This glorious erotic fiction is written by E. L. Byrne and read aloud here by Sherryl Blu. 

She wraps the pale blue scarf tightly around my eyes. I can’t see anything and my breath catches. I’m nervous. I trust her, we’ve talked about this in detail, but now that the darkness is upon me…

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This deliciously hot car sex story is written and read by Tabitha Rayne. 

Of all the people to pick up at the airport, it had to be Sabrina. I waited where I was, engine purring, just a few seconds longer to take in the sight of her. Classic pose, trolley full of Louis Vuitton luggage, sunglasses swept up onto her head holding her dancing soft curls perfectly off her face. A face so fresh, it did not look like it had just arrived from a six-hour flight.

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For libel reasons, I’m gonna front-load the intro here by pointing out that this week’s guest blogger, Sheebaby, did not have sex with actual Lewis Hamilton. But sometimes you bond with someone over a hobby or shared interest – in this case Formula One – and in Sheebaby’s case that bond led to some seriously hot online sex…

Content note: this post contains brief use of the term ‘daddy’ as an honorific. 

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One of the most common misconceptions about electro-sex is that it hurts. It’s an understandable misconception, but to be honest we could say the same of almost any sex thing. That glass dildo is pretty fun if you’re sticking it in your cunt, but you wouldn’t want someone to clip you round the ear with it. That flogger feels like the most satisfying back scratch in the world if you wield it gently, but if you swing it like you’re standing in front of a ‘Test Your Strength’ machine it’s guaranteed to smart. Today I want to tell you about the new ElectraStim Explorer finger pads, while explaining why electro-sex does not have to hurt.

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There, I said it. And I apologise in advance, because usually I like to lean in to Halloween a little at this time of year – write a story in which I try to scare you. Something about zombies or werewolves or vampires or sirens luring unsuspecting humans into bringing them fresh prey. But this year, my plans for a story about sex-hungry ghosts or demonic possession went awry. Something malevolent took up residence in my brain, its claws embedded firmly in the part that deals with writing, refused to let me conjure one of those stories. So instead you get this: a pretty standard blog post about why the scent of period blood makes me really horny.

CN: this post contains blood, violence and some elements of non-consent. No men were harmed in the writing of it.

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