Category: Sex (Page 3 of 5)

I haven’t had sex in years, and in that time, I’ve begun to wonder if I have, to any extent, lost my touch.

I need to contextualise a bit. I don’t think much of myself; I have been told by various people that I have an assortment of talents, but by others that I am completely talentless. My natural state is to consider myself the latter, although empirical evidence suggests otherwise. I am, by nature, self-critical – a lot of bloggers on this here side of the web are – and it takes an especially good day to convince me that any fortuitous circumstance coming my way is down to anything but sheer dumb luck.

The same can’t be said for sex, because for a long time I was certain that I was good at that.

I don’t have a lot of pride, but I do take pride in the fact that I am a very attentive lover. I try – and I can but try, even if I’m not always successful – to attune myself to my sexual partners’ needs and turn-ons, doing the things they like and hopefully finding something mutually beneficial for us. If not, but if she enjoys it, then that matters a huge deal for me.

Even without that concept, I have been told by all eight sexual partners that I am good at what I do. The five out of the eight who have had sex beforehand have all responded favourably, and out of those five, three of them told me that I was the best. One of those liked to scream it at me while I was railing her against my bedpost in my old house.

Going for years with nothing but my hand for company has left me wondering if, should the opportunity present itself, I would suffer performance anxiety during sex (or iron fist, which has been a problem for me before), and that I would cease to be the best, or even particularly adequate. As oral sex is bae, this was my main worry: that my lack of experience, rapidly disappearing energy or the disability that I’ve been diagnosed with (or all three) would impact negatively with my abilities on my knees and between her thighs.

My sex princess would tell you the opposite, and here’s why.

There isn’t a lot of nudity in our house, and that which there is is mostly from me. My sex princess is hardly ever naked – ironically, given their former blogging moniker – and, when they are, it is a sign that they are horny. The fact that they walked into the bedroom on Sunday night completely naked was just such a sign, and their delightfully vague insinuation that we should do “sexy stuff” was enough to make me intrigued.

Would this entail touching them with my fingers until they are worked up enough to finish themselves off?
Would this mean that I wield a Doxy and stimulate their clit with it until they finish?
Would this mean that I masturbate in front of them while they watch and admire?

None of this, they attested. They wanted to be licked.

I will now repeat the fact that I was incredibly nervous about this, but once my head was in position between their beautiful thighs (my knees comforted by a duvet that had fallen from the bed during our cavorting), it seemed to matter very little. In so many ways, it was almost as if we had never left off with the sex – their scent, their shape and their taste were all as familiar as they could be – comforting and dependable.

Her pussy lips flushed as I tapped my way along their slit, like they always used to. As I circled their clit with my tongue’s very tip, they moaned and arched (as they do) while the clit itself stiffened and buzzed, its pulse reverberating through my nose as I slid my tongue further south. I’d forgotten how good that felt. They gasped, moaned and grew rapidly more slick with lust as I began to flick my tongue back and forth across their gorgeous, soaking wet vulva, controlling my breathing as best I could, truly savouring the moment.

“Fuck, that’s so good,” said their voice from somewhere in the ether. “Keep doing that.”

It’s a common misconception that “keep doing that” means “do something else”. I, however, didn’t do something else, and carried on lapping my tongue in tight circles across their clitoral hood.

And, as it turns out, that was the right decision, and one that made me feel like, once again, I am indeed skilled. Or, at least, I am at oral sex.

Once they had finished screaming, I went through to the lounge, licked my lips, took a long draught of Sprite Zero…

…and then, with a silly grin on my face, I set up a COVID lateral flow test, which I took as my entire mouth still brimmed with the taste of girlcum.

[Apologies for not calling this post “KAOS”. I was fully intending to, so as to both reference soaking and Donkey Kong Country 3, but DKC3 has nothing at all to do with this. With that out of the way, however…]

The following is a true story:

It wasn’t late. Maybe about seven, or eight. Perhaps it was later. I seem to remember it being dark outside, but then again, maybe it was winter. In any case, the room was bathed in light – probably through the efforts of several very valiant bulbs.

By this point I’d gotten past the sort of mental/physical block that had prevented me from ejaculating during sex. For a few months now – following the initial horny, experimental period – I’d been coming inside her practically every time we had sex. Although we were both content with the fact that what felt good was the journey, rather than the destination (and the fact that she had more orgasms than me), we both enjoyed it when I climaxed.

Our “post game” reviews usually got around to the subject. Rebecca would describe what my penis was doing as “pulsating” and refer to herself as being “full of cum”, an image I found both disgusting and delightful in equal measure. In any case, that’s what I was doing now, and I’d had a lock fitted on my door, so when we were at my place, we were – to all intents and purposes – free to do so.

And that’s what we were doing.

Although I’d penetrated her a few minutes ago, and we were very much in flagrante delicto at this point, there wasn’t a lot of movement going on. My dick was rock hard – you could have hung a towel off it by this point – and her inner pussy muscles enveloping every millimetre, contracting around my breadth so well that I could feel every pulse, her heartbeat channelling through my shaft as I lay atop her. Beads of sweat were dripping from my forehead, a few running down her cleavage as she moaned and sighed.

Neither of us were moving.

It wasn’t as if this was a regular occurrence. I was usually quite energetic during sex and, by this point, I’d usually be merrily thrusting away. But, at that very moment, I was just caught up in enjoying the feeling.

Enjoying the feeling. My head spiralled backwards. Three very powerful words. I’d heard Esque using them a year or so prior – also to describe sex sans movement – and that was what I was doing. Lying there, completely inside her, bathed in sweat and light and heat… and enjoying the feeling.

I can’t believe this, a tiny voice somewhere in my brain said. (Even after a few months, the fact that I was having sex at all was difficult to believe.) I can’t believe how good this feels. Even though I’m not moving, I’m making love, I’m making love, I’m making…

Silently, swiftly, and even without the accompanying hip thrust that soft porn would have us believe happens every time, I came. Rope after rope of warm, thick cum shot deep inside her, and although she made no sound, the glint in her gaze – for we had been staring into each other’s eyes throughout this whole adventure – told me that she had felt it too.

Latter-day internet knowledge tells me that this is a process known as ‘soaking’. I did, however, manage to finish without anyone jumping on the bed in close proximity. This may well be a skill that I wasn’t aware I had up until now.

Let’s add it to my CV and watch the offers come flooding in.

[Partially inspired by GOTN’s filthy post around the same topic. Go read that too.]

[Girl on IRC] I’d like to have you in the shower…
[ILB on IRC] That might be quite tricky.
[Girl on IRC] Maybe the bath?
[ILB on IRC] I have had sex in the bath…

While I didn’t go into details, that statement was indeed true. I have had sex in the bath. It was, like I imagine shower sex to be, incredibly difficult.

I can’t really take baths (although I can have sex next to them). My skin doesn’t like warm water – it tends to flare up on contact – so I can’t have a long soak in a bath, play with Matey like I used to as a small child, or post those obnoxious “here are my legs in the bath” selfies that unreasonably hot women on Instagram do. The last time I actually took a bath, I itched so much that I swore, rolled out onto the bathroom floor, and cried for a while wishing I could peel my skin off and send it to a lab for dermatological testing.

Sex in the bath happened a few years earlier.

The fact that it was a success I can attribute to the fact that my girlfriend at the time was very short. As anyone who’s met me can attest, I’m tall, and trying to position myself on top of someone the same height – while remaining in a confined space, as opposed to a double bed or somesuch – would have been a logistical nightmare.

But, this way, it was easier. I drew the bath myself; she settled herself into the water, relaxing against the far end with her legs (which only reached part of the way to the tap end) spread. I got in, my feet up over the taps (the only way I would fit), positioned myself the same way I usually did when we had sex, and after I got consent, slid into her.

The sex itself was quick and dirty, if not the most comfortable. All the familiar sensations were there – the throb of my cock inside her, the tightness of her inner walls around my shaft, the softness of her folds as they pulled back – the water was just an extra bonus. Even our movements were familiar; the water itself made a pleasing slosh with every thrust, and there was more of a slap of body-against-body contact. It just didn’t feel majorly different.

What was different was the fact that I was increasingly stiff throughout (my whole body, not just…). I was jammed into a confined space which, while it fit my 5’2″ girlfriend, wasn’t really optimised for me. After a few minutes of passionate thrusting, I wasn’t really feeling it any more, and she was more than happy to get out and have sex on the bathroom floor, for which I was grateful.

We then decided, in our infinite wisdom, to go to her bedroom and have sex there as well – which we did. This time, we both came – she shuddered and jerked and sighed beneath me; I tensed up, reared back and shot rope after rope of cum into her, and we collapsed, together, into a happy, sticky mess atop her crumpled bedsheets.

“I need a bath,” she said after a while.
“Oh, right,” I replied. “I’ll go and draw you one.”
“No need,” she said, looking around for a towel. “I think it’s full already.”