This piece of writing is ridiculously self-indulgent, involving a few of the things that have made me slick my knickers in the last couple of days. I want to be woken up in the middle of the night for sex, I want to be dominated, and I want to be held down and pissed on. I’ve been fantasising about being used and defiled, and this reflects that. I hope that you enjoy seeing where my depraved mind has taken me…
I jerk out of the dream, gasping at the shock of waking up. I sigh as I feel the dry cotton of my pyjama top under my fingers. There is wetness between my thighs, but that is the only remainder of the vivid imagining my subconscious had conjured.
Luckily, I have something even better than dreams. We recently read a piece of erotica together about sleep sex, and after several orgasms and a lot of discussion, we agreed that being woken up for middle-of-the-night sex was a kink that we both wanted to explore. Now I wriggle closer to her, slipping hands down her sleep shorts to squeeze her arse and sucking gently on her ear.
“Sex time!” I whisper excitedly. “Wakey wakey!”
She wiggles in my arms, murmuring sleepily.
“Darling, it’s three in the morning –” she breaks off as I lead her hand between my legs and she feels my arousal “– what were you dreaming of?”
“It was a dirty dream,” I tell her, my voice a low, tempting whisper, “Touch me? Please?”
She strokes me gently, tracing my labia oh-so-slowly until I’m bucking into her hand. She circles my clit slowly as I snuggle close to her. I tilt my head to the side, exposing my neck, and she accepts my invitation by starting to nuzzle, alternating kisses and scraping teeth.
“What were you dreaming about?” she repeats, her index finger teasing the entrance to my cunt.
“Well…” I squirm under her touch, drawing out the word, but quickly change my mind when she pulls her hand away. “Ok, ok, I’ll tell you.”
My embarrassment fades a little as I hear those words.
“I was wearing my running clothes: you know, the ones you told me are not suitable to wear out of the house and fucked me over the sofa while wearing the other day?”
She drags her nails up the inside of my thigh. “Yes, I remember.”
“You know the guy you accused me of perving on the other day? Due to period horn and train-vibrations, of course.” I add quickly.
“Of course,” she agrees, “I remember weaving a story where I instruct him on how to fuck you, which left you begging me to finger you in the train station toilets.”
“I’d have taken the toilets on the train too,” I point out, and she chuckles against my neck.
“Of course, you would: you were so worked up that you wouldn’t have objected if I’d told you to strip in front of everyone in that carriage. We’re distracted though: tell me your dream.”
“Yes sir,” she pinches my nipple and I grin, “He was standing over me. You were watching, very much in control – it was like you two had discussed how you were going to use me? I was turned on, forced to wait, watching his fingers slowly unbuttoning the fly of his jeans and pulling out his dick.”
I pause, and her fingers quicken their patterns on my clit. “Did you suck him off?”
“No…” I admit, blushing slightly and hoping she’d read my hesitation as a response to her touch, not the tingle of shame at what I was going to say, “He pissed on me.”
“Oooh.” There is no pause before her reaction comes, pushing the last of my worries away. “Tell me more.”
“It was hot and powerful and made me feel so filthy. Because I was dressed I couldn’t escape what he’d done to me, I just had to sit there, wet and defiled, while you commented on how aroused I was by it.” The words pour out of me in an unchecked stream, not helped by the twitching of my hips as I approach my climax. “It was gushing, satisfying, disgusting…”
“Do you want to try it?” she asks, as she holds me while I lie in a satisfied haze.
I nod sleepily.
A few days later – when I’m beginning to doubt that the 3am did in fact happen and wasn’t just another part of my dream – she surprises me.
“Oi, pretty girl! Get in here, will you?” she calls from the bathroom.
“At that delightful summons, how could I resist?”
The sarcasm falls away when I see her. She’s naked, apart from the boots. The yes-I’ll-let-you-bend-me-over-the-sofa-if-you’re-wearing-those-boots boots. The if-you-steal-these-you-sure-as-hell-won’t-be-coming-this-evening-no-matter-how-fuckable-you-look boots. They are seriously hot boots, and wearing them signals to me that it is play time.
“Strip,” she orders. I obey eagerly.
“Spin; I want to see you.” I turn slowly, feeling her eyes devour me hungrily.
She kisses me greedily, and then leans in further, tugging on my ear lobe with her teeth. I shiver. In the few months since I finally pierced my ears, she’s enjoyed using the uncertainty that still surrounds my new earrings to tease me. I trust her though.
“You want me to use you, don’t you?” she whispers to me. “You want to be humiliated and degraded and used, don’t you?”
“I know what you want, filthy girl.”
Hot. It’s so hot. She’s pressed against me, holding me tightly. Her words are sending little shocks of pleasure through me. It’s not that she’s reached into my head and pulled out an exact fantasy of mine, it’s better. She’s using the fantasies I’ve told her, the filthy things we’ve discussed, to craft a scene even hotter than I could imagine. I’m so turned on.
I moan softly as she steps back.
“Get in the shower,” she instructs. I almost trip over my own feet in my haste.
“Kneel down,” she tells me. “Now, you filthy bitch,” she adds when I hesitate.
I look up at her expectantly as she steps closer. I plead with my eyes as she grins at me.
Please please please please please.
She hoicks one leg up so her vulva is warm against my shoulder.
“If you want me to piss on you, you’re going to have to beg me,” she says, and I bite back a moan.
“Please,” I tell her, “please-please-please. Make me filthy.”
She grins wickedly and hold my eyes as warm heat sweeps down my body. A confident stream of piss tumbles down over my shoulder, breast, spreading out over the curves of my body… I writhe in the filth, smile at the defilement, and am disgusted at how aroused I am.
“Filthy girl,” she mutters as she pulls me to my feet, turning the shower on. She swallows my moan of pleasure with a kiss.
Filthy, filthy girl.
Image sourced through Pixabay.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.