When I saw the fabulous Emilia Romero pop back up on social media after an absence (follow her on Mastodon here!), I was over the moon, and then even more excited when she pitched me this beautiful, vulnerable guest blog. She’s written here before about kink, camming, and what happens when you discover Doxy, and her writing is always so stunningly heartfelt. Today’s post is an exploration of friendship and trust, via the medium of a good friend she met at a survivors’ support group (so note, there will be brief but non-detailed references to rape and sexual assault). It’s so wonderful to have you back, Emilia.

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Last week, during the Patreon Q&A, a lovely supporter asked a question about super-practical sex tips – what they described as ‘non-sexy sex tips’. Basically, advice for things one can do to improve the general environment and make sex itself more likely and/or fun. I had a blast answering this, because I think often some of the best sex tips aren’t directly related to play – top positions, sex toy recommendations, best lube for a hand job, etc – they’re peripheral things (like communication) that are all about creating an atmosphere in which everyone feels comfortable and hot.

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This gorgeous piece of thunderstorm erotica is written and read by Spencer Pritchard. 

The downpour hit hard and fast. So hard, in fact, that just the sound of the heavens opening and the deluge smashing against the concrete slabs outside made us both jump! The day started off with a low, cold, harsh sun, the kind that forces you to squint as a bitter wind pinches at your face. The kind of weather that stops customers from heading to your pub, no matter if the heating was on full and the beer was good…

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Continuing the series of erotic fiction set on tube trains (I heart TfL), here’s some aching, surreptitious fucking on the Victoria Line. Note that this story is fiction. Don’t do it in real life. 

The carriage is already rammed by the time we get on – him, me, a few friends. All of us slightly tipsy from the gig, but eager to continue the night back home in Walthamstow. Home, where the booze has been pre-bought from Tesco and we don’t have to queue behind Gen Z amateurs at the bar. The train is packed by the time we get on but we squeeze down to the end of the carriage anyway. When someone gets up to push past us, in deference to his ever-present backache I offer my boyfriend the seat. Then, because my feet are hurting and I’m a little bit pissed, I sit on his lap.

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We’re both quite sweaty, that’s the first thing. This picture is all the hotter because of that. There’s a light sheen on the side of his face, but I – as ever – am the sweatiest. Hair in wet curls plastered to my neck and forehead, the white shirt I’m wearing absolutely drenched to near transparency. The photo was taken at a fun, bouncy gig. We’d been dancing.

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