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Girl On The Net: My Not-So-Shameful Sex Secrets
Литагент HarperCollins
I’m Girl on the Net.You might know me from my blog. This is some stuff I do with my life. Why did I write an erotic memoir? The most obvious answer is ‘because I’m a pervert’ – I like sex; I like talking about it, reading about it, doing it, watching other people do it, and hearing other people’s stories.This is my story. Don’t read it if you’re going to be offended by whips, submission or lots of sex. Who am I? Not telling. And if you think you know, please don’t spoil the secret…Praise for Girl on the Net"This book is like Twilight, if Twilight was about sex instead of Vampires and didn't hate women." - Martin Robbins, author of 'The Lay Scientist' at the Guardian"This is the thinking gentleman/woman's filth, and will equally delight and disgust you. It is a frank and honest, which are two of the best qualities for a memoir to be, in my opinion." - BookC**t
Girl on the Net: My Not-So-Shameful Sex Secrets
I’m Girl on the Net. You might know me from my blog. This is some stuff I do with my life.
Why did I write an erotic memoir?
The most obvious answer is ‘because I’m a pervert’ – I like sex; I like talking about it, reading about it, doing it, watching other people do it, and hearing other people’s stories.
This is my story. Don’t read it if you’re going to be offended by whips, submission or lots of sex.
Who am I?
Not telling. And if you think you know, please don’t spoil the secret…
Can’t get enough? Join the thousands of readers on girlonthenet.com (http://girlonthenet.com), facebook.com/girlonthenet or tweet me @girlonthenet
Girl on the Net: My Not-So-Shameful Sex Secrets
Girl on the Net
Copyright (#ulink_88100828-1d87-5edb-ac23-665df5f36559)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013
Copyright © Girl on the Net 2013
Girl on the Net asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9781472017055
Version date: 2018-07-23
Born in the south of England, Girl on the Net travelled around a bit studying Philosophy and amassing a spectacular collection of bad habits before settling down in London. She now lives in a small flat with a hoard of books and an impressive selection of dirty coffee cups, and aspires to be the sort of person who visits museums at the weekends.
During the week you might spot her at comedy nights or science talks, and on Friday nights she’ll likely be the first person in the pub, ringing everyone else to see where they’ve got to. If you happen to meet her in real life and think you know who she is, please don’t let on. Like most people, she’s far more fun on the internet.
‘For the one who’s atomic, the one who’s insignificant and above all the one who’s not in it.’
Contents
Cover (#uab1201b7-ac44-5d68-aa75-ef5e54acb9ef)
Blurb (#u2ad4777a-b527-5bc0-a749-c26ee0587cde)
Title Page (#u035b5ba8-4621-527a-b622-1ce822369a1e)
Copyright (#ulink_49262bdd-27a5-53c0-b35a-c3eb916c98c4)
Author Bio (#u568ec3e0-6693-5b6e-9def-80d47b42d246)
Dedication (#u79453ca4-1599-57a2-bf89-06edb837f70c)
Chapter One (#uf6985f84-9273-5860-b159-a67906e6abc1)
Chapter Two (#ub3d2272e-1f4e-5e24-bfe6-5076458d73b1)
Chapter Three (#ud02cf812-3133-5205-bcba-63523f69178f)
Chapter Four (#u3a683074-964d-53de-825f-4424fb700aa4)
Chapter Five (#u8ba8249b-4a56-551e-a766-fd6201056aa8)
Chapter Six (#u2b3ecf8d-678b-5bd2-aa39-00f48e65e73d)
Chapter Seven (#u2da1af34-4345-596a-8afc-1eed7de9192d)
Chapter Eight (#u25c1a034-f971-5401-84e7-ce7fc88a70e6)
Chapter Nine (#u8b12bbdd-d68b-50f5-957d-d551cb110487)
Chapter Ten (#u1516afa9-3458-5516-9962-f07464cbab96)
Chapter Eleven (#u6587fb27-95c6-5482-9968-e8fb7ddecf40)
Chapter Twelve (#u0e981840-a25c-54b9-93fc-66da5c5fd3fc)
Chapter Thirteen (#u926644e1-736d-5492-9330-fba9c1db1caa)
Chapter Fourteen (#u2abdbcf0-1552-5602-a5e3-5708a1ce332e)
Chapter Fifteen (#u2eb10647-c4a4-53f0-a3a2-a1198b72ec1a)
Chapter Sixteen (#ucd24136c-1d83-5e6b-aa9b-8958e0db5535)
Chapter Seventeen (#ue99a69d5-259c-57ac-8d1f-597c09a6040f)
Chapter Eighteen (#u101dd6b5-5729-5e4f-8d1f-841716b663d2)
Chapter Nineteen (#u3ced82ac-4164-5f2c-93a6-e862cada4d85)
Chapter Twenty (#u486e7d85-71e3-5997-996e-1e5abdcc19b4)
Epilogue (#u1451832e-d710-59dd-a744-a904dd0544e7)
Endpages (#u53403ecd-8360-54b0-8af8-ae227a330e42)
About the Publisher
1. I didn’t listen to the lyrics of ‘Teenage Kicks’ because I was far too busy masturbating
If you’d asked thirteen-year-old me what I wanted to be when I grew up, hovering somewhere near the top of the list alongside ‘astronaut’ and ‘writer’ would have been ‘wanker’. When I was thirteen, I wanted to be a wanker.
I suspect the same could be said of many teenagers—that moment when you discover that touching yourself like that can make everything else in the world seem dull, shallow and unimportant, is a moment that many of us spend the rest of our lives trying to recreate.
Since then I’ve been chasing that feeling—that desperate, horny kick you get when something strikes you in just the right way. When a guy says ‘come here and bend over’, when he puts one arm tightly around my waist and uses the other to pull my knickers down, when he leans over and whispers in my ear, ‘I can see your nipples getting hard through that top.’ Every single time my cunt twitches and I feel that stinging lust in the pit of my stomach—they’re all descendants of that initial spark.
The first thing I ever wanked to was a book.
Not a book with any particularly saucy images on the cover, or, as a surprising number of my male friends have confessed, a hardback compilation of ‘arty’ Pirelli calendar shots. To my utter adult horror, my first teenage wank came about via a sadomasochistic novel that belonged to my dad.
Allow me to explain:
My parents were divorced. Not in an ‘oh God, why must they tear the family apart?’ way, but in a ‘well, that seems to have calmed them both down’ way. No doubt it was agony for eight-year-old me, but I’m sure she’d forgive twenty-eight-year-old me for being a bit blasé about it, given that both of my parents subsequently settled down with lovely partners, neither of whom hit me or made me sweep out cinders from the fireplace.
It’s well documented that post-divorce many children cash in, and benefit from having two of everything: two Christmases, two birthdays, two trips to the special cake shop to be congratulated on not fucking up your GCSEs. And it’s also well documented that this isn’t a great idea, and can leave your children well and truly spoiled. Luckily for me my parents read the documentation thoroughly and did their absolute best not to fawn over, bribe, or otherwise pander to any of their children. This means that my brother, sister and I have all grown up relatively balanced, if a little light on presents.
I did get one special treat when I visited my dad, though: my own bedroom. Initially this meant peace and quiet, personal space and the ability to lie in on Saturday and read book after book after book. Eventually, though, as I grew up and discovered the brilliant things I could do to myself given enough ‘alone time’, I started to look on weekends at my dad’s house as simply forty-eight hours in which I could wank to my heart’s content.
During the week I’d share a bedroom with my sister, which was split according to the rule that says ‘she with the loudest voice gets the biggest space’, so I got the crappy space.
Late at night my sister and I would have feisty rows over why I’d borrowed her good hairbrush, then settle into our respective beds to recharge our energy for tomorrow’s big fight. She, I imagine, would fall instantly into a deep and unshakeable slumber, while I would focus on learning to wank without moving the bedsheets.
It’s trickier than you think.
First you have to manoeuvre your body into a position that befits wanking yet also looks like a plausible way for a human to sleep. If, like me, you sleep lying on your front, this means bunching the duvet up around you so you can ever so slightly raise your arse from the bed to make enough space for one hand to fit between your legs.
Don’t jump the gun, though, my hand is not between my legs yet. First, I have to lick my fingers. I have to coat them in spit in a way that makes absolutely no sound whatsoever. Try it at home. In a silent room, in the dead darkness of night, coat your fingers in spit without making any lip-smacking, finger-sucking sounds. Tricky, no?
Having achieved this Herculean feat, next you must move your hand under the bedsheets without a) wiping any of the spit off or b) letting on that you might be about to do something inappropriate. It is impossible to do this without rustling the duvet, so don’t even try. Instead, make sure your movement appears casual and insignificant—a slight shift in sleeping position, a scratch—you’re just getting comfortable, that’s all. Under no circumstances must the movement be done with the gleeful eagerness of someone who is about to have a wank.
Next comes the good bit—the actual wanking. And this works much the same as a full-on, adult, ‘I’ve got my own sofa and I’m not afraid to rub one out on it’ wank, only with much smaller movements.
As an adult I’ll wank openly, joyfully, safe in the knowledge that not only is an Englishman’s home his castle, but that if anyone looks through the window of my particular castle, they have no right to judge me. All I’m doing is having a nice, healthy wank. Like almost everyone does of a Saturday afternoon when something hot strikes them and there’s nothing on the telly. Rubbing frantically at my clit, without guilt or fear of being caught, I can bring myself to an express, functional orgasm within about thirty seconds.
Sadly, it wasn’t so for teenage me. Very slight movements and delicate rubbing built to an infinitesimally gradual increase in pressure as I tested whether the duvet could withstand small vibrations without giving the game away. And I won’t lie—it didn’t always work. Sometimes I’d lie there, tensing every single muscle in my body, rubbing in tiny tiny strokes with just one finger as hard as I’d dare. My nipples hard, my fingers slick, my forehead creased into a frown of agonising concentration … and still I couldn’t come. I knew that with just a bit more pressure it would work. I just needed a slightly faster rhythm, longer strokes, or to have my other hand free to pinch one of my nipples or grab at myself more tightly. On those occasions I’d cough, get out of bed, wrap a towel around myself and retire to the well-lit bathroom with its heaven-sent door lock, and lie on the floor with my legs open, frigging myself to a twitching, guilty climax.
But that was rare. Having had plenty of practice, the silent wanking was usually a success. Fixing a fantasy in my head (pirates tying a willing wench to the mast of their ship, and whipping her with the cat-o’-nine-tails, since you asked), I’d rub harder, push harder, and feel the first waves of orgasm tearing through me.
There were no post-climax sighs, no groans, and very few rustling noises as I took my hand away and shifted back into a sleeping position. Exhausted after the effort, I’d nod off to the sound of almost-silence: the quiet, steady breathing of my sister, curled up tight in bed, definitely not wanking either.
But that all comes later—younger me didn’t quite understand what wanking was. The closest I’d come to coming was when I’d act out scenes with things that happened to be lying around my room—books, stuffed toys, marbles. I’d move objects around like a general directing a battle and inevitably the childish stories—man rescues woman from the clutches of evil kidnappers—would evolve into slightly more adult plays as my mind got that bit filthier—man rescues woman from the clutches of evil yet sexy kidnappers. Eventually, as I started growing up, the players in my games would more frequently end up in contrived situations that gave me a sexual thrill.
There was always a kidnap victim, lost princess, stepdaughter, or pirate’s wench who would inevitably have to be punished. The leaders were eager—never reluctant—to punish the wrongdoer. She was always female. Usually surrounded by a group of pissed-off men. The men would threaten to punish her and she’d be more than stoic—like she’d got into trouble deliberately just because she wanted to hear the word ‘thrash’. As in ‘I’m going to thrash you for that.’
Thrash.
That word still does good things to me. The sound of someone being thrashed, the sight of a guy’s arm, holding a whip or a belt, tensed ready to strike, gives me a dark, hot feeling deep in my stomach.
In more literary books people talk of ‘sexual awakenings’ where the world becomes more vivid, where you notice things you’d never noticed before and suddenly become alive to your sexual sense. It all sounds very poetic and meaningful, without the sordid stains that come with our actual, real-life awakenings. I’m not going to lie and tell you that any of this filth was poetic. The truth rarely is. What I’m telling you is that I lay on my bedroom floor with a bunch of marbles and quimmed my pants at the word ‘thrash’.
Thrash.
Shudder.
Having worked out that this word did weird things, I experimented with other words. ‘Beat’. ‘Whip’. ‘Spank’. ‘Hit’. ‘Thwack’. Each of them resonates with me, conjures stark and immediate images of men straining at the shoulder, bearing instruments of stinging pain. Beat. Whip. Thwack. ‘I’m going to beat you now.’ ‘I’m going to whip you.’ All so good that just writing them makes the back of my knees tingle. But no other word gives me that kick in the gut quite as hard as the word:
Thrash.
But despite these words giving me that trembling feeling, I didn’t know how to keep it going. Other than repeating the scenes over and over in my head, I was at a loss. Insights garnered from TV shows that I watched late at night had given me the impression that I should stick my fingers in, but I’d done that before when I was practising with tampons, and it had just given me a vague feeling of medical-grade discomfort. Touching my insides seemed wrong, and putting my fingers in my cunt seemed about as arousing as poking at an open wound. Moreover, I had no idea what I was supposed to do once my fingers were there. Should there be a side-to-side motion? A swirling motion? An in-and-out motion? Not a bloody clue. I could have done with a handbook, or at the very least a nudge and a wink and an explanation that ‘fingering’ could be done in many different ways.
So I’d got hot, got wet, got horny, and yet still hadn’t actually wanked—until I found the book.
It wasn’t deliberate, I’m sure of that. My dad is quite a liberal guy, but still prone to saying ‘oh, deary me’ in a jovially uncomfortable way when adverts for sanitary products appear on TV. He left the book in my room, certainly, but I know he didn’t leave it there on purpose.
On this occasion I went to visit Dad, and spotted that things had been moved about a bit in my room. This was reasonably unusual. My room was seen as my space, so unless they’d had guests who needed a bed, no one would go in, let alone start moving my stuff around. Dad felt the need to explain, as I dumped my weekend rucksack on the bed, that he had a bad back and had been borrowing my bed for a few nights during the week.
I found out later that it was because he and my stepmum had had a fight. Not just a ‘why do you never do the washing up?’ fight, but a full-on, storming-out, ‘I can’t bear to share a bed with this twat’ row. Hence the book, I suppose. If I were my dad, and had found myself suddenly and temporarily wifeless, I’d have taken the time to catch up on my wanking too.
I set about putting my things in order—rearranging my room, taking out the clothes I’d packed for the weekend, and putting my own book into the bedside drawer. And that was where I found it—Dad’s.
I can’t remember what it was called, but I’m sure it was something French-sounding. The action was set in Parisian streets, and the images in my mind are of people in vaguely old-fashioned clothes cavorting with each other and talking in strong French accents, but any one of these memories might be incorrect. The key thing I took away, having flipped through a few pages, was that it was dirty. Filthy.
Not dirty like the pictures of shining, pink-mouthed topless women that the boys at school pored over, not even dirty like the scenes of thrashing that whirled round in my head, but dirty in ways I’d never imagined before. On the first page I flicked to, a woman tied a man flat to a board, teased him into a throbbing erection, then encased his cock in a condom-like sheath that had hundreds of tiny spikes on the inside.
I told myself I should put this down. I thought I’d discovered the edge of filth, the world’s end, and that nothing dirtier was possible. I tried to close the book, reasoning that nothing could be worse than the passage I’d just read. Then I read the very next paragraph, in which she sat down upon the sheath, letting it slide slickly inside her, and watched the anguished looks on the guy’s face as his dick throbbed with pleasure and pain.
OK, I should definitely put this down, I thought again.
But instead I settled myself back onto the bed, resting one hand casually on my crotch outside my jeans. Pushing with gentle pressure at the place where the waves of heat were coming from.
‘I’m going to put this down now.’
