Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

I used to go to play parties which were ‘BDSM only.’ You could spank, whip and beat each other to oblivion, but you weren’t allowed to fuck on the furniture. Perhaps that’s where this wank fantasy comes from: the idea that fucking is forbidden only makes me want to fuck more. I mean… obviously.

“No fucking,” he explains as I walk in the door. “There’s a room upstairs with equipment, and down here you can play as long as you don’t knock any furniture over. Mind out for drinks as well, don’t want broken glass on the floor. Help yourself to belts, canes, tawses and paddles… but remember that fucking is forbidden.”

I instantly want to fuck.

If you’d caught me ten seconds before I walked inside that door, I’d have told you I wasn’t that bothered about it. I knew this was a play party, and I’d have been picturing men I’d only just met grabbing one of my wrists, dragging me over their knee and spanking me with the palms of their greedy hands. I’d have begged for a go on a spanking bench – knickers round my ankles, ankles tied to the sturdy legs of the furniture, wrists held tight behind my head by a generous bystander, while someone laid into me with a big leather tawse, watching my thighs twitch with each smack of it on my naked bum.

But ‘no fucking’? You might as well kick off your party by showing me a big red button, and sternly instructing me not to press it.

Fucking is forbidden. So I want it. It’s all I want. So I roam through the crowd, clutching so tightly to a glass of warm white wine that the very thing might shatter in my hand. I bat my eyelashes at men who look like rulebreakers, and sigh ‘I’ll be so so horny by the end of this evening…’

When men order me over the arm of the sofa, or their knees, or the spanking bench, I yank my knickers down and arch my back so they can see how wet my cunt is. If any of them brush against it when they’re rubbing the raw marks of the beating, I moan with encouragement.

Fucking is forbidden.

I wonder if they set this rule just to make life more exciting. Then I remember that not everyone’s like me, and I feel ashamed. That I’d disobey the one rule my hosts set, ignoring the rest of the bounty they’ve offered, makes me a terrible, terrible person.

But if you label something ‘forbidden’ then what do you expect? ‘Forbidden’ isn’t ‘not allowed’ or ‘discouraged’ – it’s got capital letters and a frisson of taboo. It’s more than instruction – it’s temptation.

So this terrible person takes a detour to the kitchen to refill her wine glass and look out for likely conspirators. A guy standing by the sink in a practiced pose of nonchalance looks like a likely bet. He’s ignored the dress code: good sign. I raise an eyebrow at him and make small talk, being careful to include at least two casual mentions of the ‘fucking is forbidden’ rule. He laughs with me, and moves a little closer, and I know I’m making this sound quite easy, but it is. The ‘F’ word just happens to work too well on some of us: I could be monstrously rude to this guy and he’d still want to bend me over the kitchen table and slip his cock in for a second, if only to complete the challenge.

As it happens, we don’t fuck on the kitchen table. We fuck, instead, in the spare room upstairs. Leaving the door open, as if to demonstrate that we’re not being ill-behaved, he leads me into the bedroom by the wrist and yanks me around to one side of the bed.

“Sssh,” he whispers, as he slips his belt out through the loops, then: “pull down your knickers.”

As I slide them down my legs to my ankles, I remind him that fucking’s forbidden, and I angle myself so that no one walking past the door could see what we were doing. They can hear the crack of his belt, as he lays the groundwork for our alibi with three solid *cracks* against the bare skin of my arse, but they wouldn’t be able to tell if we were fucking. Because fucking, as they told us, is definitely not allowed.

“How hard do you want to be beaten?” he asks me, and I tell him “as hard as you can.” I want to feel every whack as intensely as possible – eager to do my penance in advance so I can relax and enjoy the crime.

I picture his arm raised in that beautiful curve over his shoulder – his sleeves rolled back to let him get stuck in, and his face a wry twist of sadistic, horny glee. Then – crack – another stroke falls, and my body twitches at the pain of it. I yelp a little, so those nearby can hear exactly what this is: a beating, of course. Absolutely not a fuck.

He doubles the belt over again on his hand and throws in a few harder, shorter smacks. With the other hand he unzips his flies, spits on his fingers, and lubes up the tip of his dick.

“Want more?” he asks me, as he rests the head of it against the entrance to my cunt. I squirm and say “yes please”, then yelp again – the leather smacks against my skin at the same moment he pierces me with his cock.

And we’re fucking now: we’re doing it. Not despite its forbidden status, but because of it.

Deliciously, inevitably, his cock feels better than any I’ve had before. The first stroke – quick, solid, as much a force for punishment as the belt whacks he’d just been giving me – makes me shudder with satisfaction. After having ached for a fuck all night, the only word that really captures the raw pleasure of finally getting one is: soothing. His fat cock stretches my cunt, and soothes the twitching, throbbing pain that’s been growing steadily over the course of the evening.

I bite my lip as he fucks me sternly and silently. Using my cunt like he’s working off his frustration at having been told he isn’t allowed it. Quick, sharp thrusts that I have to brace myself against, to avoid leaning too heavily on the bed and causing it to squeak.

When people walk past the open door, giggling and flirting and chatting, he pauses what he’s doing – cock still firmly buried in my cunt – and starts lashing at my arse with the shortened belt. It’s only when he whacks me like this that I can make any noise at all, so I make the most of it by letting out all the squeals and groans I’d been choking down while the fucking was happening.

*thwack*

Unngh.

*thwack*

Fuck.

*thwack*

Oh God fuck yeah – I mean ouch.

When the coast is clear, he starts fucking again – this time with a bit less care and a little more oomph. I can hear the smack of his crotch meeting the soft flesh of my arse, and the low grunts that are coming from the back of his throat – both noises which make me want to cry out all the more.

By the time I come, I have bitten through my lip. My mouth tastes of blood and the room smells like fucking and it’s all I can do not to whimper with satisfaction.

By the time he comes, he’s forgotten why we started. At least, I assume he has. No one who remembered that fucking is forbidden would have grunted ‘Good girl’ as loudly as he did when he emptied himself inside me.

I sssh him pull up my knickers, being sure to catch all the drips.

We sneak out of the room leaving no trace of what we’ve done, save a few snatches of party gossip and the lingering scent of our fuck.

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