If my other half is beside me when I die at the age of ninety, it will come as quite a surprise. Not just surprising that I’ll have lived until ninety, which is unlikely given my lifestyle. It will come as a surprise that we haven’t yet split up.

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Today’s guest blog on ruined orgasm was so deliciously packed with horny stuff that I have split it into two parts. In the first, guest blogger Justine – the hero of our story – gets a crash-course in the delicious frustration of ruined orgasm. In the second… well you’ll have to wait till next week to see. Subscribe to get updated when new blogs go live, and then enjoy part one of this ruined orgasm story. It’s incredibly NSFW, beautifully written and after I’d read it I had to go for a bit of a lie-down.

Thanks to the gorgeously-voiced Sarah Jane (@marvydarling), who blogs at Marvelous-Darling.com, this post is now available as audio. Click ‘listen here’, and head to the audio porn hub to hear more sexy stories read aloud. 

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I like things that are new and different, and sex toys that do stuff I haven’t felt before. That doesn’t mean that all those sex toys will get me off: if I wanted a reliable, functional, powerful wank then I would never deviate from my Doxy. But I like sex toys that make me feel new things. The Queen Bee is one of those sex toys, and thanks to the fact that I work with the company, I got to play with an early version and then write about it before other people get their hands on one, so I am going to grasp this opportunity with… well, with one hand. The hand I am not currently using to hold the Queen Bee to my clit. Let us commence.

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There is something very sexy about you having your own room. I don’t mean your own bedroom – although there’s definitely a flutter of hot lust in my gut when I imagine you visiting my room for a functional fuck. Emptying your aching balls into me then disappearing into a den of your own for some proper rest. Like an entitled duke in some historical erotica. Using me because you can, then keeping the rest of your life separate and secret, so all I can do is lust from a distance and wish I could get closer.

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“SHORTS,” my brain screams, irritatingly. “LOOK. MEN WEARING SEXY SHORTS.” Try as I might to shut it up, it refuses to be silenced on the most important issue of the day. “LOOK,” it insists, even as I try to distract myself by remembering my times tables, “THERE ARE SEXY LEGS ALL OVER THE PLACE. SHORTS. LOOK AT THE SEXY SHORTS.” So I comply. I drink it in. And I melt with lust.

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