I should probably not get into the habit of telling you stories that haven’t happened yet, but something about the thrill of this was almost – almost – hornier than having actual sex. It started with a conversation at a party, one that involved me whispering something in someone’s ear. Something that started with ‘this might sound weird’ and ended with the words ‘…please ruin me.’

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I want to be filled up with spunk. That’s it, really: that’s the blog post. Right now I am utterly and completely obsessed with grabbing a dude by the lapels, dragging him towards me so my lips are right against his ear and I can breathe in that horny scent of him, then growling in his ear “please fill me with your spunk.” Not just one guy, either: ideally he’d be one of many. I want to get filled up with spunk, and the more spunk there is, the better.

Note: the fantasy mentioned at the start of this piece may touch on some themes that are a teeny bit non-consensual. They’re technically extremely consensual, because I wank about them, and if this scene were to happen in real life (pleasepleaseplease), it would only happen if everyone were fully on board with the role play.

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There, I said it. And I apologise in advance, because usually I like to lean in to Halloween a little at this time of year – write a story in which I try to scare you. Something about zombies or werewolves or vampires or sirens luring unsuspecting humans into bringing them fresh prey. But this year, my plans for a story about sex-hungry ghosts or demonic possession went awry. Something malevolent took up residence in my brain, its claws embedded firmly in the part that deals with writing, refused to let me conjure one of those stories. So instead you get this: a pretty standard blog post about why the scent of period blood makes me really horny.

CN: this post contains blood, violence and some elements of non-consent. No men were harmed in the writing of it.

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I start this fucking weird day (a day which I hope will contain at least some weird fucking) with two cups of coffee. And then a third, to be on the safe side. But you can’t get high on coffee… at least I can’t. I’m meeting this guy at eleven am, and we’re going to fuck in his hotel. At eleven. In the morning. I am stone cold fucking sober, and sober sex is a pretty new kink.

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He puts my hand up against his crotch, tells me ‘press here – not too hard’ and twitches his pelvic floor. His muscles flutter at my fingertips and in the palm of my hand, his dick jumps. Throbs. I press my hand tightly against him and stare. Openly. Impolitely. Greedily. I look down his body, see my own hand cupping his cock, and feel the pulsing throb as he works those muscles.

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