It was National Poetry Day this week, and the Sinful Sunday theme is Back To School. I loved English as a schoolboy for many reasons, one of which was the access it gave me to poetry in its many forms. One of those forms was haiku:
Coming? Going? Huh:
The thrill-seeker does both with
Total abandon
…on the lube bottle. An excellent companion in the early hours of a (Sinful) Sunday morning.
I’ve been thinking a lot today about sexual hang-ups. A friend of mine wrote something a while ago about the relief she felt when she discovered that the majority of women don’t come from penetrative sex alone, having spent her teenage years believing that there was something wrong or different about herself, because she couldn’t get off that way. Carrying that level of anxiety about a perceived sexual flaw can be exhausting and deeply inhibiting: its impact isn’t just localized, but instead leaks into other, nominally unrelated areas of our sex lives, causing us to worry about acts and scenarios that we’d previously looked forward to.
It helps to talk though, and in sharing a hang-up with others we invariably discover that, far from being alone in our misery or embarrassment, we’re actually surrounded by fellow ‘sufferers’, in the same way we would be if we were confessing to a fear of heights or an inability to roll our tongues.
In that spirit, here is my Friday confession: I don’t like blow jobs.
Actually, I should qualify that. I like blow jobs: I just don’t enjoy them to the same degree, with the same frequency, or in the same way as I’ve been led by porn, Cosmo, and a host of former partners to believe that I should. And for years the gap between those externally-imposed expectations and my own experience served to restrict even further any pleasure I derived from oral sex: while I did sometimes manage to let go and lose myself in the physical sensations, in the end I’d always be dragged back into a state of frustration and guilt, especially if I could tell that my partner really wanted me to come.
At the grand old age of 32, I’m now a lot more relaxed about it all, but I still have those moments when I can’t help wishing that the other person would stop; that we could move on from the amuse-bouche and tuck into the rest of the buffet. Every now and then I feel that way because my partner simply isn’t very good at giving head, but happily that tends not to be the case: whether through luck or judgment, the vast majority of the women I end up naked with seem to love sucking cock, and in most cases their enthusiasm is matched by their skill. Instead, it’s what I perceive in that moment as my own inadequacy that makes me want to wriggle free and pay them some attention instead. The more they break out their best moves, the more conscious I become of the fact that I’m probably not going to give them what they want, especially when that very obviously involves a mouthful of cum at the end of it all.
To some extent, it’s a lack of communication on my part that’s to blame, though I’m less guilty of that these days. It took me a long time – and a couple of slightly older, more experienced partners – to shake off the belief that telling a woman exactly how I want my cock sucked constituted a clear breach of sexual protocol and a grave insult to her finely-honed technique. Clinging on to that fallacy meant that a lot of my partners didn’t really stand a chance; they were blind squirrels using trial, error, and unreliable muscle memory to try and find a nut, before giving up or being gently pulled away and smothered in my apologetic kisses. I still find it difficult to be completely upfront about what I want – at least till I’ve let the other person do it her way for a bit – but I’m certainly much more vocal than I used to be, especially with women who make it clear that they appreciate a few pointers.
I suppose what I’ve only recently come to realize is that unless I’m in that rare state of arousal where just about any physical contact will send me over the edge, oral sex will never function for me as a direct route to climax, except when it’s basically delivered as a souped-up hand job. Expressing that can be awkward – a lot of women seem to view it as a defeat if their mouth alone is not enough to coax an orgasm out of the man they’re with – but when I manage to do so it allows me to reach a point where I can appreciate the act for the overwhelming pleasure it gives me, as well as for any enjoyment that my partner takes out of sucking my cock. It makes sense as well. I’m circumcised, so lube has always been key to pretty much any form of stimulation I receive; at the same time, the vast majority of mouths are not strong enough to apply the level of pressure needed to the slightly desensitized head of my cock; it’s only when someone really nails the contrast between the firm grip of their hand and the soft, wet, supporting stroke of their lips and tongue, and uses the two in tandem, each reinforcing the other, that I start to lose all sense of where I am or what year it is.
As a stand-alone act, I think I’ll always feel slightly ambivalent about the blow job, and will continue to suffer – with new partners at least – a level of performance anxiety that I’m mercifully spared in all other aspects of my sex life. That makes me a little sad, especially as I know it’s almost exclusively a result of my own failure to readjust and articulate my view of the role it plays in my sexual enjoyment; when my partner and I have both been in a place where we see it as a supporting element of foreplay, or as an ongoing (or one-off) expression of dominance, I’ve enjoyed receiving oral a lot more, and been much more confident about doing so.
Maybe that’ll happen more in the future. Maybe this is one hang-up that will just melt away completely. Until then, I’ll continue to feel just a little bit shy about admitting that when it comes to giving head, I’d much rather be the one on my knees.
“Stand there and strip for me”, she said, and he felt the muscles in his thighs tense and flex. At that point, he still had sufficient wits about him to recognise that they did so to compensate for the sudden weakness in his knees, which momentarily threatened to force him into the sort of stumble that would certainly result in punishment of some kind. He stood there in front of her feeling oddly vulnerable without his suit jacket, which hung over the back of a faded green armchair in the lounge below. He didn’t know why he’d left it there: only that she would want him to enter her bedroom without it. After a moment’s hesitation on the stairs, he’d left his cufflinks in, and it was while he was deliberating that he saw the blindfold – well, scarf really, but he knew its true purpose – draped casually over the top of the banister.
So there he found himself, a metre away at most from the end of her bed, uncomfortably erect in every sense and oddly reminiscent, in her eyes, of a man about to face a military firing squad; eyes and torso covered in white cotton, shoes gleaming in the lamplight. Of course it was those shoes that he removed first, casting a hand out to one side in the hope of finding something solid against which he could balance, despite knowing perfectly well that no furniture was within reach. The socks came off next, deftness and a hint of showmanship slowly emerging in the way he flicked them off his feet. She was alert to that though, and determined not to allow any of his everyday swagger to cling to him: not while he was in her space. Her hand flicked out and caught him on the cheek, one nail catching a bit and leaving a spot of blood near the corner of his lip. “Less of that”, she told him: “I just want you naked for me.”
He resisted the urge to dab at his mouth with the collar of his shirt, and instead started to unbutton it. He went slowly, but not too slowly, and each time he deftly liberated a button from its hole, she was reminded of the effortless way in which his fingers unhooked her bra. Suppressing a smile, she allowed her hand to curl round the back of her neck and loosen the knot that held her dress together, but she knew that to slip out of it would be to surrender a level of control over her own body: in her head, things really were that delicately poised, though he would never know it.
Instead she focused on the backs of his hands. The hair stopped just below the wrists, tufting out and brushing the veins that spread down towards his fingers. The skin was pale, like the rest of him, but she could never think of his hands as delicate; there was a pleasing solidity and sturdiness about them, and she knew she could depend upon them, in a way that made her shiver inside. They suited a shirt, and the cufflinks he wore to keep his sleeves wrapped neatly around them looked as naturally decorative as any pair of earrings that she wore to work. When he eased the shiny silver squares out, put them to one side, and allowed those sleeves to unfurl, it was as if he was already naked in front of her.
After shrugging off his shirt, which dropped soundlessly to the floor, he removed his belt and then paused, torn once again: should he unclasp his trousers and simply allow them to fall down his legs, or should he bend over and facilitate that process? He waited for her to instruct him, and when it became clear that she would not do so, he allowed himself a compromise of sorts; gravity was given an initial helping hand – just as well, given how snugly the trousers clung to his thighs – and was then permitted to take over completely, leaving him free to step out of the suddenly-slack legholes and move closer to where he knew she was sitting.
He stopped abruptly when he felt her breath on his stomach. “That’s it, stay where you are”, she said. Her hand closed over one of his and moved it to the waistband of his briefs. “Now rub yourself through them till you’re hard.”
It was his fault for not wearing boxers, he knew that. Knew it even as the palm of his hand slowly circled the head of his cock, which was sandwiched tightly between the cotton and the dip of his pelvis. He curled one finger under the shaft and moved it to a more central position, but just as it threatened to burst out over the elastic of his waistband, her hand pressed flat against the ‘K’ in Klein and held it in place; he sucked in his stomach, his breath somehow trapped by her fingers as well, and felt his cock bow like a ship’s mast in high winds.
She watched, fascinated, as the blue-and-white material rippled and flexed. His cock was usually ramrod-straight, so to see it curve out towards her in such an obscene way made her want to hold her hand against him like that forever. To leave him suspended somewhere between pleasure and pain, till he buckled, broke, and submitted fully to her will.
The heat between his legs warmed her fingers and she shifted them higher, easing the pressure on his briefs and scratching pale red lines across his stomach with her nails. “Come on, stop wasting my time – are you scared of letting me see it?” She crossed her legs and glanced up, pleased to see his eyebrows rise in what she knew was annoyance at her goading. As she watched, he cupped one hand over his crotch and used the other to peel his underwear down off his hips and arse; it hung there for just a moment, squeezed between his palm and his penis, then with a wry smile he surrendered the last vestiges of modesty and extended both hands in front of him, a supplicant for her to judge and sentence accordingly.
It was at that point, with him more open and defenceless than she’d ever believed possible, that the vague jumble of ideas she’d had for their afternoon together coalesced and hardened into a clear vision. She stood up and faced him, moving close enough that the tip of his cock grazed her belly; she ignored his gasp of surprise and put one hand on his chest, then stepped back, the connection between them magnetic enough that he followed her without being told to do so, and allowed her to pull him down onto the bed. “Roll onto your back”, she said, and he complied immediately, using his feet to push himself up towards the headboard. Stranded in the middle of the bed like that, with his legs together and arms by his side, he looked to her like a penguin that had been tipped over in the snow, and she hurriedly stifled a laugh, not wanting him to close himself off to her again. She busied her mouth with the insides of his thighs instead, planting kisses across them and pushing his legs apart in the process, then moving up his body and bringing his arms with her, till he was spread-eagled and flushed from her lips.
She’d never believed in handcuffs – cheap, nasty things, for the most part – so in the absence of that tell-tale clink, it came as a surprise to him when she looped a soft leather tie over one of his wrists and secured it to the bedframe. The second tie was pulled tighter, as if she had only been testing the tensile strength of the material with the first, and before he even thought to question it, he found himself bound to the bed by physical restraints, as well as the psychological hold she had over him. He breathed in and out, trying to maintain his body’s regular, controlled rhythms, as he felt her eyes wander over him. The bed bounced to his left and he felt a weight settle into it: her right knee, he realised, the same distance from his ribcage as her left knee was on the other side. She straddled him and he ached for her to lean down and kiss him; to press her bare skin against his.
To be continued…
The first smack of the ruler was gentle and exploratory, delivered on the part of her ass still covered by her pale blue panties. I knew she would expect me to be tentative and hesitant, and I wanted to play up to that image, at least until she relaxed and regained a measure of the haughtiness that both turned me on and set my teeth on edge.
I pulled the ruler back again and tapped the wide, flat face of it firmly against the other cheek, then back to the first one again. As I prepared for a fourth stroke, Helena removed one hand from the counter and rested it on her thigh, then inched it up her leg toward her underwear. I watched her intently, aware that a part of me wanted nothing more than to let her slide her fingers inside her panties and touch her clit with the swift, skilful movements that always turned us both on so much. She must have sensed my hesitation, because she glanced over her shoulder and locked her eyes on mine. “Don’t stop”, she whispered. I smiled and reached for her hand; I twisted it back, so that I could kiss her fingertips, then I bit down sharply on the finger I knew she’d been intending to push inside her cunt.
“The next time you move that hand without my permission, I’ll tie it to the towel rail and leave you here for the building crew to do with as they please. Is that understood?” Helena moaned, and her nails dug into my palm, but when I placed her hand back on the cold marble, she lowered her weight down onto it and braced herself for the next blow.
I could feel the first beads of sweat starting to pool at my temples as I resumed her punishment. For the next minute or so, I found and maintained a steady, insistent rhythm, varying only the angle of the ruler and the target area that it found on her underwear and on her skin. When I’d spanked partners in the past, I’d always felt a decidedly unerotic sense of detachment, but with Helena, each stroke only increased my desire for her; the little catch in her breath, which accompanied the impact of the ruler, sent a tingle down the shaft of my cock that grew more and more difficult to ignore as it got louder and less controlled.
Without really noticing it, our bodies had moved closer again, and the hand I’d been using to hold Helena steady felt hot and prickly against her skin. I wanted her so badly: I wanted to kiss every angry red mark on her ass, and to keep moving my lips over her till they found the sweet wetness that would make us both forget about the stinging pain. I shook my head and blinked, then took a step back, away from the wash unit. I knew I’d surrender to that desire in the end, but first I wanted to finish the job: to make her feel fully owned and used in the way I knew she craved.
The next time I swung the ruler back, I brought it forward from lower down, and sent it up between her legs to smack against her cunt. Helena slapped her hand on the counter, and I heard her say “again – please, I want it again.” I ran a finger along the ruler and found the point of impact with her underwear; it was slick just from that first blow, and I knew that she must be close to coating her inner thighs with her juices. “If you want it again, you’re going to have to work for it”, I said. “I want to hear you tell me what you are, Helena. Tell me what you want.”
I bent down and used the ball of my thumb to brush the crotch of her underwear to one side. Softly, I flicked my tongue out and curled it up underneath her, running the tip between her labia and back toward her ass. Her juices were thick and I could taste how ripe and desperate she was, but I stood back up and waited for her to speak.
“You fucker – do you know how mean that is? God, ok, you win. I want you”
*Smack*
“Ah…I want you to use me.”
*Smack*
“I want you to hurt me”
*Smack*
“I want to please you”
*Smack*
“I’ll do anything to please you”
*Smack*
“Anything to taste you”
*Smack*
“Anything to show you how slutty…”
*Smack*
“And dirty”
*Smack*
“And desperate I am for you”
*Smack*
As Helena paused and drew breath, ready to resume her mantra, I lunged forward and covered her mouth with my hand, letting her feel my hard cock against her ass. I couldn’t believe how aroused her words had got me, and I bit her earlobe, then buried my face in her hair. When I spoke, the words felt rough and harsh in my throat.
“So you want to taste me, do you? Be careful what you wish for, you beautiful little bitch.” The fierceness in my voice took us both by surprise, I think, but I braced her against my body, then spun her around and kissed her hard. She tried to bite my lip and her nails scratched at my wrist; in response, I slapped her across the face twice, once on each cheek, and kissed her even more hungrily. When I broke away, I barely had to apply any pressure at all on Helena’s shoulders before she sunk to her knees, fingers already searching for my belt buckle. I knew that if I let her take over at this point, I’d never regain control; her mouth on my cock was something I found almost impossible to resist, and she rarely missed an opportunity to tease me till I was the one begging for release. As she pulled down my zip and pressed her lips against the firm bulge in my underwear, I slid my hand under her chin and tilted her head up to face mine.
“You might want my cock in your mouth, Helena, but all I want is to use it like I’d use any of your other holes – is that understood? If you think you can take that, then put your hands behind your back and stay still.”
Helena sank back onto her ass and pulled one hand tightly against it with the other. She closed her eyes, but opened them again almost immediately and fixed me with a hard, defiant stare. Once again, my hand found her chin, then my fingers curled around her neck and I moved the head of my cock to her open mouth. Her tongue reached for me and I pulled back, just out of reach. She made to pout, and as her lips started to close I thrust forward quickly, decisively, and pushed the full length of my thick shaft inside her mouth, till I could feel the tip nestle against the back of her throat. A low growl came from deep inside her and I pulled out again; I could see her saliva already coating my cock, and as I looked down at her hungry eyes, I knew I wanted to fuck her till it pooled on the floor beneath us.
To be continued…
I’ve frequented various dating sites over the years, and a question I often get asked by potential matches is some variation of ‘where’s the most interesting/strange/exciting place that you’ve had sex?’
I love having sex in public places, especially when there’s a genuine risk of getting caught, but still, I’ve never really had a stock answer to that: I’ve tended to adapt my response according to the situation and, more specifically, to the person asking the question. However, everyone knows that men love pointless lists, so in that spirit, here’s my top five ten interesting sexual locations:
1. De Bijenkorf changing-room, Amsterdam. Most people associate Amsterdam with sex, but they tend to focus on the red-light district and its myriad charms; less front-of-mind is the Netherlands’ premier department store, with its changing ‘pods’ in the middle of the shop floor, perfect for quick, quiet, knee-trembling sex in front of the mirror.
2. Spring Street subway stop, New York City. A late-night blow job on a railway platform constitutes a formative experience, it would seem, and is definitely enhanced by the knowledge that the next train could appear at any moment…
3. Backstage at the Burton Taylor theatre, Oxford. Previously unforeseen perks of dating the producer apparently included oral sex during Act One.
4. The Mull-Iona ferry, Scotland. The Highlands don’t attract many tourists in October. A mid-afternoon ferry from the small island of Mull to the tiny island of Iona attracts even fewer tourists. Going from re-enacting Titanic’s ‘king of the world’ moment to fucking from behind against the back railing of the boat was a happy consequence of those factors.
5. Oxford University Parks. Honourable mention here goes to two college libraries, but coitus al fresco is always both liberating and energising, and as a fairly inexperienced 22-year-old, rolling around in the bushes next to the main path through one of Oxford’s busiest attractions was the winner when it comes to sex on university property.
6. Various London boozers. Too many to name individually, but I still get a tingle of excitement whenever I revisit one of them and remember fucking in the toilets, or in a dark corner of the bar…
7. Highway 1, California. Hat-tip to all other ‘highways & byways’ encounters, but as glamorous as it was to give head in a layby off the A420, it’s hard to dispute the Pacific Coast Highway’s position at the top of this particular category.
8. Westfield shopping centre. More bathroom-based action. Made the rest of the shopping trip much more enjoyable and relaxed.
9. The Managing Director’s desk. Illicit encounters with a senior work colleague had both benefits and drawbacks – among the former was the opportunity to stay in the office after everyone else had left and bend her over her boss’s desk.
10. Royal Albert Hall. Fucking in the cinema? Not bad. Theatre? Pretty classy? Braced against a pillar in the standing gallery of the Albert Hall? A worthy way to round off the top 10…
What/where would be on your list?
I looked at my watch and tried to ignore the flash of irritation which accompanied the realisation that she was already ten minutes late. Helena always played this game: she liked to push my buttons, and in fact the more she learned about the things that annoyed me, the more she seemed to enjoy exploiting that knowledge. I’d have taken greater offence if she had reserved such treatment for me alone, but from what I’d observed, it fit a general pattern of insouciant disregard for the preferences and priorities of the people with whom she surrounded herself; she got away with it only because she also knew how and when to flick a switch and make you feel like you were the centre of her universe.
Fifteen minutes. I knew that she would have no problem getting past the security guard on the ground floor of our building; we’d been meeting like this for a couple of months, and anyway, Helena carried herself with the sort of authoritative air to which most people instinctively defer. She wouldn’t call – she disliked talking on the phone, as it denied her the opportunity to control the conversation with her eyes and her body – but I always knew when she’d arrived, as a text would invariably summon me to come downstairs and satisfy her.
My foot tapped out an impatient rhythm under the desk, as I debated whether or not to go and check the bathroom. The pragmatist in me worried that maybe her mobile battery had died, and that she’d leave if I didn’t come; on the other hand, I’d always waited for her message before leaving the office, and I knew how infuriating it would be to see the sly upward curl of her lips if she walked in to find that I’d broken that habit.
And it was at that point, with the lingering image of her self-satisfied smirk, that something inside me snapped. I pushed myself up from my chair and walked toward the door to the stairwell, taking the thick plastic ruler from my desk with me. I knew then that we’d been building up to this moment; that she’d wanted to see how far she could take things before I gave her the punishment she’d told me she enjoyed. It had startled me the first time she breathed that into my ear, her arms wrapped loosely around my neck as we sat in the pub by the river. “I like to be hurt”, she whispered, softly enough that I wasn’t sure I’d heard her properly. “I like to be used. To be turned into your whore.”
I thought about those words as I jogged down the stairs. Her skin had been warm against mine as she said them, and the heat had raised a matching, prickly flush on my chest and down between my legs; until she’d broken the spell by smiling at me, all teeth and dimples, and nipping playfully at my earlobe. Now though, the heat was back, and I gripped the ruler hard, till the sharp edge dug deep into the palm of my hand. I tucked it into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, and flexed my fingers, feeling the blood tingle through them.
The first floor of our building had been completely unoccupied since a small start-up had gone bust a couple of months after moving in there. Helena worked nights at a bar in the city, so had taken to visiting me during the daytime, whenever she was bored or in need of my cock. The first few times, we’d locked ourselves away in the disabled toilet, but we soon discovered that she took particular pleasure from being fucked in the men’s bathroom, with its high, gleaming walls for her moans to echo around. It was that door which I pushed open, having negotiated the three flights of stairs down from my office.
I half-expected to find the room empty, and I cursed myself when I saw her delight at the look of surprise on my face. Helena was leaning back against the wash counter, her skirt short enough that the bottom of the marble pressed against the bare skin on the back of her thighs. She’d already stripped down to her bra, which I was certain had been carefully selected to match her skirt and shoes – Helena left very little to chance, and she was well aware not only of the impact that her body had on men, but of how best to maximise and exploit that impact. As I walked into the room, she remained against the counter, waiting for me to reach her.
“God, I thought you’d never show up”, she said. I looked at her, trying to meet her gaze while keeping my own intentions from showing in my eyes. She reached out a hand and pressed it against the front of my suit trousers. “Mm good, you’re hard already. I really need to be fucked.”
I let her brush her fingers up over my cock, then watched as she turned to face the counter, her ass thrust back toward me. Slowly I lifted her skirt, and curled a finger down under the waistband of the simple cotton panties she was so fond of wearing. I gave them a sharp tug, pulling upward so she could feel them tight against her cunt. I held them there for a few seconds, and gently pushed one of the knuckles of my other hand down between her legs, noting with approval how wet the soft material was. She shifted her feet, moving them further apart so she could sink down onto my hand and increase the pressure on her cunt, but I eased her back up again. She half-turned her head to look at me, quizzically, and I leaned in close, my lips seeking the exposed skin down behind her ear.
“No Helena, not today. Today you’re going to find out what happens to dirty little sluts who don’t give a fuck about other people. Dirty little sluts who think they know what it’s like to be used. Understood?”
I twisted her hair between my fingers and turned her head back to face the mirror. I thought I saw a half-smile flicker across her lips, but when she dipped her chin down in a quick nod of assent her eyes were wide, and as I slid the ruler out of my jacket pocket, her breathing seemed to stop for a second, before resuming with one long, ragged sigh.
To be continued…
You’ve barely been online for five minutes when the email appears. The subject line is blank, but you open it anyway, curious to read what I have sent you. However, this is not a day for words, and you stare at the empty white box, momentarily confused, until you notice the attachment. It’s a video file, and is simply labelled ‘Watch me’.
At first there is only darkness, but when you turn up the volume you can hear breathing, heavy and ragged, coming from more than one person. It is unmistakably masculine, and is accompanied by the rhythmical beat of flesh on flesh. You squirm in your seat and grip the mouse harder, as the fingers on your other hand squeeze between your legs. The noises are familiar, arousing, but different somehow. You hear a low moan, and then, faintly, the sound of a cock being sucked. Slowly, you realise that you can make out three shapes in the darkness, three distinctive voices breathing their desire: three bodies silhouetted on a large bed, joined together and moving in unison.
The change in the light is subtle at first, but when the room is fully illuminated it’s done so with a suddenness that takes you by surprise. Your knickers are already wet, your clit tingling with anticipation, and then you see me. It’s the face that you’ve seen so many times before, the body that has appeared countless times on your phone and computer, and, stiff along my stomach, the cock that fills your fantasies, but tonight there’s more. Tonight there’s the hand roughly holding my head as a long, thick cock slides in and out of my mouth. Tonight there are the firm, toned arms pulling my hips back until I can feel cum-heavy balls against my ass. Tonight I’m on all fours, forced down and fucked as you watch intently.
The light fades again and as the clip ends, all you can hear is my whispered plea: ‘fuck me’. You bang the desk in frustration, wanting to see more, feeling your clit throb as your fingers press against it. You move the cursor over ‘play’, ready to watch it again, knowing that you won’t be able to move from your chair until you’ve answered the need burning inside you, but before you can lose yourself in those images once more, the second email arrives. This time there’s no attachment, but the rush of disappointment is halted by the words that stare out at you. ‘Don’t cum. Join us. Room 317, The Old Bank Hotel. Be here in 15 minutes.’
You stand, shakily, and re-read the email, then turn the computer off. You know you’ll have to move quickly if you’re going to follow the instructions, but your legs refuse to cooperate at first, until your dripping wet cunt takes over. You reach for a skirt and tie it hurriedly around your waist, then search for the corset that you know I can never resist. Your fingers are unsteady as they lace it up, but within seconds it’s done. You fling open the front door and hail a taxi, scanning the streets for signs of heavy traffic. But there will be no complications tonight, no barriers to what you have desired for so long, and before you know it you’re there, paying the driver and walking into the lobby of the hotel. There is no-one on the front desk and you slip up the first flight of stairs, climbing quickly till you reach the third floor. There it is: room 317.
This time there is silence when you press your ear to the door, and as you rest your fingers against it, it slowly swings open. The room is dark and you hesitate, but the smell draws you in. It’s sweat, hanging heavily in the air, the scent of naked bodies, and it hits you hard. You flick the light switch next to you, desperate to see what’s getting you so wet, what you’ve come here for. The lamps above the bed are dimmed low, but as you sit on the edge of it, you know that this time you will be able to see everything. To see me lying on my back, one hand firmly stroking my hard cock as it juts out in front of you, close enough for you to study every vein, every inch of taut skin. To see the two men standing next to the bed, looking down at me, the muscles on their arms and chests well-defined in the soft light. To see their cocks, bigger than they’d appeared on the video, and already dripping with a mixture of oil and pre-cum. I turn my head to face you and notice how hard your nipples are through your corset; you want this as much as I do, and we both know it. I look you in the eye: ‘don’t move, just watch.’
You nod your head as the other men join us on the white sheets. They’re swift and decisive: they know what they want and they’re not going to stop until they’ve got it. One of them sits astride my chest and starts to stroke his cock, using both hands to grip the thick shaft and pointing the head towards my mouth. Seeing his body tense as he touches himself gets you even wetter, but you know that, for now, you can do no more than watch. My hand is still wrapped round my own cock as he pulls my head next to the sticky tip of his, till I can feel it against my lips. He pushes his hips forward, forcing my lips to part and sliding his cock inside. It’s just the head at first, hot and salty, but so good on my tongue that my balls tighten in response. I suck hard, wanting more, and as the shaft enters my mouth I feel strong hands on my calves, slowly lifting my legs into the air.
I can only imagine how wet you’re getting under that skirt as you watch them on top of me, the cock in my mouth beginning to slide in and out more forcefully, my legs pushed back until my ass is open, exposed. I wait to feel fingers pressing against me, probing gently, but they never come; there is to be no waiting tonight, no teasing, and I moan around the throbbing cock fucking my face as a second one drives deep into my ass, not stopping until it’s buried in me to the hilt. I hear your voice for the first time, little more than a whisper: ‘fuck him. God, fuck him hard.’
At your command, I feel fingers in my hair, pulling sharply till I’m locked in place, unable to do anything other than suck and lick the cock that’s slamming into my mouth, and down my throat. My legs are pushed back even further, and I fight to keep control, my hand urgently stroking my own cock as my ass is filled. I can hear you breathing unsteadily, and I know that you’re watching them fuck me, watching my mouth and ass get stuffed full with cock, taken, owned and used in front of your eyes. They’re relentless, and their cocks feel like they’re still swelling inside me, rock hard and pulsing as blood pumps through the veins. My legs are almost back to my head now, and all I can do is keep sliding my hand up and down my cock, wanting to cum almost as much as I want them to cum inside me.
I sense you moving closer, unable to stay still any longer, needing to see, hear and smell everything. You lie alongside me, your breath cool on my flushed skin, and look up at the man straddling my chest, taking in his toned body and the base of his cock as he holds my mouth over the full length of it. You can almost taste pre-cum in the air, and you realise that it’s on my lips, and coating my fingers. You shift on the bed and I know that you are studying my cock, which pushes me even closer to the edge. Between my legs there is only the feeling of heat and raw, primal power as every inch of the second man’s cock is used to stretch and fill my ass. It’s almost a blur as you watch it, and he’s fucking me so hard that all you can take in is the sight of that dark, swollen head, every time it slides out of me then pounds back in again. You’re still fully clothed, but the wetness that’s dripping down your legs is almost unbearable now, and you crave those three cocks, wanting them inside you one after the other, wanting to have your hunger sated, but knowing that the torment will continue.
I can tell from the way that both cocks are throbbing inside me that neither man will be able to hold back for much longer, and I hear your voice again, louder this time, insistent. ‘Cum inside him. Fill him with your cum till your balls are dry.’ I’m pinned so tightly to the bed that I can’t even push up against them; I am theirs to fuck as hard as they like, and as your focus returns to the cock in my mouth, I feel it start to explode and a first spurt of cum shoots over my tongue and down my throat. It’s hot and thick, and I swallow hard as more spills from his cock, again and again until it covers my lips as well. I glance to one side and look at you, my mouth still full of cock, and see the expression of intense arousal on your face. Our eyes meet, but only for a brief moment before the second man speaks for the first time. ‘Fuck, I’m gonna cum.’
I feel the weight on my chest lift, and the cock slide out of my mouth. He wants to watch as well, and he lies next to you, lifting my hand off my cock and replacing it with his. He strokes me firmly, matching the rhythm set by the man between my legs, pointing the head directly at my cum-stained mouth. Your fingers brush over your soaking wet knickers, finally unable to resist your pulsing clit, but my hand grips your wrist and pulls it away. Just then, I feel that long, thick cock slide all the way inside me for the final time, and hear him moan uncontrollably as his cum shoots deep into my ass. His orgasm seems to last forever, and he feels enormous buried in me like that, thrusting his hips and watching the hand that’s moving up and down my shaft. We’re still joined, my fingers on your wrist, and you turn to face me, in charge once more. ‘Come for me. Now.’ I obey; I have no choice. No choice but to catch it all in my mouth, feeling the pleasure tear through me, released in one endless stream of cum, as three pairs of eyes watch me. It is dark outside, but there is plenty of the night left, and room 317 is ours until morning.