Telling people I’m a sex blogger usually leads to one or two misconceptions: that I am constantly shagging, or that I am shagging in such wildly creative ways that no normal human could keep up with the carnival of kink. But that’s not really what I’m about. I’m not obsessed with the quantity of sex I’m having, nor the depths of any particular depravity. In fact, I reckon I could have relatively vanilla sex once a month and still be eager and intense enough about it – and the fantasies that lead up to or come out of it – to write a passable sex blog. I’m not a nymphomaniac or the kinkiest woman alive: I’m just a plain old sex nerd.

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I want you to spit in my mouth. And crucially, I also think it’s gross when you spit in my mouth. There aren’t many sexual acts about which I have this knife-edge ambivalence. Some things (extreme belting) are hot to me in fantasy but not reality. Others (making out) are incredible in practice but rarely have the power to be wankable when I’m alone. It’s not often I find something that is both desired and disgusting simultaneously but for what it’s worth, spit in my mouth is one of them.

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“Do you want to make some plans with me?” he asks, all casually playful, as if his name hadn’t just splashed into her inbox like a life ring tossed to a drowning woman. She grasps at it, as if he alone can save her (he cannot). He offers a selection of activities, and each shines bright with promise – a bike ride, a show, dinner, conversations about the book recommendations they’ve been swapping. Plus, of course, sex. She ponders which to pick, knowing the sex will be on offer no matter what they do beforehand, and even though she’s poor in spirit she’s now rich in possibilities. She replies swiftly – picks a fun activity, gives him her availability, then adds: “I am not sure about the sex. I’m feeling very… [big black box of horror that it’s probably best we don’t open] right now. In theory I like the idea though, can we play it by ear?”.

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I’m riding his cock. It’s the end of a very long night, and he’s built up plenty of spunk. Not only do I really want that spunk, I also really want to come myself. So just before I hop onto his dick, he hands me one of the toys that I wish every guy I banged had in his bedside drawer: a Doxy. Grinding my clit against it while his rock-solid thickness stretches out my cunt is a proper treat, and combined with the porn that I chose, which is playing in the corner of the bedroom, I’m sure I’ll come in no time.

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We’re sitting at opposite ends of the sofa, legs entwined. There’s something chill and easy on the telly and I’m enjoying the sensation of his hand stroking up my thigh. He moves his palms in measured, predictable strokes. From my bare knee, up and over the fabric of my shorts to the top, and then back again. My skin tingles and my cunt starts to ache.

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