Category Archives: Popular audio porn

Fucking in the office

Somewhere, a guy has a photo of me sitting topless in an office chair. Not just an office chair, in fact: the chair he sat at from nine til five, every day for over two years. My face, turned slightly away from the camera, is grinning with post-coital happiness.

How long after you’ve fucked someone in their office can you publish a blog about them without worrying they’ll get fired? Should you wait until they’ve left that job and moved on to another? Until long after you’ve broken up? Until after they’ve given you the go-ahead? Perhaps all three. Perhaps just one or two. Perhaps it doesn’t matter, because here’s one of my favourite sex stories…

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A hot threesome story that I’m a little ashamed of

It was one of those sleepover pile-ons: everyone grabbing blankets, squabbling over sofa cushions, and squeezing four abreast on a futon designed for two. These were my favourite nights, and I miss them now that we’re all grown-up – old enough to pay for taxis if we miss the last bus home.

I think it was New Year’s Eve: I can’t imagine we’d all have been together if it were any other night. Probably some time between the end of the first term of uni and the beginning of the next one – during that delicious month where I was single, horny, and surrounded by others who were too.

We were just winding down for the evening. The booze had all disappeared a long time ago, and just in case Doritos and coffee hadn’t sobered us up, then the brief skinny-dip we tried to take in the sea certainly worked its magic. Most of us were tired, and any flirting – touching, whispering, nicking each other’s blankets or accidentally squashing feet together – was being done with a half-hearted laziness. A formality, because at sleepovers touching and flirting was just what we happened to do.

I lay squashed between Kate and Andy, she in a gorgeous smoke-whiskey-perfume-smelling t-shirt and knickers, him in boxers and socks. We’d fucked before, a while ago, and old friends are always an easier option than brand new strangers. Besides, Andy made me shiver with arousal. I didn’t fancy him, as such – at least not in the way I’d have meant it when I was nineteen. Fancying someone implied you wanted to be with them: to date as well as to fuck. But I wanted him.  Brief encounters with him before had given me a taste for his thick cock, and the nervous, nerdy way he’d shy away from compliments about it. He was a hot guy: classically beautiful in a way that would have placed him firmly in the ‘cool kids’ set if he’d been at my school, but with a delicious eagerness for sex, and a look in his eyes that said ‘me? You want me?!’ and made me ache to prove that I really, really did.

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Buttplugs, pegging, and pushing the fuck back

If I’ve lubed you up and spread your legs, and held your hips steady while I slide something deep into you, there are plenty of things you can do to let me know you appreciate it. Make that face that’s a cross between surprise and pain, grunt a guttural moan at the back of your throat, or place your hands somewhere on me and squeeze tightly while I move. But when I’m fucking you – whether I’m pegging you with a strap on or sliding a butt plug deep into your ass – there’s one thing I want you to do above all others: push back.

Push.

Back.

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On butt plugs

When I first started getting into sex – and I mean really into sex, past the initial ‘oh bloody hell this is awesome’ stage and into the ‘I wonder what it would be like if I did this unusual thing’ phase – I gave butt plugs a fairly wide berth. Hitting implements: fine. Vibrators: no problem. Role play: as long as it wasn’t too funny. But butt plugs seemed like a strange and unusual thing.

I love anal sex, but the main reason I love it is because of the whole atmosphere – his grunting, delicious desperation as well as the feeling of his dick meeting tight resistance. Butt plugs seemed a bit pointless: I don’t have a prostate, so why would I want one there? What’s more, I felt a teeny bit nervous about using one on a guy. Worried that I might do it badly and it’d either be totally underwhelming or – worse – hurt.

As with many things, I was spectacularly wrong.

Sit

We talked about it first. He told me that he liked it: that feeling of being full. My head was full of pictures: him lying on the bed, naked from the waist down, reaching to push something firmly into himself. Him: sitting at his computer, with a plug snugly inside him and braced against the seat of the chair, frowning in concentration as he rubbed himself to climax.

I wanted to see that first hand.

“Are you going to use that on me?” he asked. I waited for a while, putting on the kind of face that covered my nervousness with controlled indecision.

“Nope.” I put it on the chair. “You’re going to use it on yourself.”

Stay

Watching him lube up the plug then wince with concentration as he slid it into himself was just the start. As he sat down slowly onto the wooden chair, his face displayed a beautiful tortured dilemma: ‘I like this. It feels good. But I feel so dirty.’

“How do you feel?”

“Dirty.”

“Touch yourself.”

He gripped his cock firmly and started sliding his hand up and down. He twitched and trembled with a combination or nervousness and arousal. I could see the tension in his neck, and the taut effort in his thighs as he tried not to rest with too much pressure. He didn’t want it in too deep straight away – he wanted to take it slowly. He swallowed, rubbed harder, relaxed a tiny bit. Let the plug slip slightly deeper into him.

“How do you feel?”

“Still…” he rubbed harder “…dirty.”

I sat on the edge of the bed getting hot at the sight of him. It was his face, mostly. The flickers of competing expressions and emotions as he stroked himself towards a climax that he was both desperate for and ashamed of. I couldn’t believe there could be such a difference between watching him wank and watching him wank like this: with a plug holding him firmly in a place where he was conflicted about his joy.

I had rarely wanted him more.

Good boy

I stood over him and pulled the crotch of my knickers to one side. He looked up at me and I gave him the kind of grin I’d usually save for afterwards: gleeful, ecstatic, overjoyed by this intensely new thing. I loved that this boy was so utterly on edge – aching from the plug and tingling through his dick and desperate to come right in front of me.

I straddled his legs, wrapped my arms around his neck, and lowered myself onto his cock. Gently, for the first few strokes, I slid up and down him – my cunt getting wetter and hotter at the sounds of his plaintive moans.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please… harder.”

“Fuck you harder?”

“Yes.”

“You want to feel me fuck you hard so this plug is pushed deeper into you?”

“I… yes.”

“Say it.”

“Please fuck me harder. I want to feel it inside me. Deep inside m… Oh God. Fuck. That deep inside me.”

So I fucked him harder – much harder. I rode his dick in a swift, jerking rhythm, grinding his arse into the chair and the butt plug deeper inside him. I rocked back and forth so he could feel it pushing against the inside of him from all angles. I gripped the back of the chair and pulled on his hair as he cried out. I felt the tension in him every time I slammed down to the base of his cock – the solid, hard strokes that drummed the base of the plug against the chair, and the tip of it into the boy.

There are other stories to tell about butt plugs – when they’re used on me, or other ways I’ve used them to make guys whimper. But this was one of the first introductions I had to butt plugs. From this point on, the main thing I associate them with (and the reason I always keep a couple of different types in my sex toy drawer) isn’t the play itself – the specific acts or moments or even the feeling as one is slipped inside – it’s the expressions. The looks of lust mixed with uncertainty and a heavy dollop of need. It’s filthy not just because he likes it but because of the way he likes it.

Finally, too quickly, before my thighs could even think about aching, he came. One final grunt of satisfaction and anguish and lust, and his cock twitched hard inside me. He buried his face in my chest and offered a wholly unnecessary “thank you.”

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