At about nine o’clock, most people are gathered outside in the garden, smoking loose roll-ups or cheap cigarettes that come in packets of ten. The supply of supermarket vodka has been depleted and someone’s started a whip-round so they can run to the shop to top up our stock with some clear, petrol-tasting cider and another pouch of tobacco.

While college-age guests scrabble for booze, the party host is surveying the damage and praying they’ll get it all cleared up before their parents arrive home on Sunday afternoon. Inevitably, as the drunken groping escalates to second or third base, one or other of us asks the host:

“Mate, which room is the sex room?”

“Front living room. But there’s four other people in there at the moment so you might want to take a blanket or something.”

“Ta.”

Sex parties that aren’t sex parties

There’s a huge difference between deliberate swinging and the kind of sex parties that my nostalgic self longs for. Parties where the main aim is to get drunk, but the side show involves hustling your giggling other half across a room full of silently copulating others – others too horny to wait until everyone’s gone home or fallen asleep. Others who are used to fucking in front of people because – hey! We’re eighteen! Life’s really fucking short so let’s not go short on fucking!. I miss those parties.

The casual ease with which you’d step over a friend, her legs twitching with pleasure as her latest squeeze buried his face beneath a blanket and deep into her crotch. The ‘sorry’s as you’d make your own room in a tiny sliver of space – feeling not just your partner’s eager hands but the clammy heat from couples either side of you.

At one party, I fucked my boyfriend on one of those deep tub-shaped armchairs. The duvet spread over the top of the chair provided a vaguely private tent, and I slipped my knickers to one side and sat down on his dick, burying my head in his shoulder to muffle my heavy breathing. Raising myself only ever-so-slightly with each stroke, I fucked an inch or so at a time, until his cock was swollen with desperation and his toes curled – visible by everyone else as they stuck out of the bottom of the duvet. It took me twenty minutes of this slow, controlled fucking to come, and when I did, the small shudder of our makeshift tent gave no indication of just how amazing it felt.

Not swinger’s parties

I miss this stuff as an older person – the sex you have to have right now because you’re so horny. The knowledge that there’s a room upstairs you can sneak off to, and still hear the chatter and laughter from the party downstairs. The quick, urgent, silent fuck you share on a pile of coats in the spare room, or over the bath, or – best of all – in a room with other people. All of you groping and kissing and fucking – not sharing each other, but sharing the experience.

I’ve had it once as an adult – a late drunken new year’s party with so many guests missing last trains that they spilled over into my bedroom. Mates I loved (and had probably fucked at one point or another) giggling and groping on the floor, maintaining casual conversation with me and my boy.

“Are you fucking?” One asked me, halfway through a casual conversation.

“Hmm?” I replied, clenching my cunt around the tip of his dick, which he’d inched slowly, cautiously inside me.

I made a quick shuffle that could be passed off as rearranging the bedclothes, and pushed my arse backwards to take the full length of him into me. He coughed to try and cover up his satisfied sigh.

I’ve been to swinger’s clubs, but never a party that’s explicitly labelled a ‘swinger’s party’ – the idea of group sex is deeply hot, but there’s something about the explicit planning inherent in the whole thing that turns me off. Perhaps it’s all the impromptu fucks I had as a youngster that have killed the idea for me, but sex parties seem far more fun when the ‘party’ comes first.

I don’t want to bare all and stride purposely through a group of likeminded people, picking which of them I might invite to join me in a slippery tangle of limbs. I want something spontaneous to happen when some of us are horny enough – no swapping or swinging, just a mutual desire to fuck, and an aching need to do it right now. Not because others are there, but despite it.

I want to slowly lower myself onto his dick, and have him stifle a gasp. I want him to work eager hands into my bra and pinch my nipples when he thinks no one else can see. To whisper and giggle and fumble in the dark.

Today I want to have sex with a stranger. A quick, no-nonsense fuck with someone whose name I don’t know. Whose name I’ll never know.

I want to feel his hands tightly grasping my hips, run my hands over his body, and not care whether either of us really enjoys the experience. I want a fuck for function, a fuck for the sake of fucking: I want to fuck a stranger.

Sex with strangers

Most of the sex I’ve had has been with people I know. Even the one-offs usually happen with friends: a drunk night, a frantic fumble, a ‘thanks that was ace I’ll see you in the pub on Tuesday’ as I ran to catch the night bus. I love those fucks – the casual ones.

But stranger sex has been much rarer for me. Of course it’s often dangerous, and there have been times when I’ve reluctantly turned down an offer because I couldn’t quite guarantee that I’d make it home afterwards. On a couple of occasions, though, I’ve had that delicious knowledge that – even as we’re fucking – we both know that when we come it will be the end of whatever we’ve had.

Sex with people I love

Every day I get to fuck someone I love, which makes me lucky. Incredibly so. The easy curve of his hand around my arse, the exact pressure on my spine, pushing me to arch my back just right to feel the exact girth of him slipping into me: fitting. That’s valuable, and I love it.

But just because I’m enjoying my shower, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate how fun it was to be dirty – sometimes I dream about sex with strangers.

Fucking a stranger

I imagine sitting on a stool at a bar somewhere (America, probably, sitting at the bar in England often gets you weird looks) when a miserable-looking guy sits near me. He’s wearing a suit, he’s dark and handsome, he’s a bundle of all the clichés I don’t normally go for. He wears a watch and it accentuates the strength of his arms.

I look at his wrists and imagine him wanking. Jerking himself off into the toilet: neat, functional, aggressively grunting throughout. I imagine the ‘unngh’ as he comes into the toilet bowl, thinking of me staring at him and wondering if I would.

I would.

I’d watch him drinking but we wouldn’t talk. Occasionally I’d catch his eye and do the flirting that I’ve read about in advice books. Well, a more exaggerated version, anyway – leaning over the bar to show him a bit more of my tits, crossing and uncrossing my legs until my skirt rides up so far he can’t help but think of my cunt.

Shooting him the raised-eyebrows-how-about-it look, and mouthing ‘fuck me’ just before I head to the bathroom.

In the cubicle, I pull up my skirt and lean against the cold tile with one hand down my knickers. I’m thinking about this total stranger – this no-named guy – and how desperately I want him to follow me. How rough I want his hands on my cunt, how I don’t want him to look at me as he fucks me: head over my shoulder, staring straight at the wall and grimacing with determination to come.

He comes in.

He rushes at me with a kind of blank need – no recognition or ‘I see you’ve been staring’, just straight in with a rough kiss. No tongues, no movement, just a hard, three-second stamp on my lips, as if to check I’m not going to object.

I don’t, of course. I whisper ‘fuck me’ and he nods.

I lock the door while he fumbles with my shirt – unbuttoning and pulling apart and ripping down my bra so my tits spill out and he can press his chest against them.

“Yeah,” he whispers quietly to himself as he squeezes me against him. I go to unbuckle his trousers and he slaps my hand away, taking a step back to stare at me – exposed in my hitched-up skirt and open shirt. His eyes are blank, as I wanted.

He never looks at my face.

One quick movement and his trousers are down just far enough to pull out his cock. I don’t care what his dick is like – make that bit up yourself. It’s just a cock, that’s all I care about. It’s hard and he wants it touched, and he needs to empty it into me.

He grits his teeth and grabs my legs, wrapping them round his waist as he fucks tight pain into me.

“Ungh.” Grunting, rasping, punctuating each fuckstroke with a kind of ‘that’s it’ approval. “Ungh”: sounds like “yes”. Sounds like “that’s it.” Sounds like the kind of self-comforting sounds he’d make to himself when he’s masturbating.

As if I’m not there.

I make no sounds at all, just feeling him shoving himself inside me is all I wanted – that and not knowing his name, of course. He’s pushed the crotch of my knickers to one side and I can feel the fabric getting damp as I drip lust down the shaft of his dick and onto the inside of my thighs. I grip him tighter and he shudders.

“Ye… eaaah,” a harder thrust – pushing deeper into me than he has before, and a long pause as his cock twitches. He rests his head on my shoulder, briefly, enjoying the feeling of being spent.

He pulls himself out of me, adjusts his clothes, and with a final glance at my tits, he unlocks the door.

“Thanks, stranger.”

And he’s gone.

 

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

Those of you who know me know I love comedy almost as much as I love dick. Anyone with the ability to make me laugh gets bonus attractiveness points and most likely a large slice of my heart. So I’m delighted to welcome this week’s guest blogger. RB is a stand-up comic who struggles with one of the eternal dilemmas: how do you keep a straight face when something sexy also makes you want to burst out laughing? Sex and stand up comedy wouldn’t have struck me as a natural pairing – I’m a notoriously miserable twat when it comes to laughter during sex, and as a general rule if you giggle when I’m naked I will burst into horribly unattractive tears and order you out of the bedroom. But thinking about some of the stranger things we do in pursuit of orgasm, I have to admit RB’s got a point: sometimes we are hilarious creatures.

Sex and stand up comedy

*SLAP*
‘Oh…FUCK.’
‘When I spank you, what do you say…?’
‘Um…’
‘Well, little slut?’
‘I don’t know, what DO I say?! This is sex, not Mastermind!”

And we collapse into giggles, in a sweaty, semi-clothed heap, and the moment’s gone.

When I first became interested in BDSM recently, I thought the greatest conflict it would present would be with my feminism. How, after all, could you campaign for sexual autonomy and equality, then be completely dominated in the bedroom, and called all sorts of names you’d seethe with anger at in the outside world?

Obviously, I realised quickly that it chimes perfectly with feminism; you can do whatever you damn well please in the bedroom with a consenting and understanding partner, whether it be being beaten with a riding crop, pissing on someone (I’ve heard that’s a thing…), or straightforward missionary in the dark.

No, the biggest conflict I’m experiencing; being a sub and being a smart-arse.

I’ve been performing stand-up comedy for over a year. I’m a fledgling but I’m pretty damn good. I also perform spoken word poetry and improv – I feel I could, just about, call myself a ‘comic’ without sounding like a massive arse. It’s my life; I love it, I’m good at it, and I want to make it into a living someday. But with this, my personality has shifted into one of ‘tiny loud clown’; I take very little seriously and spend an inordinate amount of time trying to make people laugh (including strangers). If I can find an acceptable opportunity to take the piss, I’ll take it. So, how on earth am I meant to react when a man pulls me onto his knee and slaps my arse, again and again, whispering very low, ‘fucking jailbait.’

A handful of people that I’ve spoken to have assumed I’m a domme, and I can understand why. I’m loud and confident to the point of hyperactivity (off-set by the occasional depressive episode where I stay in bed for two days, cry and cannon ball Pringles tubes). I’m very argumentative and opinionated, and I talk about sex, in and out of stand-up, with a frequency and volume which amuses and alarms people in equal measure.

But, BUT, this is the thing. Performing is exhausting. Commanding an audience’s attention can take all your nerve, courage and confidence; and I do an awful lot of it. When I get to the bedroom with someone; to relinquish control, to hand over the keys, is such a relief. It’s like taking your shoes off at the end of the day. I can relax. I’m in someone else’s hands. And oh, what capable hands they can be. As refreshing as it can be for a loud little idiot like me to quiet down and obey orders, it’s equally fun to watch a soft-spoken, polite, unassuming person take the command they might not otherwise have in their everyday life; to watch them transform into a beast who’s going to fucking have you – use you and bite you and turn you into a panting wreck.

‘God, you’re so fucking wet, you little slut. You want me to untie you? You want me to fuck you? You want to feel my cock inside you, do you?’

‘…yes.’

‘Yes, WHAT…?’

‘Yes, sir. Oh, fuck, FUCK…’

Keeping in character is tricky. Sex is never like the movies. There are knees slamming into faces, narrow beds to fall off, crap knots, sneezing. Having to move out of a kneeling position during a spanking because you desperately need to blow your nose. Hearing the word ‘balls’ and bursting out laughing. Just realising the absurdity of the entire situation and failing to take it seriously. I’m a beginner, and I’m still stumbling through a sea of spankings and commands and filthy hard limit lists, and I’m still going to get the giggles. Occasionally I worry that I won’t be able to stop; I’ll degenerate into a pile of hysterical laughter, those fits that make your stomach ache and tears leak out of your eyes, and I’ll totally undermine the person that I’m with.

But, when you’re on your knees with your wrists tied in front of you, and he’s behind you, fucking you in short, hard strokes; slapping your arse with an open palm, chuckling darkly as you gasp at the sound, and the quick burst of pain, calling you a ‘filthy…little…BITCH.’ and you feel as if you might either come or go absolutely fucking mad…

…it’s hard to make a joke. Or make any noise at all, except to moan, and to swear, and to scream.

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.”

As with any toys mentioned here, you’d be helping to support my site by buying butt plugs from my affiliates using any of the links on this sex toys page. If you’d like a specific butt plug recommendation, my favourites at the moment are these Doxy butt plugs – buy direct from Doxy using my affiliate link and you’ll get 15% off and free shipping if you use the code GOTN15.