Category Archives: Boys I’ve had

On fucking in the toilets

I need to clarify – if only because at some point my Mum might read this and be disappointed in me – that I don’t confine my toilet-based sexual activity just to wanking. I’m a big fan of risky sex with other people too. Here is a trilogy of stories about fucking in the toilets.


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On number 20

Initially I thought number 20 was a massive liar.

I only saw him once, but he was great – beautifully scruffy, with a lopsided smile and a penchant for getting so stoned I could feel the high through his tingling skin. It was good, for a first date. But I still thought he was a liar.

He told me that he only ever watched porn that girls he knew had made for him. Specifically, he collected clips of them masturbating. Some of it, he said, was full-frontal – you saw their tits jiggle and their cunt get slick as they fucked themselves, rubbed their clits and finally came, just for him, in grainy homemade videos.

Some of it was filmed just in close-up on their faces. Women he’d known, loved, fucked, and got drunk with would stare straight down the camera as they made themselves come.

Hot, yes. True? I doubted it. Women, I thought, would be naturally nervous about doing this. Not just because they’d worry that the footage would fall into the wrong hands (although for the record he did not offer to show me, and I didn’t ask to see) but because wanking is special – private.

I don’t actually like to wank on the bus

Wanking is something that even I, an irritating exhibitionist sex-pest, feel nervous about doing in front of someone. It’s what I do on my own -it’s mine.

When I wank in front of someone I feel a bizarre urge to do it wrong – to do it like they do in porn. To spread my cunt wide and fuck myself with my fingers so the watching boy gets a good view. To wank so that it’s difficult to come, so that I last. Home alone I can go from nought to soaking orgasm in the time it’d take to fire up xhamster, but in front of others I’m embarassed to do that. I don’ t want to be a freak, I want to be like the girls in porn.

And ridiculously I thought all women would be the same. I didn’t realise at the time that girls can be sexually confident enough to wank on demand for a friend. That they could be open enough to let a guy keep footage of their most private moments, just to facilitate his own private moments. I was an idiot.

It’s actually quite a big favour

Number 20 didn’t ask me to fuck. He got stoned, and stoned, and stoned until it was time for me to leave. Then as I put my shoes on he leapt on me. Pulling at my clothes and kissing like a teenager, he whispered excuses to lower my expectations.

“I’m on antidepressants.”

My hand strayed to his cock, and squeezed. He was rock-solid and straining at the crotch of his trousers.

“I find it hard to… finish things.”

I undid his flies.

He took me into the bedroom and took off everything I had. Frantically, like he wanted to prove to me that he could fuck. And he could – he was good. His cock was long, and thick, and straight. As he fucked me I could feel it stretching my cunt, filling me up, hitting the back of my cervix like he wanted to get as far inside me as possible.

As I came I licked his neck, tasting the mixture of sweat and lingering, smoky weed.

And then he stopped. He pulled out, took off the condom, and held his dick in his hand.

“Can I ask you a favour?”

Oh God, please don’t ask me to touch myself.

“Can you touch yourself?”

I’m going to be so bad at this.

“That’s it, open your legs so I can see. Lean back. Enjoy it – please. That’s it.”

Awkwardly, nervously, I wanked for him. Aware of my porny attitude, I tried to suppress the temptation – to make startled moans and aching sighs like they do in the movies. To wank like it was normal, like I was at home in my bedroom and having fun. I looked at him, imagined he wasn’t there. Imagined I was watching him on film, in a video made just for me – a guy in front of a webcam holding a nice, thick, straight cock and rubbing it vigorously – lubricating it with spit. Kneeling on the bed with a face red with lust and hands that squeezed tighter the closer I came to coming.

He so clearly liked watching me. He’d enjoyed the sex but while he watched me touch myself he grew even harder, even straighter. His eyes glazed over and his cock turned a darker shade of red. And as he grunted, nearing completion, he moved closer – knelt over me and looked straight at my fingers rubbing hard on my clit.

And then he came. In buckets, in slicks, he shot rivers of watery spunk all over my tits, my neck, my face. Droplets wet the ends of my hair and splattered the well-worn bedsheets. I licked a drop from the side of my mouth and I heard him panting – satisfied and calm.

And then I realised how much he loved this. How hard he’d come just watching me come. So finally I believed him.

As I walked home I was sad that I didn’t make him a video myself.

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On number 2

They say red and green should never be seen, but that does not apply when you are matching awesome stockings with green pants. Fact.God I loved number 2. Brash, funny, intelligent, and – to my unfading delight – a virgin.

We were frustrated friends. I had a boyfriend, and he’d never had anyone. We’d joke, and play, write filthy notes during English lessons, and brush up against each other on the bus. When we hugged I quivered at the feeling of his thick, satisfying erection pushing against my hips.

I wanted him so badly I utterly ached. We’d sleep at friends’ houses at parties, me lying next to him panting with longing, while he slowly ran his fingers over my nipples. He never tired of the feel of them – the miracle of keeping me on a knife-edge of desire for so long. By the early hours when we finally managed to sleep, my nipples would be red-raw and throbbing with pain.

One night, in bed with a few others asleep beside us, he got brave enough to inch his hand lower. Tentatively, he slipped it down into my knickers. I was slick with frustrated desire – wet as only a teenaged girl can get. He was trembling with lust, and fear, and guilt. He was so hard I worried I’d hurt him if I squeezed his dick with any kind of vigour.

When his hand reached my cunt and he realised how wet I was he couldn’t keep silent – he moaned.

Just remembering number 2’s surprised, lustful moan is one of my hottest memories.

Taking his virginity

After hearing his stifled cry, I couldn’t leave without doing something. At that point I’d have traded my money, my youth, even my as-yet-unfinished A-levels just to have him in me.

I whispered to him, grabbed his hand. We left our friends sleeping and scurried into an empty bedroom.

We fell onto the bed – me in a panting, aching heap and he in a trembling, terrified one.  I kissed him, I told him I wanted him. I fluttered my 17-year-old eyelashes and begged him to fuck me.

He couldn’t fuck me.

He was so scared that he couldn’t get hard. I sucked him gently, I told him he was hot, I told him I was desperate for it, and eventually I got him just hard enough to roll on a condom and try. I climbed on top of him, slipped him into me, and sat down slowly on his semi-hard cock. But it was clear that it just wasn’t happening.

He’d lost his virginity – just. But he’d mislaid a fair portion of his dignity, too, and it broke my heart to think that instead of remembering me with a gleeful nostalgia, he’d look back on the whole thing with shame.

Taking his virginity far more successfully

A couple of weeks later, at his house, he was relaxed. Not calm, as such – his cock was straining at the fabric of his jeans – but he was much readier to fuck.

“What do I do?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Can I do this?”

“Yes. Please.”

“What if I’m crap?”

“You’re not.”

He rubbed himself frantically against me, touching wherever he thought he was allowed. I pulled up my top, unhooked my bra, guided him. I wanted to show him he wasn’t just allowed – he was needed – I needed him to touch me, to fuck me. I needed him inside me, to quell the aching hurt in my cunt. He didn’t need to make me come, he just needed to be in me, to give me some release.

He panted, and moaned, and struggled to take off his jeans – his hands shook with lust and he moaned with frustration. I helped him get them off, wrapped my legs around him, and held myself up – nice and wide and easy so he could slide himself in.

With his hands each side of my head he pushed his cock into me – deep and rock hard. Hard like I longed for. Hard enough that I felt it stretch me out, open me up – scratch the itch that he’d created during those long nights of furtively stroking my nipples. The itch he’d created with that anguished desperate moan.

As he fucked me he looked surprised, confused and delighted. I was relieved to be rid of the throbbing, aching need to fuck. I grinned, forced myself up – thrust angrily against him so he could feel every movement. As he sped up he let out a strangled cry – “Oh” – so I squeezed him with my cunt and my thighs as I felt him come hard inside me.

It was possibly the best five seconds of my entire fucking life.

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On number 16

Number 16 was a rare find – a genuinely good mate with whom I spent many a brilliant hour getting utterly pissed and chatting about anything and everything.

The first time we had sex was a complete accident – I don’t think either of us had entertained the notion until one night, after downing enough tequila to fell an elephant, we ended up snogging mid-karaoke in a dirty pub at 2 am.

Oh. We’re doing this, are we? OK.

That initial shag eventually led to a comfortable routine – beer, more beer, yet more beer and then a pissed stumble back to his flat where we’d swap stories of past sexual conquests, smoke an obscene number of fags, then undress each other and fuck like we were playing tennis.

I don’t want to describe a specific incident, but I would like to make an observation – number 16 made noises.

The sex itself was vanilla – frantic, hot, pissed and desperate. We’d both decide we’d had enough of drinking and went into his room to strip off. And while we were stripping he’d talk, and while he was cupping my tits in his hands he’d talk, and when we were fucking he’d talk. And it was so. Fucking. Good.

He spoke to me, he moaned, he said ‘oh yes’ when I did something nice. He sucked in big gulps of breath while I had his cock in my mouth. He sighed. He moaned a bit more. He went ‘ugh’ when he came.

Number 16 said things and talked dirty. He told me he was hard, that he loved how it felt when he was inside me. He told me how wet I was. He asked me if I liked it. He groaned and sighed and climaxed with vocal, lusty relief.

Good lord the world could do with more vocal boys. Vocal boys make me feel so good. I love the challenge of doing things to make them go ‘aaah’ and if I get that feedback I’m going to keep doing it again and again. If I could request anything from the gentlemen of this world it’d be to turn up the fucking volume.

You don’t have to shout it from the rooftops, you don’t have to scream and cry and wail like a mourning widow. But don’t lie there in silence, humping me stoically with a face of concentration like you’re solving a particularly difficult crossword puzzle. Come on boys – make some noise.


We’re still mates. He has a girlfriend now and is almost like a proper grown-up. They go on holiday and have dates and are serious with each other, and when we get together for beers he tells me about her and I’m pleased that he’s got the secure happiness which, let’s be frank, I can’t give to guys.

But I still look at him and want to tear him apart.

I see his sexy, filthy hands gripped round a pint glass and remember how he’d take his rings off before plunging his fingers into my cunt.

How he’d hold my hair back so he could watch me taking the length of his cock into my mouth.

How he’d squeeze my tits nice and hard, and tell me that I liked it.

I mostly remember the noisy sex – what he sounded like.  What he’d say to me, how he’d moan and sigh. Best of all that wonderful, audible moment when he’d shudder and – with a muffled cry – come deep inside me so hard I could feel it.

On number 15

Number 15 fucks me slowly. So so slowly.

I have no idea why – he’s so dominant, and angry, and beats me hard with belts. When we’re playing he’ll fuck me with his hands so quickly that I tense up and writhe. He straps me with such force that I yelp, and occasionally beg him to stop.

The pace before sex is quick, and hard, and he feels like the kind of guy who’d push me up against a wall and shag me with a frantic desperation that would make my head spin.

But when we’re fucking, he holds back and takes his time. He kneels between my legs and puts the tip of his cock inside me and then, as I beg him for more of it, he slowly pushes harder, filling me up with his huge, rock-solid dick.

I don’t think I realised how good that could be until I met number 15.

With his hands gripping my thighs, he pulls me down further onto his cock as I wriggle and force myself onto him. He leans down into me and fucks me with long, slow strokes. He makes me wait for it, and he makes me work for it, and he pushes me back down if I grip him and thrust my cunt up further onto him.

Number 15 places his hands either side of my head as he shoves himself further into me. Did I mention that he’s huge? His cock is long and thick and always rock solid. With slow, intimidating control, he leaves me shuddering with frustration and squirming as I try to fill myself with all of it.

As I start making muffled sounds of frustration, and gripping his back to pull him harder onto me – deeper, and further into me – he picks up the pace. Not enough – not nearly enough – but slightly faster, so I can get more from him by pushing my hips up and shoving myself onto him. Harder. Faster.

I get a bit loud because I need him to speed up. I can’t get there without it. I need it harder, and faster, and I know that if he’d just do it for a few seconds I’d be there, and the need to be there is so deliciously painful. It aches right through my cunt – the need to come. It hurts.

I cry out.

And I grip him harder.

And I writhe, and fuck him harder.

And I say please please pleasepleaseplease

And then he does. For one brilliant, wonderful moment he does. His cock is slamming into me with force and power and anger and lust and speed.

And I fall back, and my body tenses, and my cunt twitches. My back arches and I come all over his cock, and he can feel me writhe as I shudder all the frustration out of my body.

As I pant and smile and my eyelids droop with exhaustion he sits on my chest, with one hand on my neck and one hand gripping the base of his huge, still dripping cock.

He tells me to open my mouth.


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