Girl On The Net: My Not-So-Shameful Sex Secrets. Литагент HarperCollins USD
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trembling fingers. I breathed deeply, knowing he was on his way. I pictured him walking in the door and grabbing hold of me in exactly the same spot number one had, pulling me towards him by the waist, pressing his instant erection hard against the crotch of my jeans.
He came in. Shaking just as much as I was, he took the cigarette from my hand and put it in the ashtray.
He grabbed me just where I wanted him to, fitting his bigger hands in the curve just above my hips. As he pulled me towards him, I could feel his dick pressed up tight against me, hear his shallow breathing and feel the rapid beat of his heart.
‘Can we?’ he asked, fumbling to open the zip on my jeans. I nodded, but pressed a finger to my lips. We were both scared that someone would come in, but incapable of stopping ourselves.
There wasn’t much room, just a narrow corridor between shelves of paint tins and the workbench where my cigarette was still burning in the ashtray. He turned me around, placed a firm hand on the back of my neck, and bent me over the workbench. I could hear that wonderful sound—the clink as he undid his belt buckle—and I slid my jeans down until I could just feel the waistband tight against the back of my thighs. I pulled my knickers down to meet them, presenting him with my backside and my slick, naked cunt.
As he pushed himself inside me there was another of those killer lustful moans. His legs started trembling and he held tighter on to my hips to keep his balance. I gripped the workbench and pushed back and up, filling myself with his dick.
With each thrust I held my breath, bit my lip to stop myself from gasping. I could smell the smoke and his aftershave and hear the workbench rattle with every stroke of the fuck. Everything was heightened by the worry that at any minute the door could open and we’d be exposed: my knickers round my thighs and his cock jutting out of the gap in his tight black boxers.
It didn’t last long—longer than the five seconds that marked our initial success, but not quite long enough for me to come around his cock. With a stifled grunt, he pushed into me one final time, and I held back a sigh of lustful satisfaction as I felt him shooting spunk hard into me.
I straightened up and turned around to see his eyes shining with satisfaction. He picked up the dying embers of my cigarette and took a final drag, barely suppressing his filthy smile.
We hadn’t been caught. We were safe.
For the rest of the afternoon I sat on the sofa with number one, crossing and uncrossing my legs, jiggling my knee when I felt the crotch of my jeans rest tight up against my clit. When number two caught my eye I had to stop myself from grinning. I could feel his spunk drying on the inside of my thighs, and number one’s hand resting on the back of my neck. I loved them both, and I felt lucky. And I felt invincible.
Cheating on someone is like breaking a particularly arduous diet: knowing that what you’re doing is bad makes it all the more delicious. The stronger your moral feeling against it, the sexier it is to be fucked by someone who isn’t your boyfriend. Of course, it doesn’t help to explain this to someone whose heart you’ve just broken. I’m far less likely to fuck other people when I’m in an open relationship, but for some reason when I’ve tried to explain this to boys I love they have failed to appreciate the irony.
Fucking boys who aren’t my boyfriend is hot. It doesn’t always have to be a risky fuck, where I’m holding my own hand over my mouth to try and avoid moaning and giving the game away. Sometimes all it takes is the knowledge that what I’m doing is wrong.
And it is wrong, I know that. I’m no more going to engage in an ethical debate with a heartbroken lover than I’m going to show him framed prints of my own infidelities. Everyone knows cheating is wrong, even those of us who have done it. I could tell you that I was young and inexperienced and desperate to be loved, and none of that—despite being true—would make anything that I did OK.
Cheating is bad: you’ve made a promise to someone that you’re not keeping. You’re breaking one of the very few promises that they genuinely care if you keep. You’re lying, you’re sneaking around, you’re potentially humiliating them: you’re sipping cider and watching your secret lover roll cigarettes while your boyfriend casually fondles your arse. It’s mean and it’s wrong, of course, but it’s also searingly, painfully, moan-out-loud hot.
Not that I think that justifies it, of course. The hotness comes by way of explanation rather than excuse. For now, the conclusion of this episode comes in the form of some restorative justice: I got my comeuppance.
It wasn’t nearly as dramatic as it should have been. Number one didn’t burst into the garage while two and I were fucking, or find his underwear on my bedroom floor. There were no screams or recriminations, no public shouting matches and no dramatic fist fights. There was just a text message, a brief moment of panic, and then the end of my world.
I was in number one’s bedroom with him, sharing a quick catch-up and the obligatory post-college blow job before we set off for dinner. It was his eighteenth birthday, and I was excited. His family were taking us both out for a posh meal and I was excited about giving him his present. I’d bought him a Zippo, which sounds like a crap gift until you remember that:
We were just kids, who back then were still labouring under the impression that smoking was anything other than idiotic.
He’d been gagging to have a Zippo for ages, seeing it as an adult gift that marked a commitment to smoking which he thought was cool (see above).
I’d had a romantic slogan engraved on the side, designed to mitigate a little of my guilt about number two and also—hopefully—let number one know that no matter how inadequate my love for him, it was at least genuine.
Guys doing Zippo tricks are hot. Watching him slap the lighter closed with a quick flip of his fingers drew attention to his hands and made me melt. I wanted to watch him do that more often.
I was sitting on his bed, jiggling my knee with a mixture of excitement about giving him his present and residual arousal because he’d just come in my mouth. He was getting dressed for the evening. Watching guys get dressed has always been one of my favourite things. It’s like a striptease in reverse, and I can take my time and drink in every inch of his body, without the pressure of having to pretend that I’m not thinking about his dick.
He’d just pulled on a shirt when my phone went. Loudly.
There was a pause as I realised that he was closer to it than I was. It should have been in my bag, stowed safely so that he wouldn’t be tempted to rifle through it to read texts. It struck me as odd that it wasn’t where it should be, but dumped on the floor in a pile of clothes that he’d cast aside earlier. I sprang forward quickly, aware that I was in the danger zone. The possibility that the text was, in fact, from number two had my head swimming.
I dived for the phone, only realising as I picked it up that number one had dived with me.
Nowadays we’d no more read someone else’s texts than we’d rifle through their knicker drawer, but back then no one had had a mobile for long enough to build up an etiquette around them. No one we knew had yet been caught cheating because of something as modern as an SMS, so grabbing someone’s phone to read them their text was as natural as letting them copy your homework. So it didn’t surprise me that he’d reached for the phone, but it did surprise me that he’d done so with such speed. I wondered if he could sense why I needed it. Or, more realistically, why I needed him not to see it.
‘It’s OK, it’s mine,’ I said, probably a little too defensively. ‘Yours has that stupid ringtone.’
He didn’t say anything, just stared at me. My sinking feeling grew stronger as I watched all the colour drain from his face. He wasn’t jealous or suspicious, he was guilty.
The phone was his.
Not just something that belonged to him, but something that was so utterly and completely his I didn’t even know about it. A different phone. A different number. A text from a girl called Carly, and what felt like the end of the universe.
He looked at me with terrified eyes, mouth