Fetish Friday #22: Aural Sex

On Friday mornings, I often just stay in bed for a bit and stare up at the ceiling and try to figure out what to fetish about. Am I in the mood for sploshing? Or shrimping? Or something far kinkier? There are days when I sit at the computer focused on one fetish, only to change my mind when I start searching through my files.

But I've been thinking about dirty talking since yesterday, when I found the Ho necklace—so I'm going with that. Filthy talk. Sign me up. Why? I'm not a therapist. I don't have a clue why being told that I'm dirty is a turn-on. But I do know that I've been told this for a long fucking time.

Brock's hand in my pony tail. His mouth against my ear. I can feel his lips there now. I can hear my heart beat. There's that subtle spark of pain because he's pulling my hair a little too hard. My mouth opens. I want to say something. I want to beg for something. But I don't know how. I don't even know that you can. Nothing prepares you for finding out that you're kinky. Nothing tells you that this is okay. Sitting in the twilight on a bench with a man is okay. Having him whisper to you that you're a dirty little slut is okay. In fact, ladies and gentleman, it's more than okay. It's the hottest thing there is—if you're into aural sex.

Sometimes, lovers use dirty talking to tell a story, like in Helena Black's Once Upon a Time, from Frenzy:

“Tell me a story,” he says rolling against me, “I can’t seem to sleep.”

“What kind of story?” I ask as he slides his hand up under my shirt.

“Once upon a time, maybe? You’re the writer. Make something up.”

“Once upon a time, then,” I tell him, kissing his neck, “Once upon a time there was a girl.”

“A girl?” he asks, teasing my nipples with his rough thumbs and I arch against him, wrapping my legs around his thighs, pulling him closer to me. “Was there only a girl?”

“And a boy, of course,” I say, laughing.

“What did this girl like this boy to do?” he asks, slipping his other hand into my panties.

I press against him, so he can feel how wet I’m getting, “She liked to watch him with his friend.”

*****

Characters can tell made up stories, like in my piece Obsessed:

She was telling the story as well as she could—because Brandon had started to spank her harder. Tales of torrid moments with her former boys brought out this delicious jealous streak in him. He wanted to know more, but it was like pressing on a bruise.

“And the whole time, his friend was listening?”

“I didn’t know that until after I got dressed and went out into the living room. And there’s Dan with this shit-eating grin on his face.”

“Did you fuck him?”

Truth? No. Of course, not. She was dating Parker. And while Janie’s man might have gotten a little thrill out of spanking and fucking her while his best friend copped a listen, she was not the type who would randomly engage in a threesome. Especially, when they were already late for one of Parker’s sister’s rehearsal dinners! But Brandon didn’t want reality.

“What do you think?”

“I want to know what you would have liked to do…”

There. Free rein to spill her fantasies, while knowing that Brandon would understand these were only that: fantasies.

*****

As a reader, dirty dialogue draws you right in, so that you're watching, perched on the edge of the mattress:

Her finger slipped into his heat, and the thrill of possessing him and his gasp of “Oh God!” made her dizzy.

With a groan, he pumped his hips and his head fell back. She eased her finger out of him and cradled his balls again, her thumb against his hole.

With a groan, he pumped his hips and his head fell back. She eased her finger out of him and cradled his balls again, her thumb against his hole.

“Jen…”

“What, Marcus?”

"Don’t stop. Please…”

“Don’t stop what, pretty boy?”

He took a breath.

“Your fingers, Jen, in me. Don’t stop.”

You can hear the breathlessness in his words in Torn by Vida Bailey from Love at First Sting.

*****

I like the play in dirty talk like this from Brooke Stern's Bound to Act in Pleasure Bound—the double entendre that even the character is slow to understand...

“How badly to you have to go?” he asks.

“I don’t have to go.” Did he think I have a curfew or something? How young does he think I am?

“How badly do you have to pee?”

Oh. We are passing the theater. It was locked up hours ago, but maybe he has a key.

“Badly.”

It isn’t really that bad. I could wait. But I don’t want him to take me home. An abandoned theater suddenly seems
perfect, but we walk past and turn into the dark alley by the stage door.

“Do it.”

“What?”

“You could be good, you know?”

I was more confused.

“You could be really good. A star. But you need to let go. You hold it too tight. You work too hard.”

I’ve heard this before, but no one has ever been able to fix it.

“Let it go.”

“I’ve tried. I can’t.”

“A minute ago it was badly, now you can’t?”

“You can’t mean…”

*****

But for me, dirty talk often centers on the buzz words—the way they're said, the tone of voice, like in Sommer Marsden's Underpass from J is for Jealousy:

“You are a fucking whore, aren’t you? You’re wet. You are so goddamned wet,” he panted in my ear. His voice sounded drugged. I knew the place he was in. A dark place where urgency and want and anger filled him and shut down the nice normal man I knew. We’d been here before.

His fingers pushed into me. No preamble. No gentleness. Hard, harsh thrusts of three long fingers into my pussy. I pushed back with a grunt. Forgetting how guilty and sick I felt. Feeling nothing but his anger and his want. All directed at me. He played his thumb over my swollen clit, and I sobbed.

“Whore. You fucking whore.” I heard his zipper, felt the swift beat of excitement thump in my chest.

*****

Or in my story Counterpane:

“Oh, baby. You’re so wet. Look how wet you get when I lick you here.”

Her cheeks burned as shame flooded through her. She couldn’t speak. Ry’s tongue between her cheeks turned up so many different emotions inside of her. Is that why she’d never let him do that before?

He licked her again, then moved back and pressed the ball of his thumb to her asshole. He didn’t push it in, he simply rested his thumb against her. She waited. He didn’t move. She waited another second. He was as still as she was. Finally, Lia couldn’t stand the tease. She was the one to push back, to thrust back, so that his thumb was inside of her and she was panting.

“You want it, don’t you, you little slut,” he said. She loved when he talked to her like that. His accent made her feel exceptionally dirty. She had no idea why.

*****

I have to admit, after working on this for over an hour—that this was one of the more difficult fetish Fridays to put together. Because most stories have dialogue. (At least, the ones I tend to like.) And many sex stories have *dirty* dialogue. But I was looking for specifics. Those hushed whispers. Those up-against-the-wall moments, when she's got you right where she wants you. When his hand is on your throat. When your heart couldn't pump any fucking faster.

Share your own if you'd like. Post a snippet in the comments or a whole story on your blog—and I will happily link to you.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Unbelievably cool Cunt necklace is from Under Oak Studios. The write-up is to die for!