Girl on the Net

I did my hair nicely today. I wanted you to love the way it looks so much you’d grab a fistful and yank my head in for a biting kiss. I feel pretty today, I made myself pretty today. And I only did it because I want you to fuck me up.

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The following post involves intense BDSM, in a violent role play context, and it is also incredibly beautifully (and consensually) written. I don’t know that there are many people who could write the scene below well enough to balance consent and fear, but BibulousOne and EuclideanPoint are both fantastic sex writers and kinksters who I admire hugely. When they sent through their pitch about this incredible kinky interrogation scene, I found myself simultaneously nervous and also deeply excited. And to me that’s often what the best BDSM scenes are all about: the intersection of pleasure and pain, fear and excitement. This story absolutely took my breath away. Not just for the intensity of the scene itself but from the careful and consensual way they go about explaining its origins. Huge thanks to both of them for sharing this stunning kinky interrogation…

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The first time I tried to get this man to hold my hand, we were walking beside a London canal in the early evening darkness. I thought it was romantic – the lights reflected off the water, the gentle strolling pace, the early days of a relationship that felt extremely exciting. The first time I tried to hold his hand he let me do it for exactly half a second before pulling away and announcing “I’m not much of a hand-holding person, actually.” It was useful feedback, of course, and I respect how good he is at articulating his boundaries. However, as I explained ten seconds after I’d collapsed into awkward giggles, he could have said it a little more quietly… so the guy walking past at that exact moment didn’t witness my humiliating rejection. I tell you this only so you can see that the man in question here is not, traditionally, a hand-holding kinda guy. He’ll do it if we’re sitting on the sofa, but when we’re out and about the closest he comes to a PDA is the odd subtle smack on my arse or a peck on the lips. He doesn’t like being publicly affectionate, and would rather save certain types of physical contact for when we’re alone. Fair play.

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Note: this post will seem screamingly self-indulgent unless you care about the minutiae of my life. It’s a piece about my hopeful heart, and some behind-the-scenes updates from the last couple of months. If you like that sort of thing, you’ll like this. If you don’t, please go read the porn instead for now, and pop back on Sunday for something more fun than navelgazing.

A long time ago, one of my Patreons asked me: do you ever get embarrassed? It’s a question I’ve been thinking on for at least two years, and as I ponder it I’ve written three or four different answers that are all stuck in draft. The short answer is yes, I sometimes get embarrassed. For instance if I write something clumsy that doesn’t do justice to the person who inspired it, or if I say something that, on reflection, I realise is ignorant or hurtful. But the main things I write on the blog – sex stories, love stories, earnest posts about friendship and connection – are not a source of embarrassment no matter how intimate they are, or how silly they might make me seem to an audience of strangers. I don’t think I’m ever truly embarrassed about telling you the things that bring me joy. I have a hopeful heart, and I want to fill it with love and sex and pleasure and fucking fun. Then when it’s full of all these things I like to let that joy spill out in public. I had an amazing shag; I fell in love with a boy; I came up with a cool new story to wank to… whatever.

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1. It’s been a long time since I’ve fucked anyone with a strap on, so there’s an element of novelty. I’ve half forgotten how it feels to slide inside. I’m keen to remember.

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