Long Live The Dirty Weekend

Long Live The Dirty Weekend

Read about the author Miss P

To some, the phrase “dirty weekend” conjures images of hen parties dressed in feather boas, filling All Bar One with cackling screams and ordering sambuca.

But that’s not what I see when I hear it. To me, a dirty weekend is a decadent 48 hours to indulge every fantasy away from home, at a place where boundaries are left behind. And I set out to prove it.

I’d met a man several weeks before and we’d hit it off almost instantly – proven by an evening of exploration and a 6am bedtime. We both wanted the same thing, and weren’t shy in asking for it. This level of sexual openness and honesty was a new experience for me, and one that I wanted to test further.

He booked a sumptuous hotel and agreed a time to meet. In between him taking control and the texts describing exactly what we wanted in excruciating detail, I could hardly wait.

I was packed, tickets printed, suspenders fastened. There’s something deliciously naughty about walking through Victoria station with stockings underneath my skirt and a riding crop in my bag when no one knows it but me. The steady rocking of the train did very little to calm me – I was almost panting by the time we pulled into the station.

Rather than rush to the hotel, I wanted to enjoy delaying our reunion as much as possible. Bending across the bar to order a scotch, sliding up my skirt as I slid into my seat just to give him a hint of hold up – everything was a tease. Innuendo as we ate and stolen kisses in side streets led us back to our room.

The built up tension led to a blur of bitten lips and undone belt buckles. He’d shared his penchant for being submissive – although I hadn’t played the dominant before, I was intrigued to try.

Admittedly I was a little unsure at first – do I even have dominance in me, and most importantly, could I pull it off? There was only one way to find out.

As I pressed my stiletto heel against his chest I left a trail of sharp, neat smacks of the riding crop across his body. I straddled him to continue my work a little closer, and felt him grow harder and harder against me. I didn’t need much more to understand the appeal.

Between the power it gives you and the trust you share to push the limits to a point you’re both okay with, the dominant bond is not only safe but sexy as hell. Now confident in my position as his “Miss”, with his body telling me I was doing well, I continued. I punished him for making me wait so long to see him, for the tease in the lead up to our weekend away, for making me want him so badly.

When he’d repented, we tried reversing roles. Now that the handcuffs were on the other wrists, what had I let myself in for? I definitely didn’t anticipate the exquisite feeling of being bound and blindfolded on a chair purely for his pleasure. My ankles were tied to the outer chair legs, opening my legs and leaving my inner thighs exposed and vulnerable for whatever he saw fit. His tongue invaded each inch of me, snaking its way to where I’d been aching for him to touch for hours. I strained against my rope restraints at his sensuous torture of my already sensitive skin, struggling to stifle my moans as the frustration from weeks past came to a head.

We barely noticed the time as our shared pleasure extended into the early hours, punctuated with coffee and climaxes. Having struggled before to orgasm with someone unless we were more seriously involved, I was impressed. He dedicated himself to my pleasure, not shy in suggesting trying each technique and toy he had at his disposal. Finally, when I was all fours, face pushed into the pillows with his tongue and a bullet simultaneously teasing me from behind that I got what I came for (quite literally).

Exhausted, we fell into a sated sleep. As the sun rose over the seafront in the morning, I was woken with a hand caressing my hip and an impressive morning greeting pressed against my back. His hand soon travelled lower, and I was coming again within 10 minutes. I was impressed – he knew exactly what he was doing, and all this before I’d even opened my eyes.

We ate breakfast in bed, stretching out our well tested muscles and eating naked together as we chatted with mischievous grins about our naughty night away. Throughout our entire stay there was no facade or faking it – our open communication and having no shame about sharing what we wanted made sure we were both left satisfied. He later revealed he’d craved to act out some of these fantasies for years but hadn’t had the chance before now. Although he was happy to finally get what he wanted, was it worth missing out for so long in the name of embarrassment or unfamiliarity?

Leaving our anxieties at home meant we were able to suggest lubes, toys and techniques without cringing, as maybe we had done with others before. In turn we satisfied every sexual urge we had and also learned more about ourselves and what we want from our sex lives – something that we can take home with us as well as a stash of complimentary toiletries. If that’s not a strong case for the dirty weekend, I don’t know what is.

Freshly showered and dressed for the first time in almost 24 hours, we checked out. The reception staff asked if we’d enjoyed our stay; oh, if only she knew.