It’s fair to say that Girl on the Net is a rather accomplished young lady. Good at swearing, great at drinking, pretty fucking excellent at putting things in her cunt (or so I hear)…she can even hold a halfway decent conversation about philosophy, for someone who learnt the ropes at such a second-rate university. Online, she’s obviously best known for her writing, which is, by turns, funny, insightful, angry, sexy, educational, (devastatingly) honest, and all the rest of the good stuff for which we’d all like to be recognised. It’s not a stretch to say that she’s the UK’s leading sex blogger, and by some distance at that.
However, what a lot people don’t know about GOTN is that she also writes incredibly hot erotic fiction. I discovered this by accident a few months ago, when I commissioned her to write me a story: she needed fast cash, I was curious to see whether she was as talented a fiction writer as she was a blogger, and a mutually beneficial arrangement was hastily reached.
It’s a Friday, and I seem completely unable to finish the two stories that I’m currently working on, so with her permission I’ve decided to share the results of that arrangement here. We agreed at the time that she’d take one of my Sinful Sunday photos, and write a story about it; she chose to use this post as inspiration, and came up with a filthy little tale of a boy who gets a whole lot more than he’d bargained for. I’m not going to disclose what I paid her for the work, but I will say that I had no complaints about the return I got on my investment, and that I imagine her price has risen significantly since then.
Enjoy!
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Revenge, by Girl on the Net
“You have a fucked-up idea of ‘fun’,” I told him, wiping tears from my cheeks and trying to rearrange my clothes. At that point all I wanted was to be covered. To hide the heat and the blush spreading across my chest. After the humiliation of what happened downstairs, I wanted to cover up completely – bury myself in sheets and clothes and blankets and hide. Become unsexual. For a short time at least.
“I thought you were enjoying it.” He sounded genuinely chastened. As if, as he marched straight over the line I didn’t want him to cross, he’d genuinely thought it was OK.
Here’s what happened, the short version: we were in the living room with his friends. Drink was not just flowing but flooding. Most of the girls had retired to the kitchen, but I – ever the attention-seeking one – sat in the middle of this group of happy guys: flirting, playing, and occasionally hoping I’d catch one looking down my top.
One of them made a flattering comment:
“You have gorgeous tits. He’s a lucky man.” A hat-tip to D, who smiled proudly, the exact moment at which it should have ended.
“She has, hasn’t she?” he smirked. “Go on, show them off.”
Now this wasn’t a particularly unusual suggestion. D and I were used to me showing off – in clubs, at parties, when we were in full-on fuckhorny mode I’d love to show off my tits. In front of strangers at fetish clubs was my favourite. Eyes cast down, hands placed on top of my head, I’d quiver with exhibitionist delight as he’d pull my top down, open my blouse, or lift up whatever t-shirt I was wearing to let strangers stare and rub and pinch my tits. Sometimes I’d let him slip down my top in the back of taxis so the driver got an eyeful of my taut nipples through the thin lace of my bra. Other times I’d do it myself – offering looks and touches to men I didn’t know. Strangers. I loved to feel their rough hands on me – the needy exploration and hot delight at being offered something previously out of bounds. The only thing better was feeling their eyes on me, as D showed me off proudly. Firm, heavy tits moving gently up and down as I breathed faster, knowing they were appraising me, hoping they wanted to touch.
So he knew I liked showing off, although I’d never shown off to friends before. The glint in his best friend’s eye was enough to make me tense, getting slightly wet at the thought of presenting myself to the people we knew in the middle of a party not designed for perverts. I wanted to feel his eyes on me, like the eager eyes of a stranger.
But that’s all it was – a fantasy. D perhaps didn’t suspect that what I liked to do elsewhere – in groups of people who didn’t know us – was unconscionable in front of our friends. Our friends who’d think badly of me. Call me ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ and ‘pricktease.’ The back of my neck felt cold even as D reached for my hand to pull me into a standing position.
“Go on, give them a quick flash,” he slurred, hot with booze and pride. I laughed, pretended it was all a joke, then shuddered as he reached for my top.
I wasn’t wearing a bra – just a tight, long-sleeved t-shirt with exactly the scoop neck he liked. I’d wanted him to push me against the wall in hallways and doorways – private places. Wanted him to follow me on trips to the bathroom, pull down on the top and run his fingers over my nipples when no one was looking. But people were looking now – everyone was. One or two of the girls had gathered back in the room and were making nervous raised-eyebrow faces at one another as D put me on display.
“A countdown, shall we?” he said. The boys sat up, conversation abandoned as the show was about to start. Most looked keen although one or two shuffled nervously. I kept smiling – it was all I could do. Angry and frustrated and, despite my brain screaming murder, desperately aroused.
“Three…” He gripped the neck of my top and I could feel his rough fingers brushing my chest.
“Two…” My cunt twitched, and I could feel the wetness soaking into my knickers.
“One…” He pulled, and a cheer went up from the boys. I blushed bright red and tried to think about something – anything – that would stop the arousal spreading from the throbbing wetness in my cunt to the pit of my stomach. I failed.
There was a kick of lust, delight, and urgent need – knowing I was being watched and mocked it… well… it turned me on. Humiliated me. Enraged me. Tore me into two separate people – one of which I liked and the other I despised. I felt like, in not stopping him or showing outrage I’d betrayed myself, and shown myself to be a dirty, pathetic slut.
Just in case you were wondering, you know, why I’m sitting on the bed now listening to his apologies and wanting to hide under bedsheets forever.
“I’m so sorry,” he knelt down beside me. His smart shirt looked creased, tired like he did. With his head bowed in misery I wanted to take pity on him – pull him closer to me and let him rest his head against my chest as he wallowed in misery too.
“I just… you know,” he muttered.
“I know.” For a second the desire to forgive overwhelmed me. He wasn’t to know. He’s an idiot when he’s drunk and besides – hadn’t I loved it? Hadn’t I wanted it? Hadn’t I got wet and hot as he exposed me to all his friends?
But I kicked that feeling to one side. Not now. Forgiveness could come later but for now I needed him to know what it felt like. I wanted to give him exactly the same feelings he’d given me: wet, throbbing arousal coupled with humiliation and fear. A bittersweet taste of the medicine he’d forced me to swallow.
“Stand up.” I told him. He looked at me in surprise, which was just as I wanted. I usually spoke to him softly – a submissive, pleasing lilt. This was the voice with which I’d command a dog.
“Stand. The fuck. Up.” I looked into his eyes, my own burning hate and revenge and a lust I surprised myself with. As he stood he reached out for my hand, and I slapped it away.
“Back off. Don’t touch me.” As if stung, he retreated a couple of steps until he was standing against the wardrobe.
“You think it’s fine to humiliate me? To turn me on and present me in front of your friends like some sort of party prize? Fuck you.” I slapped him, hard. Once on his right cheek, then again for good measure. It bloomed red, and I stepped away from him.
“Take off your shoes.” He looked quizzically at me. “I’m not fucking joking. Take off your shoes.”
He complied, removing his shoes and socks without a word. His expression betrayed his confusion, and something in it made me feel powerful – strong. I was smaller than he was, with weak arms and thin wrists. I used to revel in the power he held over me. But at that moment I realised that I could do with words what he would usually do with rough gestures and strong shoulders and size: I could overpower him.
“You’re going to do exactly what I say now. And you’re not going to refuse, or ask why.”
“Yes,” he replied in a small voice.
“No, actually, just don’t speak.” He nodded. “Take off your pants.”
He slipped his trousers off first, and the sound of his belt slipping through the loops on his trousers no longer signalled to me the start of my punishment, as it had done before – it signalled defeat. Loss. His loss. As he lost his pants I could see the first initial stirrings of that delicious shameful arousal in his cock.
“Touch yourself,” I told him, and took a seat on the bed. He grabbed his dick and squeezed, slowly. He was reluctant to get hard, wary of what I would do next. “Harder. I want to see you rock-solid.” He held himself tighter, started rubbing slowly – unsure about how to proceed but unwilling to disobey my uncharacteristically direct instructions.
At that moment I understood the fun for him – the power he’d enjoyed over me. There was a kick in my gut – a lustful, angry power that spread as I watched him grow harder. I wanted more of this.
“You’re not fucking trying,” I told him, and slapped his hand away. “Undo your shirt.”
All credit to him, he didn’t tremble as he undid the buttons – he understood exactly what I wanted to do, and had resolved to take it with as much dignity as he could scrape together. I grasped his cock and squeezed tight. I slid my hand up and down, far stronger than I would usually. He winced with reluctant desire. I looked at him directly – stared into his face. Today I wouldn’t be on my knees.
When he was hard, at maximum stretch, I stepped back to take him all in. He was angry – check. Horny – double check. And was that? Yes! A blush spreading across his cheeks – he was humiliated, horrified that I’d done this to him so easily. That I’d overpowered him with words and shame. I could probably have stopped there, and the lesson would have been learned. But I wanted it not just learned but burnt, etched deeply into his memory. I wanted him to know that I could win.
“Turn round and face the door.”
“No. Don’t make me go out there.” His usually commanding voice was stretched thin to an almost whimper.
“Yes. I’m not going to tell you again.” It was no longer a surprise to me that he did exactly as instructed. Cock stiffly pointing in front of him, he turned towards the door.
“Open it.” He did, and as he stepped back his hands twitched towards his crotch, desperate to cover himself, to bring back a shred of the dignity that I was so happily stripping away. I took some time to admire the view – his smooth, taut arse framed in the doorway, the shirt draped softly over his hips. The muscles in his legs tense with tension. The fear that someone would come up.
“Are you worried someone will see you?” I asked gently. He nodded, and turned slightly at the softness in my voice.
“They’re all still down there. They’ll be… talking about us.”
“They will, wont they?” I replied. “Talking about you, talking about me. Thinking I’m the slut for showing my tits. Thinking you’re the one with the power.” He nodded again, and at last he trembled – I could see his legs shake delightfully as he stared at the open door.
“Do you hate it?” He nodded again, but placed his hands on his head. “But you love it too, right?”
A pause.
A long pause.
My heart beat faster as I waited for his final nod. “Yes,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I love it.”
“Good, I replied. Now walk forward.”
Power is hot, and taking the power for myself was fantastic. But it’s the pictures that will stick with me – for the rest of my life what I’ll remember my beautiful boy as he strode slowly across the landing. I hissed steps at him – “Now off with the shirt. Two more steps. That’s good. Lift your t-shirt. Touch your dick. Two more steps. Show me your arse.” He did exactly as I commanded, oblivious to the wolf-whistles and drunken catcalls from downstairs.
By the time he reached the bathroom at the end of the hallway he’d stripped naked. I made him turn round and face me. He stood on the tiles, naked and ashamed, in the semi-darkness of the bathroom at the other end of the hall. Dick red and throbbing and slick with precome, and a face that looked torn between horny and heartbroken. Exactly as I wanted him.
None of our friends had ventured upstairs, although having heard the cheers I’m sure some had seen his walk of shame. As he stood in the bathroom he was hidden from their view – just – and I was safe across the hallway and two paces back in the refuge of the bedroom. Fully clothed and fully in control, I’d never felt more powerful. The deep, gnawing lust was still there, though, and I decided that I wanted to see him come.
“Touch yourself,” I mouthed, looking him straight in the eye. He held my gaze as he did it. Framed in the doorway like he was putting on a private peep show just for me.
He rubbed himself hard – there was no taking his time about it. The worry of being discovered probably helped speed him up. But as he pulled at his dick with swift, urgent strokes it seemed like his motivation was more than that – the power I held over him was new and different and hot enough to get the tip of his cock wet and slick, and give him a twitching, throbbing need to come.
In that moment he knew how I felt. Humiliated into a quivering, lustful slut, whose exposure only prompted a need for more exposure, more humiliation, more fucking.
I folded my arms and watched him, holding on to the deep throbbing in my clit as I watched him push himself to an urgent orgasm. When he came he came in thick spurts – slicking the hand he tried to catch it all in and spilling drops onto the bathroom floor. I mimed touching my own chest, and as he rubbed it into himself, completing the cycle of his own shame, I grinned at him – feeling better.
“Good boy,” I whispered across the hallway. “Good fucking boy.”
