Last week I wrote a bona-fide erotic story. One with two characters who definitely weren’t me, in a setting that wasn’t my lounge, partaking in a dirty fuck that I have never had myself. I very rarely write fictional stories. Of the nearly 400 posts on this blog, fewer than 1% of them are fictional.
But every now and then something in particular strikes me as gorgeously hot, and it’s something that isn’t possible to recreate in my life at that exact moment. Whether it’s sex with a stranger, a gang-bang of some kind, or the kind of sex that would require my own Tardis. This week (and last week and – thanks to my recent discovery of The Tudors – probably next week as well) the hot stuff comes wrapped in lace and frills. Tight stomachers, breeches, and hard leather riding boots. ‘My Lord’s and ‘Your Grace’s and posh people dismissing their hot servants with a casual wave of their hand.
Thing is, with any fantasy I have, it always seems to end up in the same place. Last week I wrote about a maid getting fucked by a duke – the cold barrier between two people of different ranks, and the easy and nonchalant way in which he shagged her, with the same proprietorial ease with which he’d order her to turn down his bed or scrub the fireplace.
And this one, despite the complete role reversal in terms of power, doesn’t fundamentally differ because… well… when I give my mind free reign to wander wherever it likes, it always pops back to a very similar place. Guy on top, girl getting used, urgent sweaty fucks performed for no reason other than a desperate desire.
Every now and then I get drawn into a discussion about whether you can shape your own sexual desires. Obviously you can’t change fundamentals, but some people assert that, by introducing yourself to new experiences or pushing yourself into new fantasies, you can mould your own fantasies into something different to what you’d normally go for. I strongly suspect you can’t. I certainly can’t. While I’ll embrace any number of filthy fucks, unusual fetishes, or brand new experiences, my core sexuality will never significantly change. From the first wank I ever had over the idea of pirates punishing a serving wench, to the last one I’ll have on my deathbed, I suspect the theme will remain:
Guy meets girl. Girl bends over. He uses her like that’s all she’s good for.
Now here’s the story.
I usually rock up to dates in jeans. Jeans say ‘I’m not necessarily going to fuck you’. This might come as a surprise given that apparently I’m the sort of slapper who would solicit pictures of erect cocks via a mediocre sex blog.
But I don’t shag everyone – I’ll only sleep with guys I actually fancy. Wearing jeans as opposed to short skirts and hooker boots helps to reinforce the idea that we’re having a casual drink which might lead to sex rather than a swift half-pint and hello as a prelude to guaranteed sex.
But once the initial introductions and the first few shags are out of the way, it’s fun to surprise someone by changing from a scruffy, chubby, late-twenties goth figure into a stunning hellcat beamed in from the alternative sex dimension. Or a poor man’s version of it, at any rate.
Here are some clothes that are sexy:
And not fucking silky ones with suspenders either. Proper massive old wooly stockings (see fig. 1), that you can roll right up to the crack of your butt-cheeks and get on and off in less than 7 seconds. Stockings you can tear at without them falling to bits. Stockings you never need to worry about ruining.
Proper pants as opposed to insubstantial bits of string. Burlesque-y. Lacy. Frilly. Pink. YES I SAID PINK. On the outside I’m grey and black and beige and denim and drab. But underneath my pants will usually be brilliant, with little pink hearts or turquoise stripes and bows and bells and whistles.
OK, maybe not whistles.
They frame the neck nicely, decorate my décolletage, make me look feminine and gentle. They also give you something to aim for when you’re jizzing on my tits.
Massive fuckoff boots
Look at me! I am gigantic, and my legs look shapely and brilliant! I will crush you beneath the heels unless you do me this instant! Boots rock. If you let me keep them on I’ll let you stick it wherever you like.
Tights, I mean – they make my arse look spectacular. These you can rip to your heart’s content because they never last long anyway. Reach up into the crotch, tear a hole in them and then slide my knickers to one side so you can touch my cunt. Mmm. Fishnets.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. You know how it’s lovely when you squeeze my tits? A corset does exactly the same thing, but harder, and more permanently. If I’m alone sometimes I’ll put one on, tie it nice and tight, and fuck whatever I have to hand until I reach sweating, writhing, deliciously restricted orgasm.
As an aside – gents – if I’m wearing a corset it’s because (brace yourselves) I want you to fuck me in it. It’s always a bit disappointing if I’ve got all dressed up and a guy wants to take it off – my slightly disappointing naked torso is never worth removing a beautiful corset for. So bend me over, grab hold of the laces, and fuck me like an 18th century chambermaid.