Next time we fuck, make it brutal. Make it vigorous and deep and angry and quick. Make it far too quick for it to only happen once. Make it worth all this time that I’ve waited: make it count.

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This post is part of a series of emotional fucks – I asked people on Twitter to give me different atmospheres/types of fuck and then used each as the basis for some erotic fiction. I’ve done revenge fuck, spite fuck and principle fuck, this one’s about a grief fuck. Two people try to conjure the fun they had with a friend before he died.

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We’re chatting about fucking, and all the bucket list sex we’d like to have. Recently we’ve been trying to plan more kinky sex, so this sort of stuff is occupying our thoughts, but it’s hard to think of anything enticing yet possible: we’re pretty good at ticking new sordid kinks off the second they cross our filthy minds, so most of the fucking we want to do has already been done. I ponder the issue for a while before suddenly it hits me. There’s one really significant thing that I’ve never done with this particular guy: break up.

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This is the next post in a series of erotic fiction about emotional fucks, where I’m having fun writing fictional characters who do filthy-hot things that may or may not be very ethical. This post involves a character fantasising about a spite fuck. Her fantasy involves things that – if they actually happened in real life – would certainly not be consensual. If that’s not your cup of tea, please don’t read on, but if you like sex stories that include twisted revenge and powerful anger, get stuck in.

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I used to go to play parties which were ‘BDSM only.’ You could spank, whip and beat each other to oblivion, but you weren’t allowed to fuck on the furniture. Perhaps that’s where this wank fantasy comes from: the idea that fucking is forbidden only makes me want to fuck more. I mean… obviously.

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