“I’m going to count backwards from ten, and when I reach one you’re going to come for me. Got it?” She gets it. But she doesn’t get it. The things she has done in her mind have never prepared her for something like this: to be able to come at the sound of his voice. The numbers alone. The tick of his verbal clock counting her down to one, and up to a climax. But she isn’t one to refuse a challenge.

This story contains some fairly intense BDSM/dominance, and fantasies of implied non-consent.

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Damn right we’re gonna talk about Fleabag. This post contains spoilers, so catch up on Fleabag on iPlayer if you’d like to see it before you read on. But unless you’ve been living under a rock, you probably already know that the audience of Fleabag is dripping lust into sofa cushions across the country, because we’re desperately willing her to fuck a priest.

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Maybe the feeling I need to tap into, if my partner and I are going to explore sexual adventures with other people, isn’t a sense of peaceful acceptance of the thought of him fucking someone else: it’s the kinkiness of it. Sometimes I want to show him off, and maybe this is the key to dampening my jealousy…

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When I started writing the emotional fucks series, I posted a revenge fuck story from the perspective of Judy – a woman who had been deeply wronged by a past lover, and sought revenge on him later in life. I liked her, and I really enjoyed writing that story. But – dark secret – I enjoyed writing this pity fuck even more. It was fun to try and write a character so horrible that someone he’d fucked at the age of 20 would bear such a grudge that she’d leap at the opportunity for revenge even 40 years down the line.

Please take that as your content warning for this piece: everything in it is consensual, but that doesn’t mean it’s nice.

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It’s the way his forearm looks when he strums the guitar – highlighted beautifully with tattoos and framed by a tight t-shirt. Or perhaps it’s the thump of the bassline in my crotch or the scent of sweaty people throwing down in the mosh pit. Maybe it’s the fact that for the first time in what feels like a lifetime I am dancing like I don’t care how to dance. Either way I know that when the music starts to play, I’ll be thinking that I wanna fuck the band.

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