I love dick, it’s brilliant. Unfortunately, I don’t love it all the time on a 24/7 basis. As a sex blogger, my work is a constant background throb throughout my life: even when I’m not feeling horny, my Tweetdeck spits out pre-scheduled posts from ‘this time last year’ in which I wax lyrical about my love of blow jobs. About a year ago, I got frustrated with the fact that this painted a picture of me as constantly horny for cock, which men (understandably) responded to in the moment, without realising that at that specific point I was actually in the middle of extremely stressful work and probably not up for sexting at that moment in time. All this to say, I wrote a silly poem called ‘your dick can wait, I’m working.’ Don’t take it too seriously, especially if you and I are fucking.

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This one guy sometimes sort of… pats me on the arse. Really gently. Just with fingertips, a very light stroke-slash-pat. It’s so tentative and soft. As if he’s brushing his hand over my bum to test whether it’s actually OK to touch me – the way a shy cat might prod your thigh with a single, nervous paw to test out whether yours is a safe lap to settle down on. In a way I love it, because I think what we’re seeing here is an adorable nerd with very little experience of casual intimacy discovering the gold-plated joy that comes when you realise you’re allowed to touch someone’s arse just because you fancy it. But it also massively does my head in, because I love having my bum grabbed and slapped and manhandled, but someone brushing delicately over it is frustrating: like giving a starving girl two Pringles and then running away. Our dynamic is not one which lends itself easily to switching – somehow I always find myself in charge. So I’ve been pondering how to go about getting spanked, but in a dominant way. The ultimate topping from the bottom. I think I have it.

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This kinky inspection erotica is written and read by JM Seaborn. Note that this kinky story contains use of ‘Daddy’ as an honorific – everyone in this story is over the age of 18.

I’ve been looking forward to this. After a day executing my part in society’s endless play, I crave control. I’m tired, worn down, dejected. But she will change it. I sit in the arm chair and look at her standing nervously before me, waiting for inspection.

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This gorgeous erotica about fucking over a mirror is written by Spencer Pritchard. It is read aloud here by Matt Johnson. 

I can’t quite remember where this falls in to the timeline of those two weeks in each other’s arms. My brain has shaken that particular tin of memories around so much, it doesn’t seem to have an order anymore. Just a beginning and an inevitable (and unwelcome) conclusion. The middle is a sweaty, panting, sticky mess of nights out with cocktails, a lazy Sunday getting lost in the city, verdant parks, pizza in bed, too many restaurants… All punctuated by your naked body, your incredible and explosive orgasms, and the strength of the bond that connected us.

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When we walk in the door of the strip club, I can guarantee that the people his eyes are drawn to are the dancers. The one on stage half-naked, the ones hanging out by the bar flirting with customers, one or two emerging from the curtained-off booths at the back of the room. My eyes, on the other hand, are firmly fixed on the men – him included.

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