He’s pretty quiet in bed, so I’ve become used to turning up the perception dial on all the senses I use to tell whether someone’s enjoying themselves. Most notably when I’m sucking his dick or giving him a gentle hand job. I listen more intensely for the softer sounds he makes, and have trained myself to hone in on those little moments when his breath catches: if I tease the head of his cock with lubed-up fingers, for instance, or get the pressure and speed of a particular stroke just right. I place my hands on his thighs or hips, where the muscles sometimes tense as things start to build, or I press my whole body against his, to get an even better idea of how my moves are being received. I check in with plenty of ‘is this good?’s and the occasional specific question like ‘tell me which is better… gentle or firm?’. It’s a far cry from someone’s hands gripping my hair and shoving my throat onto their cock or loud moans telling me what a filthy slut I am, but I’m getting used to these quieter, softer responses. I’ve started to tune in to the subtle shifts in how he tells me he’s having a good time. So when I introduced this subtle guy to a sexual feedback technique for shy people, the fact that he used it – and the way that he used it – made me drench my knickers in an instant.

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I’m not saying that if you offer me enough kinky guest blogs, eventually I’ll pull favours to get you a sex toy you really want so that you can go to town on it and write a review but… that’s exactly what happened here. And if anyone deserves the chance to go to town on a limited edition, hot pink Doxy Die Cast then it’s Jenby. One of the most prolific, funny, kinky guest bloggers I’ve had the pleasure of working with. I’m so chuffed that the toy she picked is from one of my favourite sponsor companies: Doxy. Even more delighted that it coincided with them launching a brand new, limited edition Doxy Die Cast. To celebrate ten years (TEN YEARS!) of this kickass sex toy brand, they’re launching an initiative to support breast cancer awareness in the UK, and donating a portion of the profits from every special wand that is sold. These incredibly beautiful Doxy wands are sold in gorgeous, fuckproud hot pink to immediately draw the eye of anyone lucky enough to be invited into your bedroom. Given Jenby’s penchant for bimbofication, it just felt like fate…

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Sometimes, after we’ve fucked and I’ve come good and hard round his cock, he pulls out and lies back on the bed, holding me tight around the shoulder or waist with one arm, and stroking himself with the other. I like to watch him come. And while he’s pushing himself to come, if I can tear my eyes away from the sight of his beautiful hand gripped skilfully round the head of his fuck-wet dick, I put my lips right up against his. Almost – but not quite – kissing. Feeling his body tense and shake, inhaling as he breathes into my mouth.

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OK, yeah, this one’s weird: ages ago I wrote a story about Katie, who was given a sex challenge by her partner, Sam, that involved nipple clamps and photographs and the DLR (the Docklands Light Railway – a London train line that winds through Canary Wharf, the Docklands and more). It was originally written as part of an improv erotica challenge for Patreons (where they give me a bunch of prompts and I have to write a sex story that includes them –  this story had the prompts ‘Katie; praise kink; airport; allotment; the DLR; nipple clamps). Seeing as I’ve recently published a couple of other sex stories set on trains (gang banged on the Central Line, and surreptitious fucking on the Victoria Line), I thought I’d throw this one into the ‘tube line erotica‘ series too – you know, the series that absolutely no one asked for but that delights my nerdy, pervy little heart anyway. It’s quite a cute one, I think.

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Continuing the series of erotic fiction set on tube trains (I heart TfL), here’s some aching, surreptitious fucking on the Victoria Line. Note that this story is fiction. Don’t do it in real life. 

The carriage is already rammed by the time we get on – him, me, a few friends. All of us slightly tipsy from the gig, but eager to continue the night back home in Walthamstow. Home, where the booze has been pre-bought from Tesco and we don’t have to queue behind Gen Z amateurs at the bar. The train is packed by the time we get on but we squeeze down to the end of the carriage anyway. When someone gets up to push past us, in deference to his ever-present backache I offer my boyfriend the seat. Then, because my feet are hurting and I’m a little bit pissed, I sit on his lap.

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