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On number 24

This is the sort of thing I like to wear to parties. Related fact: I am not often invited to parties.I tend to avoid athletic boys. With their muscles and their energy and their ability to go for hours I fear that they’ll put me to shame. The sex they have is impressive – powerful, beautiful and hard. The sex I have is desperate – moaning, panting, begging. It’s not about athleticism, it’s about lust.

But number 24 was athletic.

I met him at a posh event where he was surrounded by friends and I was surrounded by strangers. I was awkward in high-heels and a dress, and he was funny, fit, bald, with nerdy glasses and a quick mouth. I wasn’t completely smitten but I was getting there, and just drunk enough to approach someone who would otherwise fill me with terror. Someone who was far cooler than me, more attractive than me, more athletic than me. Number 24 was a lad – the sort of boy who won at sports day while girls like me were hiding behind the bleachers smoking fags and comparing fake injuries. He was holding the room with effortless confidence – drunk and getting drunker, leering and joking and scanning the party not for girls who looked pretty but girls who looked willing.

So I did what any slightly curious, drunk girl would do: I took him round the back of the building for a blow job.

The briefest of kisses ended with me on my knees in the mud, feet and knees wet through as I tore at his flies. He whispered in the dark – angry and lustful encouragement just loud enough for me to hear but not loud enough to give us away. When I put his dick in my mouth he already tasted salty with precome – rock solid. He held the back of my head and pushed me down until my lips touched the base of his dick and I choked.

“That’s it.” And he shoved it in harder. He wanted the control – he wanted me reeling, unbalanced in the mud, with nothing to grab onto but him. He wanted my hands cupping him and stroking as he thrust his dick harder into my mouth. I ran my hands over his unfamiliar body – solid thighs, a tight arse – a genuine honest-to-god six pack. Athletic though I wasn’t, he liked seeing my lustful take on blow jobs – he liked my pervy enthusiasm, and he liked it when I looked up into his face with eyes watering.

“I’m going to come.” I moaned as he said it – a choking, wet moan as I opened the mouth he was fucking to suck in the air that would take me through to the end. Excited by the thought of his hot spunk hitting the back of my throat. I sucked harder, pulling as much of his dick into my mouth as I could.

But he didn’t come in my mouth.

He pulled his cock out, and with one hand rubbed at it frantically. Pulling on my hair, he tipped my head back and looked into my eyes. He saw my face wet with spit and precome, and – with grunts and twitches – he came. Thick spurts of his spunk covered my cheeks, dripping into my open mouth, plastering loose strands of my hair. He didn’t just want to come – he wanted to come so that his friends would see, when we walked back inside, that he’d had me. He’d fucked me. And he’d left me covered in him.

Up to that point I was, despite the humiliation of having to avoid kissing people goodbye, still in my comfort zone. I’d showed the cool kids how the dirty goth girls can fuck. He’d humiliated me, but I’d had him – I’d owned him. I’d had his twitching prick in my mouth.

But later that night he followed me back to my hotel room and fucked me like an athlete. Flipping me over, picking me up, bending me over the desk and forcing his spit-lubed dick into my ass. Quick, curt thrusts punctuated by sharp exhales of breath. Porn fucking, with a porn audio track.

“You. Like. That” as he slapped me. “Fucking take it” as his cock slammed deeper into me, with him holding one of my legs at an angle so acute he could reach every inch of the inside of my cunt.

Muscular arms bending me into different shapes, holding me wide open so he could get at me. He couldn’t sit still when I sat on his dick. Instead he grabbed my arse and fucked the rhythm out of me, until it was all I could do to hold still, squeeze my cunt around his dick, and enjoy the rapid forceful pounding of his powerful hips.

It felt like a fight, like he wanted to show me what he could do. He was performing, like a gymnast performs a routine, like a runner sprints in front of a cheering crowd. He was faster, harder, stronger than me, and he wanted me to know it.

It wasn’t just a fuck – it was a competition. And although he was the most athletic, I think, on reflection, I won.

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On number 2

They say red and green should never be seen, but that does not apply when you are matching awesome stockings with green pants. Fact.God I loved number 2. Brash, funny, intelligent, and – to my unfading delight – a virgin.

We were frustrated friends. I had a boyfriend, and he’d never had anyone. We’d joke, and play, write filthy notes during English lessons, and brush up against each other on the bus. When we hugged I quivered at the feeling of his thick, satisfying erection pushing against my hips.

I wanted him so badly I utterly ached. We’d sleep at friends’ houses at parties, me lying next to him panting with longing, while he slowly ran his fingers over my nipples. He never tired of the feel of them – the miracle of keeping me on a knife-edge of desire for so long. By the early hours when we finally managed to sleep, my nipples would be red-raw and throbbing with pain.

One night, in bed with a few others asleep beside us, he got brave enough to inch his hand lower. Tentatively, he slipped it down into my knickers. I was slick with frustrated desire – wet as only a teenaged girl can get. He was trembling with lust, and fear, and guilt. He was so hard I worried I’d hurt him if I squeezed his dick with any kind of vigour.

When his hand reached my cunt and he realised how wet I was he couldn’t keep silent – he moaned.

Just remembering number 2’s surprised, lustful moan is one of my hottest memories.

Taking his virginity

After hearing his stifled cry, I couldn’t leave without doing something. At that point I’d have traded my money, my youth, even my as-yet-unfinished A-levels just to have him in me.

I whispered to him, grabbed his hand. We left our friends sleeping and scurried into an empty bedroom.

We fell onto the bed – me in a panting, aching heap and he in a trembling, terrified one.  I kissed him, I told him I wanted him. I fluttered my 17-year-old eyelashes and begged him to fuck me.

He couldn’t fuck me.

He was so scared that he couldn’t get hard. I sucked him gently, I told him he was hot, I told him I was desperate for it, and eventually I got him just hard enough to roll on a condom and try. I climbed on top of him, slipped him into me, and sat down slowly on his semi-hard cock. But it was clear that it just wasn’t happening.

He’d lost his virginity – just. But he’d mislaid a fair portion of his dignity, too, and it broke my heart to think that instead of remembering me with a gleeful nostalgia, he’d look back on the whole thing with shame.

Taking his virginity far more successfully

A couple of weeks later, at his house, he was relaxed. Not calm, as such – his cock was straining at the fabric of his jeans – but he was much readier to fuck.

“What do I do?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Can I do this?”

“Yes. Please.”

“What if I’m crap?”

“You’re not.”

He rubbed himself frantically against me, touching wherever he thought he was allowed. I pulled up my top, unhooked my bra, guided him. I wanted to show him he wasn’t just allowed – he was needed – I needed him to touch me, to fuck me. I needed him inside me, to quell the aching hurt in my cunt. He didn’t need to make me come, he just needed to be in me, to give me some release.

He panted, and moaned, and struggled to take off his jeans – his hands shook with lust and he moaned with frustration. I helped him get them off, wrapped my legs around him, and held myself up – nice and wide and easy so he could slide himself in.

With his hands each side of my head he pushed his cock into me – deep and rock hard. Hard like I longed for. Hard enough that I felt it stretch me out, open me up – scratch the itch that he’d created during those long nights of furtively stroking my nipples. The itch he’d created with that anguished desperate moan.

As he fucked me he looked surprised, confused and delighted. I was relieved to be rid of the throbbing, aching need to fuck. I grinned, forced myself up – thrust angrily against him so he could feel every movement. As he sped up he let out a strangled cry – “Oh” – so I squeezed him with my cunt and my thighs as I felt him come hard inside me.

It was possibly the best five seconds of my entire fucking life.

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On number 16

Number 16 was a rare find – a genuinely good mate with whom I spent many a brilliant hour getting utterly pissed and chatting about anything and everything.

The first time we had sex was a complete accident – I don’t think either of us had entertained the notion until one night, after downing enough tequila to fell an elephant, we ended up snogging mid-karaoke in a dirty pub at 2 am.

Oh. We’re doing this, are we? OK.

That initial shag eventually led to a comfortable routine – beer, more beer, yet more beer and then a pissed stumble back to his flat where we’d swap stories of past sexual conquests, smoke an obscene number of fags, then undress each other and fuck like we were playing tennis.

I don’t want to describe a specific incident, but I would like to make an observation – number 16 made noises.

The sex itself was vanilla – frantic, hot, pissed and desperate. We’d both decide we’d had enough of drinking and went into his room to strip off. And while we were stripping he’d talk, and while he was cupping my tits in his hands he’d talk, and when we were fucking he’d talk. And it was so. Fucking. Good.

He spoke to me, he moaned, he said ‘oh yes’ when I did something nice. He sucked in big gulps of breath while I had his cock in my mouth. He sighed. He moaned a bit more. He went ‘ugh’ when he came.

Number 16 said things and talked dirty. He told me he was hard, that he loved how it felt when he was inside me. He told me how wet I was. He asked me if I liked it. He groaned and sighed and climaxed with vocal, lusty relief.

Good lord the world could do with more vocal boys. Vocal boys make me feel so good. I love the challenge of doing things to make them go ‘aaah’ and if I get that feedback I’m going to keep doing it again and again. If I could request anything from the gentlemen of this world it’d be to turn up the fucking volume.

You don’t have to shout it from the rooftops, you don’t have to scream and cry and wail like a mourning widow. But don’t lie there in silence, humping me stoically with a face of concentration like you’re solving a particularly difficult crossword puzzle. Come on boys – make some noise.

___

We’re still mates. He has a girlfriend now and is almost like a proper grown-up. They go on holiday and have dates and are serious with each other, and when we get together for beers he tells me about her and I’m pleased that he’s got the secure happiness which, let’s be frank, I can’t give to guys.

But I still look at him and want to tear him apart.

I see his sexy, filthy hands gripped round a pint glass and remember how he’d take his rings off before plunging his fingers into my cunt.

How he’d hold my hair back so he could watch me taking the length of his cock into my mouth.

How he’d squeeze my tits nice and hard, and tell me that I liked it.

I mostly remember the noisy sex – what he sounded like.  What he’d say to me, how he’d moan and sigh. Best of all that wonderful, audible moment when he’d shudder and – with a muffled cry – come deep inside me so hard I could feel it.

On number 15

Number 15 fucks me slowly. So so slowly.

I have no idea why – he’s so dominant, and angry, and beats me hard with belts. When we’re playing he’ll fuck me with his hands so quickly that I tense up and writhe. He straps me with such force that I yelp, and occasionally beg him to stop.

The pace before sex is quick, and hard, and he feels like the kind of guy who’d push me up against a wall and shag me with a frantic desperation that would make my head spin.

But when we’re fucking, he holds back and takes his time. He kneels between my legs and puts the tip of his cock inside me and then, as I beg him for more of it, he slowly pushes harder, filling me up with his huge, rock-solid dick.

I don’t think I realised how good that could be until I met number 15.

With his hands gripping my thighs, he pulls me down further onto his cock as I wriggle and force myself onto him. He leans down into me and fucks me with long, slow strokes. He makes me wait for it, and he makes me work for it, and he pushes me back down if I grip him and thrust my cunt up further onto him.

Number 15 places his hands either side of my head as he shoves himself further into me. Did I mention that he’s huge? His cock is long and thick and always rock solid. With slow, intimidating control, he leaves me shuddering with frustration and squirming as I try to fill myself with all of it.

As I start making muffled sounds of frustration, and gripping his back to pull him harder onto me – deeper, and further into me – he picks up the pace. Not enough – not nearly enough – but slightly faster, so I can get more from him by pushing my hips up and shoving myself onto him. Harder. Faster.

I get a bit loud because I need him to speed up. I can’t get there without it. I need it harder, and faster, and I know that if he’d just do it for a few seconds I’d be there, and the need to be there is so deliciously painful. It aches right through my cunt – the need to come. It hurts.

I cry out.

And I grip him harder.

And I writhe, and fuck him harder.

And I say please please pleasepleaseplease

And then he does. For one brilliant, wonderful moment he does. His cock is slamming into me with force and power and anger and lust and speed.

And I fall back, and my body tenses, and my cunt twitches. My back arches and I come all over his cock, and he can feel me writhe as I shudder all the frustration out of my body.

As I pant and smile and my eyelids droop with exhaustion he sits on my chest, with one hand on my neck and one hand gripping the base of his huge, still dripping cock.

He tells me to open my mouth.

 

This post is available as audio. Click ‘listen here’ at the start of the post, or check out the audio porn page for more sexy stories read aloud. 

On what is not wrong with you, part 1: being fat

In our decadent Western capitalist society where you can buy chips for two quid or gym membership for fifty, it’s no wonder most people are a bit fat. And you know what? People who are a bit fat are sexy.

There’s a sliding scale: some people are so fat that sex without assistance is difficult, others have just a little bit of extra weight that is delightfully squidgy and fun to dig your fingers into while they’re frotting you excitedly. Hovering somewhere in between these groups lie the guys that I want to talk about.

I love guys who have a bit of weight on them – they make me feel small, and delicate, and feminine. Guys with bellies their trousers dig into, so I have to pull and rummage to get their pants off. Guys with arses you can grab and thighs like tree trunks. Guys who jiggle when they fuck you. Yum.

I’m not talking about guys who are morbidly obese – apart from anything else they’d be a logistical nightmare. I mean the men who look down sadly at their gut and think ‘no one will fuck me like this.’ Men who tip the scales at more than is healthy and have genuinely considered salad. This entry is for you – you massive, sexy, awesome, hedonistic bastards.

Skinny guys – don’t feel left out. You are equally loved, but this is not your time.

Today, I want to talk about why fat guys are great:

Fat guys enjoy things

There’s something about being fat that implies a certain ‘I don’t give a flying fuck’ attitude that is desperately sexy. Someone who doesn’t approve of moderation, who goes the whole way and will be my partner in crime when I want to have fun.

I want to be with a guy who orders lasagne, garlic bread and a side order of chips. And some onion rings. And cake for afters. And a triple whiskey. And chips. And more whiskey.

I want to go out with a guy who’ll down 8 pints then provide a solid mass for me to lean against on the way home.

I want to hang out with someone who’ll bang me til 2 am then suggest McDonalds breakfast in the morning.

Fat guys fuck harder

You wouldn’t make a sledgehammer out of balsa wood, would you? Exactly.

Fat guys are just… bigger

It’s obvious that they’re bigger, of course. But have you considered the full implications? Fat guys can lie on top of you and knock the wind out of you. Put more force behind their fucking (see above), pin you down so you can’t get up. You can sit comfortably on their lap and feel their erection digging into you without worrying that you’re going to snap them.

They can envelop you and crush you and squeeze you and make you feel tiny, delicate and vulnerable. They can fuck you hard and sweat hard till it drips into your mouth. They can take your breath away and give you something to hold onto and something to wrap your legs round and squeeze and touch and rub your face into.

And then afterwards they might buy you a pasty.

 

Postscript: The few times I’ve discussed this with people I’ve been met with raised eyebrows and skeptical looks. But bear in mind that one of the best ways to have brilliant sex is to find someone you like (in my case someone who is funny or clever or utterly filthy) and then show them the kind of enthusiasm that’ll have them jizzing themselves on the night bus home.

I’m not trying to persuade you to start fucking fat guys – but you might be missing out on some potentially spectacular sex if you dismiss them out of hand or, worse, imply that you’re out of their league. You call them ‘tubby’, I’ll call them ‘tiger’ and we’ll see who gets the best out of them.