Category Archives: Filthy ones
On the Doxy massager: best wand toy ever
About ten years ago, my boyfriend bought me my first ever sex toy. We spent ages in the shop choosing, then eventually came home with a rabbit-type thing that the sales assistant recommended because ‘you’ll regret it if you go for the smaller one.’ That afternoon the boy hand-fucked me with a growing sense of awestruck wonder as I went from ‘oh that’s odd’ to ‘mmm fucking hell’ through to ‘DON’T STOP DON’T STOP OR I SWEAR I WILL EAT MY OWN TONGUE.’
On why learning is hot
I’m the worst student. When I’m not cocking up the task you’ve set me, or getting stroppy because I don’t understand, I’m struggling to concentrate because – God damn my juvenile brain – there’s a teacher, and he’s got such sexy hands and commanding presence and I want to know what it would be like for him to put me over the desk and spank me.
Don’t get me wrong – I listen, I do. But I have such strong connections with school and arousal that there’s an unavoidable physical reaction I get that prevents me from always being the model student.
Teenage kicks right through maths class
Most people have a teacher they used to crush on. I’ve told you about mine before, and the feelings I had for him sit heavily in the back of my mind when I’m in any situation that involves sitting down and listening to a speaker.
But there’s more to the learning/sex association than a hot teacher and my own fluttering eyelashes – school itself was deeply hot.
I was a nerdy child. The one with greasy hair and crap glasses, who sat aching on the sidelines at the school disco, desperate for a boy to rub herself against but never quite cool enough to be asked. Interactions I did have with boys were usually furtive. Geeky guys drew the line at being associated with me and I, keen to ape the mysterious heirarchy of popularity, didn’t want to be too publicly associated with them for similarly misguided childish reasons.
So: furtive secrecy all the way.
A touch under the desk. An elbow brushing my chest when a boy leant across to get a pen. A five-minute grope behind the sheds on the playing fields until the bell rang for the end of lunchtime and I groaned and nearly melted into a puddle of my own frustrated angst.
Maths class was the best. I sat sandwiched between two friends, who used my desperation for in-class touching as an outlet for their own rampaging hormonal curiosity. We’d flirt. We’d touch. We’d scrawl notes to each other in the back of workbooks:
“I had a wank about you last night.”
And all the time knowledge was being hurled at me. Equations, formulae, words, techniques, answers. I wrote it down. I tried to focus. And I tried to wrench my brain away from the fact that oh God his hand was on my thigh and his fingers were so close and if I just shift a little bit to the right he’ll feel the wetness seeping through my knickers.
The hotness of learning doesn’t go away
I’m not young any more, and I can make it through a conference call or a powerpoint presentation without dripping concentrated lust through the crotch of my jeans. But the association, now made, cannot be broken. I’m the one sitting at the back noting down words and feeling hot with the physical memory of classes in which the boys deigned to touch me. The rigid stiffness of sitting still gives me an awareness of all of my muscles, my limbs, the rise and fall of my chest, the pulsing throb of my heartbeat kicking against the seams of my clothes.
It can’t just be me – it’s definitely not just me, right? The combination of youthful memories and adult fantasies means that when I’m at the back of the room I’m more vulnerable to instinctive arousal than ever. I’ll take notes, listen, and ask pertinent questions, but when I shift in my seat it’s not always because I’m uncomfortable.
Eroticon 2014
As you might have guessed, this weekend I was at Eroticon – a spectacular sex writing conference. I kept a bit quiet about going because I don’t like to broadcast where I am at any given point, but this post won’t go live until I’ve left. Alongside writhing in exquisite horniness for two solid days, I learned many fantastic things from some truly brilliant and lovely people. I’m sure I will miss some people off the list because I am fallible and useless and editing this on my phone – but thank you to everyone I met for being kind and putting up with my anxious mumbling.
Ruby Goodnight, Cara Sutra, Emily Dubberley and Mia More – all incredibly lovely people who taught me many things about online writing, press, and working the machine.
Molly and DomSigns – they are like the Sid + Nancy of sex blogging. Follow both of them, and if you get to meet them one day then you are incredibly lucky – try not to be as inarticulate and starstruck as I was.
Pandora Blake, Myles Jackman and Zak Jane Keir – they talked very wisely about censorship, and taught me things that scared the crap out of me. Zak wins the award for ‘quote of the weekend’: “If censorship is the answer, then it was a fucking stupid question.”
Victoria Blisse, KD Grace and London Faerie – sometimes you need to step outside what you know, and these people all taught me really interesting things about perceptions of sex outside my own limited experience and opinions.
The lovely people at Belle de Soir and Doxy who gave me one of these incredibly powerful fuckwands. I have never had a sex toy that comes this close to being an actual power tool, so expect a post soon in which I describe, in excessive detail, the terrifyingly awesome things I expect it’ll do to my cunt.
The excellent and hilarious HarperElliot and Gryphon taught me how to read porn out loud, so if you’re interested in hearing a blog post rather than reading it, let me know and I’ll try to record something using their excellent advice.
And a final, most heartfelt thank you to the awesome Ruby, who is the hard work and exceptional organisation behind Eroticon. You are spectacular, and thank you so much for having me.
On short sex stories
Hotness doesn’t always come in movie-length bursts. Short sex stories and tiny elements of the bigger picture are usually the things that kick off a more solid fantasy. If you’ve ever spent the morning after a great night being ambushed by images and snapshots of the sex you had just hours before, you’ll know what I mean. Filthy memories and stories pop up in small bits – like the sliver of a song that goes round in my head, sometimes I’ll remember just one tiny element of a fuck that’ll leave me frustrated and wet for the rest of the day.
That’s why, when BeingBlackSilk posted a miniature erotic short story earlier this week, I nearly cried with delight. She wrote a tiny tale of filth on a post-it note, and by limiting the tale to 55 words managed to capture exactly that horny kick that I get from flash-memories of times gone by. This idea isn’t just up my street, it’s straight up my garden path, halfway in the door and fucking me naked in the hallway.
So here’s mine – a tiny story from a long time ago.
You know where
I want to leave a plaque: “It was here – the first time I almost…” Next to the fallen tree, hidden from view of the road by broken fencing, the place I first got wet. Where your trembling hands squeezed me and you gasped as you felt my nipples grow hard. Where I panted and thrilled at the feeling of slick lust dripping into my knickers. Where I gripped your tight, twitching dick until you were wet with pleasure too. That place where – half a lifetime ago – I was far too shy to fuck you.
Plenty more sex stories where that came from…
If you’d like some more substantial sex stories, check out the filthy stories section on this blog, or head to the audio porn hub to hear sexy stories read aloud…
Punishment fucking: fuck me like I’m in trouble
The best thing about getting fucked like you’re in trouble is that to get out of trouble, you have to do exactly what you’re told. Here’s a story about punishment fucking, written when I was incredibly horny for exactly this kind of fuck…
On fucking in the mirror
There is no mirror hanging in my hallway at the moment, and this is incredibly sad. My first task this weekend will be to put it back up – there is a direct correlation between how many mirrors I have hanging in my hallway and how likely I am to get fucked up against the hallway wall.
I can see you
Quick, sharp, functional fucks in various places around the flat are always best when done in a strategic place where I can watch him screw me.
In the hallway he usually takes me up against the wall. Often on a Saturday or Sunday morning – he’ll wake up later than me, hear me typing the latest filthy blog entry, and stride purposefully through to the lounge, dressing gown cord pulled tight around his erection.
“Do you fancy sucking my cock?”
Yes. Always. Please.
He’ll head for the bedroom but stop me halfway, in the long, narrow corridor that leads between rooms. I’ll drop to my knees, he’ll drop the dressing gown, and pull my head towards his crotch.
“That’s it,” he murmurs sleepily, as I take the full length of his dick to the back of my throat. “Get it nice and wet.” And I do, because at that moment it’s all I want to do. The wetter I get him, the more easily he’ll slip inside me when, inevitably, he tells me to stand up.
“Face the wall. Drop your knickers.”
I lean forwards, putting my arms above my head and pressing my face and chest into the wall, bracing myself and spreading my legs wide so he can get in nice and deep. Then I turn to face the mirror so I can watch him.
The mirror gives me something I’ll never normally get – a view of his arms, shoulders, hands and face in profile. The muscles tensing and clenching as he fucks me quick and hard. The dents around my hips as he grips his hands tight around me. The jiggle of my arse and the taut strength of his thighs as he pushes against me.
You can see me
I have mirrors in my bedroom too. Not on the ceiling – I am not a 70s porn star, more’s the pity – but a huge mirror that dominates my dressing table and means that fucking over the end of the bed provides the best view in the house.
I don’t just like looking at you, though. Although there’s an appeal in seeing a much greater view of you in the mirror, one of the hottest things is knowing that you can see me. That when you pull my hair back it’s because you like to look at the curve of my neck in the mirror – you want to be able to see my facial expressions, and the jiggle of my tits with each stroke. When you look down you can watch your cock sliding deep into my cunt, and when looking to the side you can see all the rest of me – every bit moving to the rhythm that you’re setting.
The view and the pace and the angle are all dictated by you, as you push one hand onto the small of my back to make me arch it further, raise my arse up. Or the slight wince as you slam your dick home more forcefully, bashing my hips against the iron of the bed frame.
And – God – the grin on your face when I catch your eye, and you catch me looking too.
Fucking in the mirror: we both get an awesome view. I’m just sad that there’s one thing I’ll never see as you see – the sight of your dick as you pull it out at the end, squirting spunk over, around and deep into the crack of my ass.
I hope you found this entry hot. If you’ve got time, please help me with a quick experiment: one of these stories was written when I was super horny, and the other was written when I was much calmer, directly after I’d had a wank. Please comment and let me know which section you think was the hottest: “I can see you” or “You can see me”. It’s for science. Answer will be revealed in a future blog post (subscribe using the box at the top if you want to get alerts). Oh, and if you like hot hallway fucking (and sex around the house), have a look at the latest post at SexBlogOfSorts – it is bite-your-lip-and-pull-down-your-knickers hot.