24 Hours (a Smutathon special!)
For several years now, I’ve been writing posts that are essentially just compilations of things I’ve been fantasising about. I call them ’24 Hours’, because the first time I wrote one I’d been particularly horny, and the scenarios I described in it had all featured actively in my imagination over the previous day or so. Since then, I’ve retained the title, but broadened out the scope to include things that had turned me on over a period of days or weeks. I haven’t written one for a while, but thought I’d revive the concept today for Smutathon 2021.
Some of these go back a few weeks now, but they’re all genuine fantasies that I’ve got off to, or just enjoyed turning over in my head as a distraction from work, life, etc. Hope you enjoy!
- First-date fumbling. And groping. And fingering. One of those evenings where you’re both a bit hazy-drunk, and one of you has to get on a train somewhere. You’re not quite at the stage where you’re ready to drop everything and jump into bed together, but you can’t really keep your hands off each other either. So there’s snogging at the pub table, full PDA because why not: you’re never coming back to this place – it’s just a convenient meeting point, agreed before either of you knew whether this chemistry would survive the online flirtation – so who cares whether other people are appalled by your hungry kisses and smiling, snarling, whispered suggestions of more.
After you leave the pub, bundled up in big coats under the clear sky, you watch each other’s breath as it forms generous plumes in the cold night air, and think about how it felt on your face a few minutes earlier, hot and sharp with alcohol. Maybe you hold hands, or one of you cinches an arm tight round the other’s waist; possessive, but in a way you both know is temporary, situational, welcome. There are walls to push up against as you walk – alleys to fall into – for more kisses and the chance to press your bodies together, an act designed to offer the tactile promise of future exploration; soft tits and firm thighs, stomachs rubbing together, and the sharp jut of pulsing erection against hip or navel. Your hands are bolder now, and it turns into a game of chicken, as you each dare the other to go just a little bit further.
And here’s the bit I’m really fantasising about. It’s the contrast between the cold air around my fingers – the cold skin of your tummy, as I run my hand down it, under the waistband of your knickers – and the sudden, shocking heat of your cunt. The thrill of finding it already wet, so wet, and the way it clenches my finger when I slide one inside you. Your gasp in my ear, maybe your teeth on the lobe. The “ahhh fuck” of it, and the way your torso stiffens when I rub your clit. It’s a fucking magical feeling, somehow made even hotter by the knowledge that five minutes later you’re going to be on a train, or I’m going to be in a cab; that it’s just this single point in time where we’re locked together feeling EVERYTHING, but fully aware that we have to wait – days, maybe even weeks – before we can find out what comes next.
- The specific way my ex used to say “more…oh please, I just need a bit more,” even when I had my whole cock inside her, my hips pushing desperately forward to make sure every single inch was buried in her cunt. She used to reach a point where she had absolutely no filter, and it was just so hot, even (especially?) when I could hear that pleading note in her voice, that hunger for something I couldn’t quite give her, no matter how hard I strained.
I used to exploit that total absence of control; that direct, unimpeded route from brain to mouth. “Not yet, please, just wait, don’t come,” she’d say, and even when I knew I still had control, I’d grit my teeth in mock-panic, my eyes wide as I whispered “shit, fuck, I can’t stop, I’m going to…”. She’d go properly feral then, her legs wrapped tight around me, or her fingers clawing at my arse as she tried to pull me as deep as possible, all the time muttering “no, no, fuck no, I need you in here just a bit longer, fuck me fuck me fuck me.”
“Your cock is perfect,” she’d say in bed before we fucked, or on the sofa in front of the TV. “Perfect…well, almost perfect.” And it was said playfully, lovingly, until she was sweaty and greedy, and had maybe come a couple of times already, but still wanted just that…little…bit…more.
- The thought of another cock rubbing against mine while I’m inside someone’s cunt or arse. I mean the whole MMF hotness generally, of course, but I have a particular boner right now for the friction and tightness of someone thrusting rhythmically and powerfully along my cock while I hold still or just grind into the person we’re both fucking. Maybe she’s straddling me, my cock in her cunt and her eyes on mine while he fucks her arse from behind. Or maybe he’s squeezing into her cunt as well, her body limp between us and a look of shock and overwhelming arousal on her face as she takes us both like that, in a way that felt impossible when one of us first suggested it.
If we’re fucking like that, what I really want to feel is his cock coming as it slides along mine. Not quite like it’s me he’s fucking, but that same awareness of it swelling, making her feel even tighter, and his stroke getting quicker, less metronomic. I’d be echoing the noises I know she’d be making, fully aware of how close he was and how badly we all wanted it. I suspect she’d then get to see my face change too, and feel my body start to tense, as his impending orgasm pushed me closer to the edge. That first jerk of his cock as it fills her up would be the only trigger necessary, and we’d pin her body against ours as we covered each other’s cocks with cum inside her.
- This one room in the building where I work. I only go in once a week at the moment, and it’s a long time since I had sex in the office, but both those things only make me want to fuck there more. It’s on one of the basement levels, and I never see anyone using it. Every time I go down there, I think about how good it would feel to take someone there in the middle of the working day, for a quick and rough, skirt-up, face-down fuck; the kind where even though it doesn’t last long, you both need a minute or two afterwards to calm down, otherwise it would be blindingly obvious that you’ve just had sex.
On different trips to the office, I fantasise about fucking different people there. Sometimes it’s one of my colleagues, and there’s some build-up over Teams first, each of us trying to tease the other into making the first move, before suddenly we’re in there, and she’s lifting up my t-shirt to run hands over my chest and stomach, or pulling out my cock and sliding her mouth along it in one smooth movement. Other days it’s Liv, using an afternoon off to come up into town, maybe sending me some photos over WhatsApp of the lingerie she’s concealing beneath an everyday dress. I swipe her into the building and we go down in the lift together, barely saying a word, my hand in hers and my cock aching already in my jeans. There are other people too; friends and lovers, past and present, who appear in this particular scene, but it always ends the same way, with a hard fuck from behind and my hand over her mouth as I bite down on my own lip in an effort to keep quiet. With sweat on my forehead and smiles on both our faces in the lift afterwards, the doors sliding open to let her out just as she leans over to tell me, sotto voce, that she can already feel my cum running down the inside of her thigh.
- Eye contact on Zoom calls. Or across a big desk in a room of people. The DMs and PMs that carry filth back and forth between us, even as we remain outwardly calm and professional. The confession, bold as brass, that you wish you were sucking my cock right this second, greedy and ruthless under the desk, and my blush as I realise that the words are having almost as powerful an effect on my ability to focus as your mouth would. Almost.
- Sex in the car. Any car, various people – but specific locations, all in Croydon where we now live. Quiet lay-bys and ‘are-they-aren’t-they’ dogging spots I’ve eyed up while driving along the narrow lanes in the south of the borough. Places you could pull up on the edge of woodland, or car parks at the base of some of the brutalist buildings – many now unoccupied – that line the streets of Central Croydon. I think about wandering hands as we cruise along at the speed limit, her in the passenger seat, me with a careful eye on the road. Maybe she’s just touching herself at first, aware that even as I’m driving I can see her in my peripheral vision, legs spread wider than they need to be and the knuckle of one finger visible inside her knickers, moving up and down. Soon my other hand – the one not clutching the wheel – would be in there too, trying to make her come while I drive, just because I can. She’d try to reach for my cock, but it’s tricky when the other person is driving, and all she’d really be able to do is palm and grope it through my jeans, feeling it get harder and harder.
Eventually we’d pull over somewhere – anywhere – and at that point I’d let her pull it out and run her tongue along the head. I wouldn’t want it like that for long though. If the car’s big enough, I’d pull her on top of me, skirt hiked or tights/trousers pulled over one ankle so they’re no longer in the way. She could hold onto the head rest behind me, or brace against the door and ceiling while I thrust up inside her, my hands on her arse. Alternatively, she’d take charge, forcing my arms down to my side and grinding onto my cock, her teeth in my shoulder and her buttocks against my thighs. If the car is too small for that, the back seat would do, or just the bonnet – caution thrown to the wind – and the fresh air on our faces. We’d drive off afterwards with clothes still askew and music playing, windows down but the smell of sex still lingering for hours afterwards.