Sometimes, like many humans, I have fantasies that are grotesque and dark and weird. And sometimes I have days where I can think of nothing else to write, so with a sense of weary resignation and vague self-disgust, I tell you one of the odder ones. This disgusting fantasy is a not-quite-non-consent story that, I think, is an escalation of the fantasy dinner party. So if you like this kind of thing but the below gives you shudders, you might prefer that story instead.

For the record, it would horrify me if it happened in real life: that’s kind of the point of it. But as a film I play in my mind when I’m masturbating, something about the atmosphere and the attitude makes my cunt twitch.

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This post wraps some of my darker fantasies (about predatory fucking, sex and death, as well as other odd things that come into my head) with warmer things. Please take that as a content note, and don’t read on if that kind of stuff disturbs you.

And you know how jokes work waaaay better if you explain them in detail? Yeah? If you don’t want the explanation just skip to the hot sex story below.

If you want the explanation then here it is: I wanted to write something specifically for Eroticon, because I couldn’t decide which of my blog posts (or extracts from my book </plug>) to read in the session on the final day. So I wrote this, and it’s a bit more personal than a normal post because I wasn’t intending to put it online. Then some people told me to, so here it is. It’s a darker interpretation of the ‘questions I have asked my boyfriend‘ post from ages ago, and I wanted to try and get across the feeling of being so utterly comfortable and safe that you can embrace your darker and more terrifying thoughts without fear or shame or… well.

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People who aren’t into spanking could be forgiven for thinking that the whole thing looks a tad painful. Harsh smacks on the bare bottom. Occasional whimpers punctuating the sighs. The sound of stinging whacks on flesh.

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Text: For every minute you’re late, I’m going to make you put an ice cube down your trousers.

I was quite proud of that one at the time. He still hasn’t done it though. The pub was a bit exposed and to be honest, it felt like maybe that one was a bit sexual. Ice cubes? Cool. Casual femdom? Fine. Trouser-based activity? Probably pushing it.

I have a friend who is super-sub. The kind of submissive you find in clubs wearing just PVC panties and an expectant grin. The sort of guy I’d playfully ask for a foot rub if my pointy shoes were killing me. A sub who does whatever you ask, then looks at you with those puppy-dog-eyes I’ve heard so much about, eager for you to issue another instruction.

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“Breathe in,” he says. “Take it out of me.” He’s offering me blowbacks, but not in the way I am used to them.

He slides his fingers into my hair, smoky-smelling from the bonfire and the weed. He leans in closer and I look into his eyes and my stomach throbs with longing. I want to do more than just breathe in. I want those sucking, desperate kisses. I want his hands all over my hazy, tingling body.

“Breathe in,” again – a request that’s almost an order. He takes a long, thick drag on the joint, pulls his hand away, and squashes his lips onto mine to give me blowbacks.

I breathe in. Of course.

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