Not everyone likes the same sex as I do. And not all of you will like the same type of sex as today’s guest poster. As we’ve discussed before, the brilliant thing about fantasy is that it allows you to explore things that would horrify you if they were actually real.
I like to host things by people who have different opinions and perspectives to me. This includes people who have jobs I don’t have, disagree with my opinions on foreplay or indulge in fantasies that aren’t specific turn-ons for me. Because there’s no bloody point in me banging my ‘everyone’s different’ drum if the only ever sex you read about on this blog is mine.
Today, Mimieux is going to talk about her penchant for Daddy/daughter role play, and why she finds older men compellingly hot. It’s hot, and it’s feisty, and it’s the sort of thing that may well offend some people. Before you start I’m going to assure you that a) both people involved in their relationship are well over 18 and b) she is deeply excited about sharing her fantasy with you.
Please don’t read if this is the sort of thing that offends you, or if you have difficulty drawing a line between fantasy and reality.
Fuck me harder, Daddy
For as long as I can remember, I’ve liked older, slightly twisted guys. It started when I was very young, and I always identified with the villain in the Disney films. I think it was something to do with the excellent songs they always had: seriously, go and listen to Be Prepared from The Lion King – what’s not to love? I think it’s also the gravelly, gritty voices. Jeremy Irons (who voices Scar, amongst other roles) is the perfect Daddy figure, in my eyes.
Before we carry on, I think it’s important to say that I don’t want to fuck my actual father, and that I’m aware that a lot of sexual abuse of young girls (and sons too) happens at the hands of a father, or a father figure. I am in no way condoning incest, just writing about my experiences of specific, safe, sane, roleplaying.
I knew things were a bit off when I read Lolita, and not only did I enjoy it, but I felt aroused by it. Totally depraved, but then… I like depraved things. I really do. Older guys have this thing that guys my own age (early 20s) don’t have. They have experience, not just sexual experience, but also life experience. I like the idea of discussing what’s worrying me with my partner, and getting a real, honest answer, something I don’t get with guys my own age. I also love to be pampered, and looked after. I love the idea of being Daddy’s little princess. I love that there’s a natural element of care with this dynamic: more protective, more nurturing than some of the other dominant/submissive dynamics I’ve seen on the London fetish scene. I’m not saying that these other dynamics aren’t caring, but they don’t hold the same allure for me as the Daddy idea does.
I think part of what it is, for me, is that it’s so incredibly wrong. And I’m a sick and twisted individual, but that’s what gets me off, in this case anyway. I’m a natural people pleaser (as well as a cruel sadist, but that’s another story) and I just love the idea of Daddy coming all over my face, down my throat, or even in my long, then greeny/blue hair. I also like to play a bit naïve sometimes, especially in terms of sex; I’ve done my fair share of shagging, and sometimes it’s nice to have guidance, to hear dirty, dirty things.
For instance, one time Daddy and I were warming up for some messy sex, and he was fingering me (well, I think he was fisting me, but I was pretty spaced out on a massive concoction of hedonism) and he was telling me how many fingers he had inside me, and I was being all coy about it.
‘Oh, baby, look at your pussy, look how wide it’s stretching out for me, oh darling, your cunt, that’s three fingers I have inside you now, all the way up to the knuckles, how does that feel, slut?’
‘Daddy, more, put another one in me, please, I want to see how much of your hand I can take’ (actually on recollection, this does sound like a porn film, and a little bit contrived, but honest to God, that’s how we were speaking)
‘Do you like it when Daddy fists your pussy?’
‘Yes, Daddy, you’re the first one to do it for me, to give me so much pleasure… please…’ *orgasming*
‘After all the times you fooled around with those silly little boys after school, now look at you, you’re taking my whole hand up your pussy – they stretched you out for me, baby, but you’re still so, so tight’
God it’s just so hot to see Daddy pounding away at me, if I look over my left shoulder, I can see him out of the corner of my eye, and sometimes we make eye contact, and this is when I really come into my own as a slutty little daughter – I’ll say how sorry I was for coming home drunk, with Rob’s come in my hair, how sorry I was for being late, but that maybe if this was the punishment I was going to get, that I should do it more often, that I should be a whore more. Maybe I should sit around on the sofa, watching TV in ripped stockings, smeared lipstick, hair like Amy Winehouse, smoking a cigarette (Daddy likes it when I smoke), maybe I should be a bad, bad girl, if it means I get such a thorough seeing to.
Sometimes he’ll spank my arse a bit, sometimes he’ll bite me as he’s balls deep inside me, sometimes he’ll pull my hair, and sometimes I’ll just shout and scream profanities (I’m quite loud, you know) about how much I love Daddy’s cock, how he needs to fuck me harder, and the best, is when he tells me I’m not allowed to come until I’ve asked permission. I come quite easily, with a good, hard ramming; I’ve yet to disobey him, after all, he is my Daddy, and I don’t want to disappoint him.
I think in terms of our Daddy/daughter roleplaying, it’s purely sexual, but there are elements of this relationship (not that we’re ‘together’) that I find comforting, and delicious. The fact that he looks after me, and holds me after we’ve had sex, he’ll cook for me, and explain to me Formula 1 whilst I actively try to keep up, actively try and engage. He’ll massage my back for me, when I’m complaining of cramps or trapped nerves. I love that he has chest hair, and that some of these hairs are grey, I love that I get to stroke his chest as I fall asleep, like he’s a big bear (funny thing is, he’s quite a slim/svelte/toned guy, not that he’ll thank me for saying that), and he’s so, so warm, so firm as well. Maybe this says more about my decisions on past sexual partners, rather than anything else, but I digress.
I love that I can call him or Skype him and we can chat for a good couple of hours, and I can tell him about what’s worrying me, tell him things I can’t tell my real dad, because it would be weird. I do see him as a father figure, but not as my real father. For me, some of the caring elements bleed over, into ‘real life’, but I can still draw the distinction. When we first got together, I was calling him Daddy all the time, he was saved on my phone as Daddy, I’d answer and end each call with Hi/See you later Daddy… it became overkill. Every now and then, it’s nice to toy with it in a public setting, see if people do think he really is my dad… that is, until, I shove my tongue down his throat.
Guest blogs I love fall into one of three categories:
- People talking about things I have no experience of.
- People disagreeing with me on something.
- People saying things that make me horny on the bus.
This guest blog falls firmly into the latter category. Everything about it reminds me of the excitement of meeting a stranger who you just want to squash yourself up against. This author, from A Sex Blog of Sorts, is a brand new sex blogger (you can find her on Twitter @sexblogofsorts). And as is appropriate given that it’s her first time guest blogging, she’s guest blogging about her first time. Enjoy.
First time sex
In my home town, there used to be a pretty grotty car park, which has since been demolished to make way for a swish branch of John Lewis, with, get this, a brasserie and an espresso bar. On the whole, it’s been a good swap – who doesn’t want three floors of homewares and fashion, right? I had a bit of a soft spot for the car park though, because that’s where I lost my virginity.
For years, my curiosity about sex and my confidence with boys had been wildly out of sync. Best friend and I would go out drinking every Monday night and on the way back to the station we’d cut through the late night bookstore. I’d spend any leftover cash I had on erotica and as soon as I got home I’d rub myself to a frantic climax as the words swam drunkenly on the page in front of me. But I still wouldn’t talk to the boys in the sixth form common room.
The night it happened wasn’t a Monday. It was Good Friday and we’d booked a cheap hotel room so we could stay out later, go to a club and kiss some boys. Except, it being Easter and all, kissing boys didn’t feel like enough. ‘I’m going to lose my virginity tonight,’ I told best friend, not really believing it would happen, but stashing a three-pack of condoms in my handbag nonetheless.
The doorman raised his eyebrows when he searched my bag, and I made some smartarse comment back. I was less cocky when the guy at the bar who best friend had been eyeing up headed over as soon as she went to the loo.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’
‘I, well, I’m, er, with a friend…’
‘That’s ok, I’ll buy her one, too.’
Best friend was surprisingly gracious – she accepted a Smirnoff Ice and made herself scarce, leaving me and the conquest that was rightfully hers to make small talk for all of ten minutes, before he dragged me to a dark corner and shoved his tongue in my mouth and his fingers in my knickers. At some point we presumably got slightly over eager, because a bouncer came over, tapped him on the shoulder and asked if we’d mind taking it outside.
I was mortified, but not so mortified that I wanted to stop. Nor did it occur to me that he probably didn’t mean us to take ‘outside’ quite so literally. But a combination of drunkenness, guilt at abandoning best friend and insufficient funds for a cab back to the hotel meant that we only made it as far as the damp, concrete multi-storey opposite.
I remember that he was wearing a dark red jumper, that his aftershave smelt nice and that he begged me to let him see my tits. Unsure how quickly I’d be able to retie my halterneck if we were interrupted, I refused, and turned my attention to his belt instead. It was gratifyingly filthy to feel the concrete biting into my flesh through my new M&S hold-ups as I got down on my knees.
He let me suck him for long enough for a couple to return to their car, start the engine and flip on the headlights. Luckily, they were too far away to spot us loitering in the shadows. Then, ‘Condoms…’ he panted, pulling me off him and bending for my bag, spilling the contents across the ground as he rifled through it. He rolled one on, and, with one hand in the small of my back, pushed me down so that I had no choice but to grip the cold metal railings and stick my arse out towards him.
He grabbed the railing too, and thrust hard. I felt something inside me give, and then, pretty quickly, he established a rhythm.
He might have told me his name when we were chatting at the bar, but either I didn’t hear it or I could no longer remember what it was. With no idea what to call him, I settled for a simple, ‘Oh god, oh god, oh god…’
And I came. Sometimes things are everything you expected them to be.
Communication: it’s bloody hard, right? You just never know what’s going to offend people and whether your words will be hurled back at you in a storm of rage and misery, leaving you cowering in a corner nursing your hurt feelings.
The above is only semi-tongue-in-cheek: I know that words – while they’re sometimes our friends, are often crude tools with which we dig ourselves a massive hole into which we accidentally spew things that we probably shouldn’t have said. Hence: communication’s important, but we all get it wrong sometimes.
It’s hard to give advice to people on the right things to say – although plenty of Pick-Up Artists will try, and tell you that there are specific rules and lines that are scientifically proven to impress strangers. However, usually the only thing anyone can advise is to try and be empathetic, listen to the other person, and for the love of God don’t say anything awful like this. To cover this last category, I’m handing over to the excellent @halfabear, who has some very strong and hilarious opinions on the questions people ask about her sex life.
Since becoming paraplegic I’ve become very used to being asked questions about my health; friends asking how I’m getting on and if I’m in pain, strangers gently prying and trying to find out what’s wrong and how it happened. Nosey but innocuous questions that I generally don’t mind answering, providing that it’s not done insultingly and they understand I won’t answer if a line is crossed. I’ve been quite endeared over the years by the sensitivity that people have approached the subject with.
Well, most of the time.
There is one subject where it appears that all boundaries and sensitivity go out of the window in a heartbeat. Be it friend or stranger, it’s a subject which arouses such curiosity that no answer is simply not good enough, and there really is no way to tread carefully. Sex.
Read about awkward sexual questions, and the hilarious answers she gives people, over on her own blog…
As I might have already explained, I’m deeply impatient. So impatient, in fact, that if foreplay lasts longer than ten minutes I am liable to cry. I was once mocked by a guy, who was far keener on build-up than I was, because apparently the only thing I ever said in bed was “pleasepleasepleaseplease.” I don’t know what he was upset about – it’s certainly better than “mehmehmehmeh.”
Anyway, because I love guest blogs, and particularly guest blogs from people who have a different perspective to me, the following excellent post by Helz captures perfectly her delight in making someone wait. And wait. And then…
Okay, yes, I did steal this title from a Rocky Horror lyric. Shoot me. It’s very apt though.
What is almost better than a conquest is the magnetism, the frission, leading up to it. It’s something organic between two people that can’t be forced, you both have to want to rip the clothes off and melt into each other so badly and you both know it. No one has made the first move yet and all you have is heavily layered conversation where you can barely focus on the words because even talking to each other makes you wet, and you’re zoned in on her mouth, her lips…her skin and her eyes, boring into yours and you both know that you’re going to see a lot more than each other’s eyes later on… but not yet. That anticipation, that mutual magnetism, is pretty rare yet so delicious. The excitement, and the wonder that you might be mistaken, that she might not want you and it’s all in your head and the electricity that zaps right down through you at the thought of her is what makes the whole exchange magical.
I like to, whilst making out with someone, draw back. Make them wait for our lips to meet and shrink away from their touch. Soften my gaze and my body, make it look completely touchable, mutely draw them in with my eyes, then refuse them. When your lips are centimeters away from mine and you can actually feel my warmth, but you’re unable to touch me because I keep drawing away… I know that you really want me. I like making you want me. The frantic, hot, hard kisses and touches you give me after that after being denied for so long show how much you crave this, crave me…
Before I eat out a girl I like to make her anticipate it for a very long time. I love the downy inner thigh which leads up to your cunt, and I love to linger on it for as long as I possibly can, giving your butterfly butterfly kisses and softly kissing, licking and stroking your thighs, occasionally giving your lower lips some very, very light touches or kisses, and I do this until I know that you are biting your lip to mask your croaks and moans, so hard that it could draw blood, until you’re dripping with ladyjuice and until you’re rolling your eyes upwards, as if you’re praying to some Sapphic goddess. I know you’re tingling with desire all over and I kiss your lower self harder and harder and slloooowwwly work my way to your cunt and start very gently, just when you think you’ll get some form of release I stop and kiss your pelvis and your stomach, then work my way down again until you quiver and your knees buck…
You like the anticipation, sometimes, more than you like the actual sex act, and the fact that you want it, me, so much makes me horny as hell and gives me almost as much satisfaction as if you were giving it to me.
Then it’s my turn.
Voting is now closed on the ‘describe your orgasm‘ competition. It was a rollercoaster ride of fascinating insights, evocative description, and my own tawdry masturbation as I sifted through the entries.
Thank you to everyone who took part, and everyone who voted on one of the final five entries. I loved reading your stories, and I am genuinely gutted that I can’t give a prize to everyone.
And for those who logged in today for tittilation, here’s the winning post in its full, dramatic, cunt-throbbing glory:
Orgasm competition winner – Cammies on the Floor
It starts with pressure inside of me, a pressure of friction, an awareness of movement in and out of me. Then I begin to tighten into the pressure. I can do this at whim, but more often than not, it just happens.
When I am short on time, know this is a quickie, or am tired, I can tighten, making me come closer to the sensation faster. When I want a slow buildup, I just allow it to naturally happen, enjoy the other sensations besides the focusing on clamping down into it.
But my orgasm gets going when I tighten around whatever is inside of me, increasing the pressure, not a consistent tighten, more like a gripping and releasing of muscles(my lover will feel this).
My body grows taunt due to this tightening. I begin breathing heavier. My mind empties of thoughts. In and out, pressure on certain places, like the g-spot, deep inside, at my entrance; or held pressure in one spot that is almost so overwhelming I want it slid against rather than held against. All my thoughts, all my concentration, is on my muscles, on feeling the pressure build, of the gripping and releasing.
I feel drawn, almost leaning my body into my groin. My stomach clenches down, my whole body becomes tense. The clenching around becomes more intense, the coming and going of pleasure building, the waves of pleasure building higher and higher, crashing faster and faster.
It is not a letting go, unless of cohesive thoughts. It is an absolute building of pressure that is pleasant nerve endings being vibrated, thronged deeper and longer, spreading from inside my crotch, my lower belly, gripping tightly, spreading suddenly as if heat of a wildfire, moving up my torso and down my thighs at the same time, making me catch my breath, rending my limbs tense and immobile trying to clutch at anything (my toes may curl painfully at this point of clutching), my breath catching (sometimes too long), my head spinning, my thoughts completely blacking out. It is a force burning throughout my entire body, clutching it so tightly, making it rigid, flushing out even to my skin. An awareness of every muscle, a pressure so hard in my core – it is pleasure so focused, a tingling sensation that doesn’t lower or stop. It is quick, but it leaves me weak with its force.
The tingling begins to actually represent tingling, with the skin overly sensitive, my limbs tremble, I remember to breathe, my head is still slowly spinning, my thoughts seem so distant, as if I am far away from my body, amazed at the power of my orgasm.
My body is aware of how tense it is, my sex completely lets go of what is inside of me – as if taking a deep breath and releasing it, my body and limbs heavy, my chest heaving from erratic breathing, my throat raw either from screaming with the force (which allows a deeper orgasm) or from the effort in suppressing any noise (a weaker orgasm as it requires me to focus on a place other than my pleasure). I feel like I am sinking, my thoughts lazily floating back into my head, my body relaxing after its fierce control.
I become aware of my lover again; or toy or fingers are removed. If my breathing was held, I may see black spots blurring my vision. My head may hurt, a throbbing headache, if I held my breath. This is the point where I become aware of my toes if they curled, as I try to painfully stretch them. My fingertips may have been too clenched into my lover’s skin, and just now feel the muscles protesting. I may become aware of raw skin that I scratched in my clenching (I will sometimes clamp nails into my thighs or calves if I am holding them up). My stomach may be sore, feeling as if I did too many crunches or sit ups. My heart hammers inside my ribcage, thunders in my ear.
If is a strong orgasm, regardless of movement inside of me, I may still feel my muscles clenching inside still, gripping and releasing, shuddering, giving lapses of pleasure still, echoing throughout my body but not causing that tenseness, just a brief flutter of pleasant nerves being surged through, slowly until they dwindle to nothing. I call them aftershocks (as they mimic an earthquake’s to me). Or if movement/stimulation is still there, the clenching follows the pattern of movement, gripping inside of me, releasing, quicker than the first time, with more intensity, until I clench around it tightly, my body reacting far quicker, the wave of pleasure rising far higher and crashing more violently than the first time, and another orgasm grips me.
A following orgasm; feeling just like the first, but more intense, spasms rippling through me. I become dizzy far easier, and more likely to hold my breath. Control over my noises is less likely after the first orgasm. I am less in control of it happening or the speed in which it happens.
I am capable of multiple orgasms. I have not tested nor counted how many I can achieve in one session, though I am sure the number is more than five that I have accomplished. It leaves me weary, shaken, depleted, incapable of sound thinking, my nerve endings so sensitive to touch of different textures. I am aware of the softness of sheets, the sheen on my skin, the air flowing across, the crispness of a sting of a spank of my ass, the burning of any skin been marked too roughly, the imprint of where pressure used to be, the chill and the heat of objects around me. I am easier to get to orgasm from touches other than penetration, as my muscles inside my sex are far easier to tighten and clench, and need nothing to clench around to begin that cycle of spreading pleasure.
If I orgasm from clitoral stimulation, it begins in my clit, sliding, the pressure dances in time to my sex, pumping the pressure of pleasure from groin outward again. If I orgasm from my nipples, they are often pinched hard, the pinching becomes a focused pain of pleasure, it travels and tugs to my groin, which clenches tight down echoing the pressure on my nipples, so tight that my body comes again.
Hot, right? I love people.