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, facebook.com/girlonthenet or tweet me @girlonthenet

Girl on the Net: My Not-So-Shameful Sex Secrets

Girl on the Net

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 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

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Endpages

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.’

The woman started sliding up and down the guy’s dick—the sheath smooth on the outside and adding precious thickness to his erection. The book described in detail her arousal—her cold, solid nipples stiffening as she rode him faster. It drew a detailed picture of her muscular thighs, clamping him tight as she rocked back and forth. It went into lengthy detail about the mechanics of the act—how every time she sat down, sliding his cock deeper into her, the tiny spikes would push more heavily into his skin, pricking his prick so he’d moan in pain.

Without making a conscious decision to, I was touching myself. My hand on the outside of my jeans, my legs spread wide so that the seam pressed heavily on my clit, I rubbed hard with my fingers through the strong fabric.

‘I should definitely put this down.’

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. The hot, topless woman was riding the guy with such need, such a desire to come, that she’d hurt him more than she meant to.

I was gripping the book in my left hand, rubbing harder with my right, trying to mirror the passion and the need of the woman in the book. I cared even less about the embarrassment of wanking than she cared about the pain of the guy sat beneath her. I rubbed myself, and I felt what she felt—her clit rubbing against something, her cunt getting wetter, and finally—just before I had to turn a page—that powerful gut-wrenching kick that marked the first rush of the first wave of the very first orgasm I’d ever had.

A few years later, I found another book in my room: the Osborne Book of Teenaged Bodies. Nice try, Dad. Nice try.

Having discovered the dirty book and spent a few happy weekends holed up in my room frigging myself cross-eyed, I eventually came to the realisation that wanking—contrary to almost everything I’d previously been led to believe—was not just for boys.

The references to it were everywhere: jokes about boys being boys, talk of crusty bedsheets, sniggers and whispers if a guy had his hands in his pockets for too long. Not just at school, either. TV programmes and teen flicks were filled with not-so-subtle nods to the fact that boys just couldn’t get enough orgasmic alone-time. I could understand why they liked it so much—given thirty minutes on my own, I’d be able to knock out five orgasms in quick succession and still have time to do my homework. What I couldn’t quite fathom, though, was why no one ever mentioned that girls did it too.

No one ever made jokes about me if I spent too long in the bath. No one questioned my almost constantly jiggling knee—the friction felt pleasantly soothing on my clit, and was a nice way to get through IT lessons until it was time for a bathroom break. Most surprisingly, girls themselves didn’t even talk about it.

I remember spending hours with girlfriends as a teenager dissecting whether this or that particular boy fancied so-and-so, exactly whose hand was where during the slow song at the school disco, or whether Ricky Martin would ever be likely to shimmy his oh-so-hot and definitely-not-gay-just-flamboyant ass over to the UK to do bad, bad things to my best friend.

But never once did we talk about wanking.

We must have all been doing it, and none of us were particularly squeamish. There was just a feeling that no one should ever say. That we’d be breaking some sort of unwritten rule if we owned up. We were demure, delicate creatures. Creatures who were waiting to be defiled behind the bike sheds and wanted to maintain some semblance of innocence so that we could put on a shocked face when boys tried to touch our tits.

We could be in love, we could have crushes, and we could be curious. But we couldn’t actually have desires, for God’s sake. That would be cheating. A whispered discussion about what cocks were like was all well and good, but the powerful, wet, angry lust that we actually felt was a bit freakish, a bit wrong. No one ever had to tell us this, we just knew. We were allowed to have giggles and sleepovers and secret codewords and whispered gossip and posters of be-coiffed boyband members. But wanking? Wanking was for boys.

I’d like to say that things have changed now that I’m a grown-up. We live in a more liberated time, when we can wander into a bookshop and buy filth like … well … like this. Or read magazines that give sex tips alongside fashion advice. Or give a friend a dildo as a ‘sorry you got heartlessly dumped’ present. But I don’t think we’re really much further along the track.

Dildos and rabbit vibrators have made girl-wanking OK, but only in quite a specific sense. Women are allowed to experiment with wanking because now there’s a way to market it. You can have a vibrator or two, you can joke about having some ‘alone time’ with your rabbit, because discussion is no longer about the act of wanking, but about the accessories. We’re still ever so slightly weird about the idea of teenage girls locking themselves in their room and frigging themselves raw through their jeans.

Girls can be horny now; they can be hot and wet and desperate for a fuck. Their cunts can twitch and ache with longing and desire. They can feel that deep, angry kick-in-the-gut that signals something has triggered the naked, rutting, cavewoman instinct inside them. But they must do it all with a giggle and a smile and a wry sense of how liberated they are. They can read Fifty Shades of Grey on the bus, but when their friends ask they’ll say they’re only reading it to see what all the fuss was about, and they didn’t like it and it was badly written and they didn’t rub one out to it, honest.

I’ve heard men complain about this with smiles that say they’re only half joking. ‘Why is it OK for women to read porn on the bus but I can’t flip open a jazz mag without commuters running in terror?’ They can’t sit on the back seat with a copy of Penthouse flipped open, casually perusing the weekly selection of tits on their way into work. And they’re right, they can’t. Partly because—for fear of stating the blindingly obvious—Penthouse has actual pictures, for the love of Christ, and they might terrify people around them. But primarily because men are seen to have a different relationship with porn than women. When a woman looks at porn people raise their eyebrows, and assume she’s just curious. People don’t think about her cunt getting slick or her nipples getting hard or her heart pounding or stomach contracting. They don’t imagine her lingering over the hottest paragraph, the one where our hero finally succumbs to his own desire and bends the heroine over a desk, spanking her as she writhes and moans and pushing his engorged cock into her spit-lubed ass. No. When women read porn there’s a vague assumption that they’re doing it frivolously.

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