“I gave in around six in the morning, and came all over my stomach thinking about fucking you bent over the bed and digging my fingernails into your tits.”

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I stood on the escalator the other day behind a woman in slightly-too-tight clothes. Her bra straps dug into her shoulders and back, pressing against her flesh. Pinching at her skin. Highlighting the unquestionable solidity – the thereness of her. She was beautiful.

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You can find filth anywhere if you keep your mind open to it… even on the back of a fag packet. The following story contains some BDSM, and is NSFW.

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My dude and I are walking down the street on the way to catch a train. It’s fairly late, and the streets are filled with tanked-up football fans and loved-up students off their tits on MDMA so naturally, there are police. Just in front of us, a pair of young police officers get out of a panda car in their stab vests. She’s mid-twenties, with short blond hair and the kind of muscle tone you’d need to restrain a suspect. He’s slightly older, and has a solid heft to him that I’d imagine would feel achingly good on top of me during a struggle-fuck.

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There are two threads to the story I want to tell today. The first thread is so obvious it feels almost trite to mention it: I want to tell you about a particularly brilliant g-spot dildo, which stimulates me in a way not many others do. The second thread is about being hand-fucked. Not ‘wanked off’, not ‘masturbated’: being hand-fucked. Sometimes I write fucking stories that are about speed or enthusiasm or energy. I’ll tell you that this or that fuck was intense, or fun, or orgasmic. This fuck, though? This fuck was thorough.

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