You’re a good girl,” he said, and pulled my face towards him. He was grinning too, not quite happy enough to take the power seriously.
“Do you want to show me your cunt?”
Yes. Always. I lifted my skirt higher and he pulled me forward, pushing my head into his lap with his right hand (his steering wheel hand) while his left snaked down my back and behind to squeeze me. I fumbled with his belt, feeling him rock solid through his trousers, straining to push through the zip.
“Good,” he gave me a hand with the zip, squeezing himself tight as I leant forward to suck him. “Good girl.”
Again, that power, the feeling of his hands all over me. The click as he moved his seat back to give me more room to work on him, to suck him. He wasn’t making me, but he wasn’t asking me either. This stop was just an extra bit of the journey, something he got to decide, in the same way as he’d decide the route or choose when we stopped for a piss.
Bucking slightly against the seat, he gripped the back of my head with controlled hands as he twitched mouthfuls of spunk into the back of my throat.
On the way back, we were quiet. My occasional directions half-whispered as I tasted him in my mouth, and the giggling teenager in the back of my mind squirmed with pride.
“My boyfriend’s hot. My boyfriend drives.”
Memorable sexy times of 2012, as told by GOTN’s boy
Every now and then my blogging muse deserts me, and I turn to Twitter for suggestions on what I should write about. Most people, given the season, suggested a 2012 round-up – my best moments of 2012, or something similar. But here’s the problem: I’ve already told you about my sexy times. Whether it’s sucking a guy off while he plays Xbox, berating idiot marketing companies about their patronising terms for female genitalia or furiously masturbating in train toilets, you’ve already seen some of my favourite things.