You’ve met this guy before. Possibly the most casual man I’ve ever fucked. Chill. Direct. Horny. Extremely forgiving of the fact that I disappeared for eighteen months into monogamy. The kind of dude who’s happy to pop back when required to deliver great dick without drama. Breaking the seal, if you will. We’re catching up over email and I tell him I’m single now. That I may be emotionally battered but I’ve gained a wicked new story. I don’t outright say that I’d love to get fucked, but he picks up the hint regardless: “Would you like to tell me the wicked story over a pint, then have a ride on my dick?” Fuck yes.

CN: light kink, slapping.

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Perhaps it’s my age, or I’m experiencing a sudden and temporary burst of self-confidence – maybe my therapy’s working? Whatever the reason, I’ve been feeling a lot more domme lately. As often as I used to yearn for powerful, toppy guys with wickedly menacing grins, now I dream about bratty subs who have a playfully cheeky, ‘what are you gonna do about it?’ energy.

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I have rarely felt so seen by a guest blog as I do by this one on fucking your ex. Not that I’m going to fuck any of my exes, you understand. Nuh-uh. I probably shouldn’t. Love is an addiction and fucking your ex is like having just a bit of your favourite, favourite thing: like picking up just one cigarette when you’ve quit for three years, then buying a whole pack then another and another… Christ, I felt this blog post resonate in my skin. Please welcome the absolutely brilliant LM, whose last guest post was a searingly gorgeous BDSM love story (and she’s also written about sex supplements and feeling small and cute – check those out too!). Today she is here to talk about fucking your ex. Why you probably shouldn’t… and why she did anyway.

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Check out part one of this story, about the man on the internet who gets off on giving me money. This is part 2, in which I get him to bankroll something bucket list that I could never have done on my own. Note that this piece contains a decision that is morally questionable at best.

It’s been a while since I spoke to my Paypig – sometimes when you’re in a relationship you have to give less energy to your sidequest sexual hobbies. He disappears for periods of time, and it’s been a few months since I asked him for any cash. He’s still there in a few shining bubbles of my memory, and an unfinished blog draft, but we haven’t really been in touch. However, as Julie Andrews wisely notes at the start of The Sound of Music: when the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window. And one of the many windows that’s opened for me since I broke up with my boyfriend is the opportunity to chat to my Paypig once more, and see what mischief he might help me make.

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It took twelve journeys in the end. I only got fined on three of them, but still – three hundred quid is a pretty hefty blow. Worth it though, to find the guy. The one train guard who’d let me off a fare in exchange for a grope of my tits and a sloppy face-fuck.

This one’s erotic fiction, obviously. I wrote it while I was on a train, which is why that train line gets a mention, but I assure you the guard was incredibly polite and I slammed my laptop shut at light-speed when he came to check my (valid) ticket. Note that this story might contain elements of coercion, if it weren’t for the carefully-written thousand-word intro that I stuck on the front of it to make it a bit more consensual. Feel free to ignore it if you like the non-con/dub-con stuff, or revel in it if you like your stories more consensual and your heroines more gleefully slutty. 

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