Someone on Twitter has pointed out that this blog is quite disturbing/triggering, because there is an element of non-consent/coercion. Please be aware of this before you start reading. If you’d like any reassurance, know that I am absolutely fine, and this swingers’ club trip happened a long time ago – both me and the guy I went with discussed it afterwards in detail, and established some of our own rules of engagement to go along with the standard swingers club rules, so we could both have a sexier time. 

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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. 

You don’t need pictures to get horny. When both I and the internet were young, I was a big fan of chatrooms. A chatroom, in case you’re too young to have ever needed them, is a place you can go on the internet to talk to complete strangers. You just log in, pick a generic name, and join in the discussion. Like Menshn, yeah?

I haven’t been in a chatroom for years, but when I was young (14, 15 ish) I thought they were the best thing about the internet. I’d log onto the main room, chat to people for a while (always with a name that made it clear I was a girl, but perhaps did not make it clear quite how young I was) and wait for the private chat boxes to pop up.

a/s/l?
19/f/uk
wanna cyber?

I was just old enough to know what ‘cybering’ was, and just young enough to think the very idea hilarious.

no, I don’t wanna cyber, but what’s ur name?

[For some reason I believed that correct use of spelling and grammar would see me hurled from the internet]

Short chats with lonely guys turned into longer ones. Some just wanted to talk, some wanted to do sexy chat, most of them were keen to know exactly what I looked like. I spent a fair bit of time listening to their woes, some time trying to describe – in explicit detail – nicely developed pairs of tits that definitely weren’t mine. But it was fun. You could log on, reach out, and within minutes be surrounded by words from horny guys, lonely guys, guys who wanted nothing more than to talk to you.

At the time I thought it was the best way to get off – kids these days won’t understand, but in the competition between jpegs of celebrity nipple-slips that loaded line-by-line over a shitty dial-up connection and chat rooms where perviness was almost instantly guaranteed, there was no contest.

Besides – I was talking to real men! Actual men! The joy of teenaged discovery doesn’t come better than knowing that even though you can’t get a boyfriend at school, there are thousands of men on the internet willing to pretend to be a half-hearted version of one for twenty minutes or so.

But naturally there has to be a moral to this story, because as an adult I look back on my teenaged self prickteasing horny guys in chatrooms, and I think: well, you were a fucking arsehole, weren’t you? Moreover, at no point do I want kids to read this blog and think that fucking about in chatrooms is anything more than a dangerous waste of time.

So here goes.

One day I gave a man my phone number. See? I was an idiot as well as an arsehole.

He seemed nice, though. I was young and stupid, and I thought I was in line for a 17 year old boyfriend. 17! Practically a grown-up! And he seemed… well … quite sweet. He wasn’t scarily pervy, just a lonely guy with a modem and some time on his hands.

When I turned off the internet (that’s right, kids, back in the day one had to do that) the phone rang straight away. My Mum asked why someone was calling this late at night, and I pretended I knew him.

She left me alone and I spoke to him. And it was at this point that I got a bit scared. Because despite my horny teenaged chatting, and my confidence that no guy could hurt me, I suddenly came to the terrifying realisation that this guy had actually phoned me. He’d called my bluff. And if he wanted to he could call me again, at any time, even if I told him to sod off.

As it turns out, there was no need to be scared – this guy was perfectly nice, and realised within about 10 minutes of our phonecall that I was not, as I had stated in my username, 19, but closer to 13. He said goodbye and hung up.

There are two morals here: number one – don’t give your fucking phone number to men you meet in chatrooms, because they will probably use it to call you. Most people know this, I didn’t.

Moral number two – teenagers will find porn on the internet no matter how and where you hide it. If it weren’t chatrooms it’d be pictures, or erotic words, or sexual health websites with stark and unerotic pictures of male genitals.

As an adult, porn usually consists of a high-quality video of two people going at it hammer and tongs, or six people lustily writhing together in a bucket of something that resembles lube or mucus. As a teenager, porn can be anything – when I was a teenager I would become aroused reading a certain section of the (kid’s book) Heidi, because there’s a moment when she gets spanked by her schoolteacher. Absent any other porn, I could probably crack one off looking at erotic book covers on Amazon.com. And I could certainly – certainly – find somewhere on the internet to hook up with lonely, horny guys.

Kids will find porn. There’s no reason we should make it easy for them, but we’ll never stop them finding it. The scamps.

Guys, you know that sometimes when you’re masturbating, you make a deep, sharp grunting noise in the back of your throat as you come? I like that. I like that a lot.

In fact, I would go so far as to say that it is the hottest thing about masturbation.

Not when I make that noise, of course. When I make that noise (as I occasionally do) it’s a shameful thing – something that I’m embarassed about, that makes me worry that the neighbours might be compiling a tally chart of just how often I make it so they can write a disgusted letter to the council. I expect you feel the same, which is why I’m here to tell you that it’s not shameful. Or disgusting. It is hot as all hell.

Warning: pervery on the horizon

Be warned that this post is building to something I’ve been informed is relatively disgusting, so if the idea of boys making this noise while they masturbate themselves to a grim and functional climax horrifies you, look away now and come back next week for some less gross but probably more enjoyable feminist ranting.

I frequently ask for cock pictures, and many generous dudes are more than happy to oblige. But the problem with having a steady stream of rock-hard dicks from myriad internet strangers is that the guys I actually fuck sometimes find it hard to compete. I say ‘problem’, but given that my current boy is a playful and competitive sort, ‘challenge’ is probably more accurate.

He once sent me an mp3 file. Yep. Just sound. Because he knows I know what his dick looks like, and he knows I’ve seen enough dick that there are phallic shapes burnt into my retinas, he didn’t want to send me something that was the same as the pictures that other people send me every day.

So he placed his phone on the arm of the sofa, set it to sound record and had a delightfully energetic and incredibly noisy wank.

A wank that ended with a grunt.

Unngh.

Scenes we’d like to see…

I get scenes in my head the way some people get earworms. While you might be humming the chorus from ‘Call me maybe’ because you’ve heard it five hundred times too many when walking around a shopping centre, I’ll have a snippet of hot filth that runs on a loop in my brain for approximately a week or so until I can get it out of my system by either doing it, watching it, or writing about it.

For reasons of etiquette and possibly legality, I can’t do either of the first two. So here goes:

A guy walks into the public toilet at Liverpool Street station, and goes into one of the cubicles. He’s achingly hard, probably suffering from a similar problem to my own – something hot playing on a loop inside his head.

He unzips his flies and pulls his solid cock out from his pants, gripping it tightly at the base and tugging slightly so that the foreskin rides back over the head. A tiny bit of precome leaks from his dick.

He braces himself with one hand against the back wall, and rubs hastily at his cock, biting his lip to avoid making any noise. His hand moves faster, and I can hear the slight shuffle of his hand against his skin, his straining fist rustling at his pants and jeans. It’s furtive, frantic, and there’s an element of practical necessity about it: he’s not horny in the traditional sense, he just needs release. He just needs to do this, to get there, to spray excess spunk into the toilet and relieve the pressure on his aching dick.

After thirty seconds, maybe a minute, he aims his cock down slightly, pointing it directly at the bowl, gives a few more angry rubs, then grunts.

Unngh.