Category Archives: Filthy ones
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.”
Someone else’s story: ‘Bending’ by Greta Christina
I want to talk about fantasy and issues around consent. This blog touches on both of these things. Everything in it is consensual, but if discussions around this upset you or make you uncomfortable, you might prefer not to read it.
Consent is utterly fundamental when you’re having sex. It’s so fundamental, so important, that the vast majority of people wouldn’t even need to hear that stated: you just know. As you know it’s wrong to punch a stranger, sneak meat into vegetarian lasagne, or throw a kitten into a lake.
However, despite knowing these things are wrong, we’re more than happy for them to happen in fiction. We’ll cheer when the baddie gets punched in an action film, smile when Tom gets hit by Jerry, or laugh along when David Mitchell suggests that Robert Webb should kill and eat a cat. We’re perfectly capable of distinguishing fantasy from reality.
‘Bending’ by Greta Christina
I was recently sent a copy of ‘Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More’ by Greta Christina. It’s a thoughtful, sordid, delicious shock of a book. She and I clearly have some very similar fantasies, and when I read it I was frequently torn between shouting “OH JESUS YES” and sneaking off the train for a quick wank in the toilets. They’re mostly BDSM-focused, and an excellent demonstration of just how much variety there is in even that one tiny slice of the sexual spectrum. If you like my blog, and the sort of things I write about, I’d be gobsmacked if you didn’t like at least a few of the stories in this book.
However, some of the stories deal with fantasies that involve non-consent. One or more of the fictional participants is being cajoled, bullied or forced into doing something sexual. They describe sort of activities – like a cat being served up for dinner – that we wouldn’t want to see in real life. But does that stop them being hot? Does that make them unethical? I don’t think so. And although I could waffle on about this until my feline steak goes cold, I couldn’t put it better than Greta Christina herself.
Here is an extract from the book’s introduction that she’s kindly allowed me to publish as part of her blog tour:
These are not nice stories.
These are not “erotica” — except in the sense that “erotica” has become the term of art in publishing for “dirty stories with some vaguely serious literary intent.” These are not tender stories about couples in love making love. (Except for the one that is.) These are not sweet, gentle, happy stories about unicorns fucking rainbows. (Except for the one about the unicorn fucking the rainbow.)
A lot of fucked-up shit happens in a lot of these stories. Stuff happens here that is borderline consensual. Stuff happens that is not at all consensual. Stuff happens in which people manipulate other people into doing sexual things they don’t want to do. Stuff happens in which people do sexual things they’re ashamed of. Stuff happens in these stories that, if they happened in real life, I would be appalled and enraged by.
Stuff happens here that excites me to think about when I whack off.
I apparently have a very fucked-up sexual imagination.
But there is also love in these stories. Some of them, anyway. There is the love of long-term couples; there is the love of newly-discovered lovers; there is the love of friends. There is affection — between lovers, between colleagues, between strangers encountered on the street. There is respect: for love, for desire, for scars, for the complicated places where love and desire and scars overlap.
Above all, there is respect for sex itself. I think — I hope — that this respect underlies every story in this book. Beneath the excitement and the fear, the pain and the shame, the helplessness and the hunger, the danger and the love… there is always the idea that sex matters.
Since most of these stories are kinky, and since some people reading this may not be super-familiar with kink, I want to take a moment to talk about kinky porn.
Some of these stories are about consensual sadomasochism. They’re about negotiated SM scenes between consenting adults, with safewords and limits and attention to safety. There’s conflict in the stories, and mis-steps, and bad decisions… but fundamentally, what happens within those stories is consenting. They are attempts to express, in fiction, some of the things that consensual sadomasochists do.
And some of these stories aren’t. Some of these stories are about force, and violation, and abuse of power. They are attempts to describe, not what consensual sadomasochists do, but some of the things we think about. They are attempts to describe some of the images that come into our minds when we masturbate, or have sex, or engage in consensual SM. They are attempts to describe some of the activities that some of us consensually act out with each other. They are fantasies.
And every single story in this book is consensual.
They’re consensual because they’re fiction. They’re consensual because they’re made-up. I consented to write them; you’re consenting to read them. If you don’t want to read this kind of thing, this isn’t the book for you. I encourage you to put it down, and read something else.
It’s funny. When it comes to things that aren’t sex, people seem to understand this distinction. People get that enjoying spy novels doesn’t mean you want to join the CIA; that enjoying murder mysteries doesn’t mean you want to kill people; that enjoying heist thrillers doesn’t mean you want to break into Fort Knox. People understand that it’s fun and exciting to imagine things we wouldn’t actually want to do — even things we think are immoral.
But for some reason, porn often gets held to a different standard. Depicting a fantasy of a sex act is often assumed to be an endorsement of that act. So let me spell it out: I do not endorse sexual force, abuse of power, rape, or any form of violation of sexual consent. I am vehemently opposed to them.
I am, however, unapologetic about the fact that I like to fantasize about them. If we have any freedom at all, it’s the freedom between our ears: the freedom to think about whatever we like. And that includes sex.
If this has intrigued you, do check out the book – available on Kindle, Nook, Smashwords, and eventually print and audiobook too.
And if this has enraged you, I’d genuinely love to know why. What makes sex different? I don’t want to live in a world where we can’t separate fantasy from reality. That means not just comedy, cartoons, and action films but sex as well.
On the Pussy Pride Project
Tell me I’ve got nice eyes and I’ll blush. Tell me I’ve got lovely tits and I’ll melt into a puddle of flattered joy at your feet. But there’s one compliment I find quite tricky to take, and it’s this one:
“You’ve got a pretty cunt.”
Believe it or not, this is something that my favourite boy tells me a lot. And I mean a lot. When I’m bending over in a t-shirt and he can see it framed neatly at the top of my thighs, when he’s knelt between my legs rubbing softly at himself and staring at it, exposed for him to come on – he tells me my cunt is pretty.
I don’t get it
If you’d asked me when I was sixteen I’d have told you that I thought all cunts looked roughly the same. Not exactly like the diagrams in a biology textbook, and with slightly different patterns of hair growth, but roughly the same. Naturally, as with most things I thought when I was sixteen, I was wrong.
As an adult who watches a fair amount of porn, I’m fascinated by the different appearance of different women’s cunts. They’re like fingerprints – unique in subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle ways. The shape and colour of the labia, the length of the slit, everything.
The Pussy Pride Project
A while ago Molly (of Molly’s Daily Kiss fame) started the Pussy Pride project – aimed at getting women to talk about their pussies (I’m not a particular fan of the word, so I’ll switch back to ‘cunt’ now). And it’s utterly and addictively fascinating. The pictures that people post, and the way they all think about themselves.
Confused by the boy’s assertions that my cunt was ‘pretty’, I sat him down in front of lots of pictures of different cunts and asked him to explain what exactly it was that made one pretty. Because I am scientific and bolshy like that.
The answer came back as an unequivocal ‘how the fuck should I know?’ – there were lots that he picked out and said ‘oh, that one. Definitely’ but when questioned on why he had no explanation. For the same reason, I suspect, he refuses to appraise tits in any meaningful way because he thinks almost all of them are perfect by the very nature of what they are.
So does that mean my cunt isn’t, in fact, pretty, but is simply appreciated in virtue of the fact that it’s warm and wet and fun to stick one’s cock into? Perhaps. Or does it mean that the particular unique look of mine just appeals to the boy, in the same way as a Rothko might appeal to an art enthusiast but make me want to roll my eyes and say ‘but it’s just a bunch of lines’?
I don’t like the look of my cunt
I don’t have any particular problem with my cunt. If you offered me a free plastic surgeon, willing to sculpt my body in any way I chose, I’d turn down the appointment before you could say ‘you’re not coming anywhere near my genitals with a scalpel.’ And even if I were happy to be sculpted and shaped, I wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly which shape I’d like my cunt to be. I just want it to look like a cunt.
More importantly, I want it to feel like a cunt. To be honest I don’t mind what shape it is, what colour, whether the pubes are shaved into a little heart shape (they’re not, by the way, fuck that for a waste of my time) or whether its astounding beauty has men swooning at my crotch in a lather of artistic ecstasy.
I just want guys to like it enough to put their cocks into it. Because I know damn well that the external appearance of my cunt doesn’t matter too much – it’s what’s inside it that counts.
On CFNM (clothed female, naked male)
You’re hot when you’re naked. Not quite as hot as when you’re semi-naked, of course – we’ve discussed that before. But there’s something deeply satisfying about your nakedness against my clothes. Me, in jeans and a soft jersey, sneaking into bed and pressing the whole of myself up against your sleeping flesh.
I’ve had a few people ask me to write about CFNM (it stands for Clothed Female Naked Male – presumably there’s also a CMNF, but that might have to wait for another day). For some people it’s a very specific fetish, and they can’t get off without it. For me, it falls into the same category as most fetishes: I’m not obsessed with it, but I can more than understand why other people are.
It’s often a FemDomme thing, a submissive guy bares all but is denied the pleasure of seeing tits in return. I certainly know a few submissive men who like the idea of being stripped bare and used by a clothed, powerful woman who answers only to the name of ‘Mistress’. But I think it’s more than possible to get tingling hot feelings the other way round too. Whether I’m on top, on the bottom, or floating lazily somewhere in between, having a naked guy between my jeans-clad thighs is a very hot thing indeed. I’ll show you what I mean:
CFNM (Submissive girl, dominant guy)
If you’re naked and I’m not none of the usual things occur. You can’t squeeze my tits or bite my nipples as you call me a dirty girl and ask what I’m hoping you’ll do to me. There are fewer words. Naked and needing release, the only thing for you to do is push me down onto my knees, hold my hair and smile as I suck a fresh erection into your waiting dick.
If you’re naked and I’m not then as I wet the tip of your cock I’ll spread my legs wider, letting the seam of my jeans push tightly against my clit. I’ll hold my hands behind my back so that my tits stretch out my top. And I’ll feel the wetness soaking into the crotch of my knickers.
If you’re naked and I’m not I’ll feel dirtier than I would naked. Because I can’t shower off whatever you cover me in.
I’ll feel the wetness in my knickers, and feel ashamed. If you hold my head still and fuck my face, the spit will run down my chin, my neck, and onto the front of my shirt. And I’ll cross my fingers and will you to call me a messy girl again.
Other way round (Dominant girl, submissive guy)
I like to curl up behind you in the morning, when you’re still asleep and I’m awake and dressed, and fit my body neatly behind yours, my thighs touching the back of yours, my tits squashing against you through my t-shirt. It’s CFNM, but with a different tone to that above.
I like, as you stir ever so slightly, to slip one of my arms under your head and around your neck so that I can pinch your nipples and stroke your chest, the reverse of what you do for me when we go to sleep.
I enjoy the moment as you wake up, roll over and see me there – wide awake and eager for you.
When you’re naked and I’m not I have more of the power. I like being able to look at you exposed and cold, and take my time to run my palms over all of you. I like taking your flaccid cock in my hand and squeezing gently until you’re semi-hard.
But best of all I like to keep my knickers on – sliding them just far enough to one side that I can sit slickly down onto your dick while you place your hands behind your head and wait for me to come.
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On swingers’ club rules and politeness: one time I fucked up
Someone on Twitter has pointed out that this blog is quite disturbing/triggering, because there is an element of non-consent/coercion. Please be aware of this before you start reading. If you’d like any reassurance, know that I am absolutely fine, and this swingers’ club trip happened a long time ago – both me and the guy I went with discussed it afterwards in detail, and established some of our own rules of engagement to go along with the standard swingers club rules, so we could both have a sexier time.