This story could start at a number of different points. It could begin on the first of December, with me marching through a rainstorm along a muddy canal path, determined not to be late to meet the lovely man who’d promised to fill me with spunk. I could start it a bit earlier, in November, with PMs back-and-forth about sexual frustration and oceans of jizz. But really it begins on October 31st, with a message I sent to this dude which said: ‘Are you doing NNN this year?’

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There are marks on my thighs, on my arse, on my tits, and on my brain. All of those marks will fade. I could take pictures of the first three, but I’m terrible at photos, and even my very best attempts can’t hope to capture the things I really want to remember. The ache in my limbs and the sting of the flogger and the satisfaction of being held down and fucked. The all-encompassing, electric joy of getting ruined by two people at once.

This post features BDSM and impact play, some of it quite vicious. All of it extremely consensual. I don’t know how well I have written consent into this story, because I am too busy trying to capture the things that happened, but yeah… please understand that holy shit this is all consensual-as-fuck. It was more than consensual: it was a fucking gift.

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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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