Category Archives: Boys I’ve had

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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.
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?”

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.

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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.


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On number 13

“What do you want?”
“A gangbang”
“No, really, what do you want?”
“A gangbang.”
“OK. Let’s try again. Within the realms of what I can realistically achieve in the next 24 hours or so, what do you want?”
“I’d like to watch another man sucking your dick.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”

It’s not easy persuading straight guys to have their dick sucked by another guy. Luckily for me the gentleman in question was not so much ‘straight’ as ‘elegantly curved’, and willing to bend in any direction that gave him even a hint of a hard-on.

A few minutes on the internet and we had something – a gay but slightly bi-curious guy had published a straightforward ad offering cocksucking. He just wanted to pop round someone’s house, drop to his knees, suck for a while, then sod off home again. Straight guys were not only welcome, he promised, but his favourite.

We paused briefly, taking a silent moment together to marvel at the pervert possibilities that had been opened up by the internet, then got in touch.

Oh god even remembering it makes me a bit weak

An hour or so later I was sitting, tense, on the sofa waiting for my boy to arrive. He’d gone to the station to meet our stranger, check him out, and have a coffee. If all was well, he promised, they’d return together and I could watch whatever happened.

Nothing quite prepared me for the odd feeling of watching them begin. The boy sat nervously on the sofa, rock-solid and straining upwards, as the stranger went to work. He started by licking thickly from base to tip, smacking his lips and gripping the boy’s thighs as he moistened everything. Then he took the whole cock in his mouth, and I saw the boy tremble as it slipped in. Nervous though he was, he was clearly enjoying it – loving the skill with which the other guy was sucking him.

I sat in the corner on my knees, squeezing my legs together to stop myself trembling too. Watching in fascination as the stranger worked my boy’s dick in ways subtly different from mine. I was trying to remember, to learn, to maintain my composure. Most of all I was trying not to breathe too loudly in case it broke the spell.

It was here that we should have stopped. This was the hottest bit – the sucking, the trembling, the nervousness of the boy I knew and the casual skill of the one I didn’t. If I could have paused time I’d have kept it right there – with them both solid and happy and me sitting quietly nearby.

But we never stop in time

I didn’t want to be the one to suggest a fuck, but I don’t think I needed to. My memory grows hazy halfway through this story, but at some point the boy was lying naked, face down on the bed, with number 13 – the stranger – poised and ready to fuck him. Ever useful, I handed them a condom then retired to my position of trembling observer, watching as they went for it.

The stranger was big – not with muscle, but with beer. The boy was lithe and skinny and almost disappeared under the mass of the other. He turned his face towards me, wincing with pain and arousal as the other guy fucked him. I clasped my hands together behind my back to try and refrain from touching myself.

And then… and then things went a bit odd.

I think they felt guilty that I wasn’t joining in. I think they felt bad that, although they got to rub and lick and suck and fuck each other, I was left in the corner. I think they thought I wasn’t getting anything out of it.

I was summoned and, awkwardly, I went. I took off my clothes, and things suddenly turned from super-hot live-action gay porn to uncomfortable date – I didn’t want to say no and look like I was rude, but saying yes meant I had to fuck someone who had confessed that he didn’t much care about women.

Don’t get me wrong, fucking two gentlemen at once is one of my favourite things, and for all the weirdness of the situation, it was still nice to be at the mercy of two naked cocks. If I’m honest, I’m frequently grateful to be in the same time zone as two naked cocks. But although one of these guys was incredibly hot for me, the other gentleman was pretty damned gay indeed. He wasn’t interested in me, he was interested only in the fact that my presence kept the other guy hard.

We fucked together for a while – my boy fucked me while the stranger fucked him, and then we did it the other way around for a bit, all the while I was thinking ‘how can I get out of this with dignity?’ Watching two guys go at it makes me wet, but feeling one of them limply humping me while looking stonily into the distance, clearly thinking only of maintaining some semblance of an erection, is not exactly my cup of tea.

Awkward goodbyes

When it was finished I think we might actually have had a cup of tea. Just a quick one, the cup of tea that says ‘I definitely want you out of my house very soon, but I’m going to drink hot drinks with you to prove that I do not think badly of you as a person.’ And, to be fair, we didn’t. He was a perfectly lovely guy, and an incredibly skilled cocksucker. He was friendly and chatty and calm and experienced and easy to get on with.

He was just… you know… gay.

There are a number of morals to this story – ‘always stick to what you agreed on the internet’, ‘don’t join in sex scenes you’re uncomfortable with’, ‘be honest about what you actually like’, etc.

But the one I’ve always taken from it is that no matter how much you like someone, and how much you love fucking, sometimes not fucking is the best thing you can do.