Tag Archives: fun sex

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On why driving is sexy

As ever, I’m giving directions.

“Straight on here,” as we hit the roundabout, and he follows. A quick check in his rear view mirror to see whether anyone’s behind us. They’re not – it’s dark, late, and a much quieter road to the ones we’re used to. He lays a hand on my thigh, pushing my skirt up, never once taking his eyes off the road.

I love watching guys drive

Despite being so old that my fascination with it is bizarre, I find driving incredibly sexy. Not when I do it, of course. On the rare occasions I get behind the wheel it’s less of a journey than a slow, arduous panic-attack from A to B.

But the teenage girl I wish I still was loves watching boys drive.

The physicality of it is hot, naturally. Driving involves lots of showing-off of hands, one of the sexiest physical features. Gripping and releasing the handbrake, curving a hand around the gearstick, gently flicking accelerators and letting the wheel slide smoothly through their palms.

Not to mention that driving, much like playing Xbox, is an activity that requires so much concentration I am barely a distraction in the corner of his eye.

Most importantly, the driver is always the most powerful person in the car. The one who chooses the music, decides when you can stop, tells you to stop mucking about. The driver is the person who decides to pull over.

We’ll get back to that sexy bit now, shall we?

He flicked the indicator when he spotted a layby – behind a row of waist-high bushes, just enough for some vague cover but not quite enough to make me feel wholly comfortable. He parked the car and undid his seatbelt, reaching over for mine at the same time.

I grinned, and looked up at him in the way I imagined I would if I were genuinely nervous. I shifted in my seat, pulling my skirt up further so my naked cunt touched the seat.

“You’re a good girl,” he said, and pulled my face towards him. He was grinning too, not quite happy enough to take the power seriously.

“Do you want to show me your cunt?”

Yes. Always. I lifted my skirt higher and he pulled me forward, pushing my head into his lap with his right hand (his steering wheel hand) while his left snaked down my back and behind to squeeze me. I fumbled with his belt, feeling him rock solid through his trousers, straining to push through the zip.

“Good,” he gave me a hand with the zip, squeezing himself tight as I leant forward to suck him. “Good girl.”

Again, that power, the feeling of his hands all over me. The click as he moved his seat back to give me more room to work on him, to suck him. He wasn’t making me, but he wasn’t asking me either. This stop was just an extra bit of the journey, something he got to decide, in the same way as he’d decide the route or choose when we stopped for a piss.

Bucking slightly against the seat, he gripped the back of my head with controlled hands as he twitched mouthfuls of spunk into the back of my throat.

On the way back, we were quiet. My occasional directions half-whispered as I tasted him in my mouth, and the giggling teenager in the back of my mind squirmed with pride.

“My boyfriend’s hot. My boyfriend drives.”

On sex blogging, and why I’m not ashamed

The internet is a dark and dangerous place – it hides far more of your secrets than you think, and with infinite time even a monkey at a Mac could collate a dossier of your drunken, mis-typed shame.

So why put more of it out there? Why start sex blogging, and wash your torn, jizz-stained knickers for the world, his wife and your mother to stumble across when they’d rather be watching the iPlayer? Why write not just a few blogs about love, Valentine’s Day and HuffPo’s shockingly bad advice on dating but the more sordid things too? Piss-play, swinging, getting spanked by hot boys, etc. For many people the idea of posting sexy things makes their blood run cold, but I’m obviously happy to do it, and here’s why:

Everything you do can be watched, recorded, put online, commented on, mocked, and forgotten next week. Your nearest and dearest might not be able to follow you into a swingers’ club but there’s always a slim possibility they’ll be sitting in the back room, cock in hand, when you show up. Everything you do has an element of risk. Send me an email? I could copy it. Take a picture of your dick? Someone could steal your camera. Have a wank on a train? Those electronic door locks might just fail as a horrified fellow commuter walks in for a pee. You take calculated risks every day.

OK, so writing down my exact thoughts on masturbation, and the majority of my past sexual history might be an unnecessary risk. The problem is that the benefits – being able to be open and honest about things, share stories with people and have them share theirs with me in return – feel like they outweigh the risks. As with everything in life, it’s a judgment call. Risk getting diseases from a hot guy because you haven’t got any condoms? Fuck no. Risk letting my parents find out that I like to do dirty things? Hell yes. The absolute worst that could happen is that they find out a bit more about me than they want to, and what’s a freaky sex life between blood relatives? They’d be more upset if I had a drug problem, or a terminal illness.

Why are we so much more worried about people knowing the sexy secrets of our life? Why are we supposed to be ashamed? These questions are rhetorical – I know why we’re supposed to be ashamed. It’s because sex is gross, it’s freaky: it’s something that women in particular shouldn’t admit to a need for. It’s a tool for advertisers to make us purchase things and a currency with which we might want to buy affection but it can’t be something we enjoy just for the hell of it.

The thing is, I’m not ashamed – I tell people. Probably more people than any of my partners think. I tell people because I’m proud, and horny, and because shagging two guys at the same time is one of my life’s happiest moments. I tell people because every now and then I get high-fived. I tell people because sometimes the boys I’m fucking like me to whisper stories in their ear.

If we’re talking about shame, I’m more likely to cringe when I remember times I’ve lied, or deliberately hurt people, or growled at tourists who stand on the wrong side of the escalator.  Over the past 29 years I’ve done many things that are cruel or stupid or misjudged – things that have upset complete strangers, made friends miserable, or hurt the people who care about me.

With all that sadness sitting guiltily on my shoulders, why would I ever be ashamed of the love?

I wrote this blog to explain the subtitle of my book – My not-so-shameful sex secrets – because really, given all the awful things we humans can do, sex is a hell of a long way down the ‘shameful’ list. Here’s how the book begins. 

On CFNM (clothed female, naked male)

You’re hot when you’re naked. Not quite as hot as when you’re semi-naked, of course – we’ve discussed that before. But there’s something deeply satisfying about your nakedness against my clothes. Me, in jeans and a soft jersey, sneaking into bed and pressing the whole of myself up against your sleeping flesh.

I’ve had a few people ask me to write about CFNM (it stands for Clothed Female Naked Male – presumably there’s also a CMNF, but that might have to wait for another day). For some people it’s a very specific fetish, and they can’t get off without it. For me, it falls into the same category as most fetishes: I’m not obsessed with it, but I can more than understand why other people are.

It’s often a FemDomme thing, a submissive guy bares all but is denied the pleasure of seeing tits in return. I certainly know a few submissive men who like the idea of being stripped bare and used by a clothed, powerful woman who answers only to the name of ‘Mistress’. But I think it’s more than possible to get tingling hot feelings the other way round too. Whether I’m on top, on the bottom, or floating lazily somewhere in between, having a naked guy between my jeans-clad thighs is a very hot thing indeed. I’ll show you what I mean:

CFNM (Submissive girl, dominant guy)

If you’re naked and I’m not none of the usual things occur. You can’t squeeze my tits or bite my nipples as you call me a dirty girl and ask what I’m hoping you’ll do to me. There are fewer words. Naked and needing release, the only thing for you to do is push me down onto my knees, hold my hair and smile as I suck a fresh erection into your waiting dick.

If you’re naked and I’m not then as I wet the tip of your cock I’ll spread my legs wider, letting the seam of my jeans push tightly against my clit. I’ll hold my hands behind my back so that my tits stretch out my top. And I’ll feel the wetness soaking into the crotch of my knickers.

If you’re naked and I’m not I’ll feel dirtier than I would naked. Because I can’t shower off whatever you cover me in.

I’ll feel the wetness in my knickers, and feel ashamed. If you hold my head still and fuck my face, the spit will run down my chin, my neck, and onto the front of my shirt. And I’ll cross my fingers and will you to call me a messy girl again.

Other way round (Dominant girl, submissive guy)

I like to curl up behind you in the morning, when you’re still asleep and I’m awake and dressed, and fit my body neatly behind yours, my thighs touching the back of yours, my tits squashing against you through my t-shirt. It’s CFNM, but with a different tone to that above.

I like, as you stir ever so slightly, to slip one of my arms under your head and around your neck so that I can pinch your nipples and stroke your chest, the reverse of what you do for me when we go to sleep.

I enjoy the moment as you wake up, roll over and see me there – wide awake and eager for you.

When you’re naked and I’m not I have more of the power. I like being able to look at you exposed and cold, and take my time to run my palms over all of you. I like taking your flaccid cock in my hand and squeezing gently until you’re semi-hard.

But best of all I like to keep my knickers on – sliding them just far enough to one side that I can sit slickly down onto your dick while you place your hands behind your head and wait for me to come.

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Say goodnight: fuck me in my sleep

Despite giving the impression that I go through life humping men on an almost hourly basis, the time when I’m most likely to have sex is just before bed. Not particularly surprising when you consider that I, like most people, have to work during the day, somewhere far enough from the nearest willing boy that I can’t nip out at lunchtime for a post-sandwich quickie.

Sex before bedtime feels like the natural thing to do – you’ve just taken your clothes off, you’re lying next to each other enjoying the skin-on-skin contact and the post-workday sweat as you bury your face in his armpit: of course a lot of sex happens at bedtime.

But do you want to know what’s even better? Sex after bedtime.

Wake me up

I have a rock-solid and trembling desire for guys who wake me up for a fuck. I love the feeling of being stroked and dragged awake at two, three, four o’clock in the morning by a guy with a raging erection and a desperate need to be inside me.

In fact, so acute is my desire for a guy with a hard-on in the middle of the night that I often don’t even need him to fuck me. Just knowing that he’s almost whimperingly desperate has me flooded with lust, and struggling to pretend to keep my eyes closed.

The other night I woke up lying on my stomach. I could feel him running his hand tightly over my arse, smoothing the silk of my knickers into the crack, and sliding his fingers down my crotch through the fabric. The bed was shaking slightly as he rubbed his cock with his other hand.

After a couple of minutes, he pulled my knickers to one side, dipping his fingers into my cunt. When he felt how wet I was, he moaned, and started rubbing himself harder. I lay as still as I could, breath catching occasionally despite my attempts to maintain the illusion of sleep. I wanted him to fuck me.

Sleep sex

He’s done it before – fucked me in my sleep, I mean. Despite my having issued an open challenge (£50 if you can finish without waking me up) he’s never quite got to the end without me moaning and giving away that I’ve been wide awake for a while. But still. The fact that one day he might makes me quiver with desire, and when I twitch into consciousness to find him touching me I can’t help but tense up, and start throbbing, and hope that he’ll roll on top of me and slide his cock inside.

This isn’t one of those creepy ‘I’ll fuck her while she’s asleep just because I fancy it’ things. He doesn’t fuck me in my sleep because he thinks he can get away with it – he does it because I have emphatically and enthusiastically begged him to.

Because the feeling of waking up, woozy and confused and wet and aching at just the moment he slides his dick inside me is so hot it makes me crosseyed.

Tonight I’ll dream of him fucking me in my sleep

But sometimes there’s no release for me at all – and this was one of those times. There was no need for me to battle a sigh of relief as he pulled my knickers to one side and slipped into me, no feeling of satisfaction as he grunted and thrust.

As his hand reached my knickers he just sped up, rubbing his dick harder and faster – holding his breath to avoid making tell-tale noises in the back of his throat as he got closer to coming.

When he was near, he gripped me harder – fingers digging my knickers into the slit of my cunt, feeling the flooding wetness soak through the silk. And then, just as he was about to come, he pulled at the waistband so that they were bunched at the bottom of my buttocks, exposing me just enough as he rolled over, pushed the tip of his cock up against me, and squirted sticky rounds of jizz directly against my skin.

Having finished, with a gentle grunt and a sigh of satisfaction, he absently rubbed it in – covering me in stickiness with quick, solid movements. He pulled up my knickers and gently patted my arse.

“I’ve been awake for a while, you know.”
“I know. You were pretending to be asleep, weren’t you?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Good girl.”

I got almost no sleep of my own that night.

Update 2018: this post is now available as audio porn (click ‘listen now’ above and see more audio porn here). I wanted to add, as I was revisiting it to turn it into audio porn, that this should never ever be taken to mean that any individual might enjoy this like I do. I can only do it, as explained above, because my partner and I have discussed this in a lot of detail and carefully negotiated how we want to do this consensually. 

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On sex without coming

OK, so I wasn't actually wanking in this picture, I was just asked to pose as if I was. I might have overdone it a tad.Someone once told me that sex without orgasm is completely pointless – like a party without booze. My response was that there are many different kinds of party.

Sex without an orgasm is like wine without cheese. Celery without hoummous. A massive fuckoff slab of cake without a cup of coffee to wash it down – these things might be better when they come together, but they’re undeniably fun to have even without the extra.

I don’t always come when I’m fucking. Likewise, believe it or not, guys don’t always come when they’re fucking either.

Almost every single thing we see and hear about sex tells us a story that begins with a male erection and ends with a male orgasm. From biology classes at school which focused on fucking as a disgusting yet crucial baby-spawning activity to the mainstream porn films which fade out about five seconds after someone’s jizzed on someone else’s tits/face/arse/knickers/feet. In fact, porn is a classic example – the fact that male porn stars who fail to ejaculate are nudged to one side by willing and jizz-ready ‘stunt cocks’ shows that we generally view orgasm (or rather – male orgasm) as a rather crucial part of sex.

How do you know when you’ve stopped?

I suppose the key reason we believe this is that a spunk-stream in your eye acts as a handy visual and physical point at which to show the coupling had ended. Like a full stop. It’s as good a point as any in which to roll over and fall asleep, because it’s trickier for men to keep going after they’ve come.

But although feeling someone’s prick twitching a couple of spoonfuls of jizz into your aching cunt is by all means a nice way to end sex, that doesn’t mean it’s the only way.

In the past I’ve had sex sessions aborted (or aborted them myself) because:

a) he’s just too fucking knackered to come. At which point I will either render blowjobs or solitude, depending on how pissed off he looks.

b) I’m too twitchy to continue. It’s often the case that if I come a few times in a row, my thigh muscles start contracting like some phantom clit-genie has attached electrodes to me, and my cunt freaks out. At this point any further sexual contact is a bit like being tickled, and not conducive to further fun.

c) my cunt is sore. No guy has ever been upset to stop for this reason – usually because he doesn’t want to inflict genuinely uncomfortable pain, but partly because it’s a well-earned badge of honour.

d) he just can’t come. Whether the mood’s not right or he’s fucking too soon after a wank or he caught a glimpse of my face in the wrong light and I looked startlingly like his sister – there have been a fair few occasions when a guy has just stopped and decided we’d be better off playing Scrabble for a wee while until he gets hard again.

In these instances, one or other party often feels the need to apologise. I’ve heard occasional apologies and, slightly rarer, admissions that ‘I’m awful’ and ‘you must be so angry with me.’

This is not in any way a sexy thing. Giving it ten minutes then guiding my head back down to your dick is a sexy thing. Growling in my ear that you’ll take your frustrations out on me later is a sexy thing. Spanking me to let me know that you’re displeased is a sexy thing. Begging my forgiveness? Not so much.

My orgasms aren’t 100% crucial either

Likewise, whether I come or not is not an issue at the forefront of my mind when you’re pounding seven shades of fuck into me. It’s something that will probably happen, because I’m lucky enough to find it relatively easy to come when I’m being fucked. But that’s not to say that if it doesn’t happen I’m going to cry in a corner until you see the hurt you’ve caused me – I doubt that would stand me in good stead for the next time I wanted to sit on your dick.

If I’m honest, I’m far more likely to actually come – you know, for real – if you chill the fuck out about it. I’d prefer a quick, messy, satisfying, grunting, orgasmless fuck which leaves us both grinning like teenagers in a sex shop than a long, drawn out shag during which I can feel you thinking ‘why won’t GOTN come? What’s wrong with her? What am I doing wrong? Oh Christ I hope she comes soon I’ve got cramp and my dick’s going limp and please please please just come on my fucking cock you fussy bitch’, at the end of which I might end up coming but only out of a weary desire to get things over with and put you out of your misery.

Disappointing parties

My opinion might be freakishly abnormal, though – I occasionally find I that it is. Being unable to enter other people’s minds I am depressingly restricted to judging solely based on what I think and what other people have said to me.

There might be people out there for whom sex without orgasm is a horrible, horrible thing. For them, sex without orgasm may well be like a party without booze, and they may think both of those scenarios sound completely pointless.

But for me there are many different types of party, and many different types of fuck.
Having sex without an orgasm isn’t pointless, odd, or even particularly unusual. It’s actually reasonably common – whether through a difficulty orgasming during sex, through tiredness or, most frequently in my experience, because I occasionally find it hilarious to edge a guy until he almost comes then leave him writhing in erect discomfort for a couple of hours until he begs me to suck him dry.

It’s not a party without booze, it’s a party which ends early: still fun while it lasts, and at least when it’s done you can rub one out in the kitchen.