Search Results for: lust
Guest blog: Reclaiming my wheelchair through sexy lift snogs
If you could see the email thread that led to the publication of this guest blog, you’d think I had a fetish for Marks and Spencer. I don’t, though – honest. What I do have a thing for, though, is subtle public affection. Those snatched moments when you touch each other, or snog, or run a hand up under your partner’s clothes when you think that no one’s watching. So this guest blog, by Desire on Wheels, naturally presses a hell of a lot of my buttons. What’s more, it’s an insight into disability and sexuality that taught me more than I ever thought I’d know about early 20th century botanical gardens.
You’ll see what I mean.
Guest blog: the glory hole
Every single time I go on a road trip, I inspect the service station, desperately hoping that I’ll encounter a glory hole – you know, a hole cut into the wall so someone in a cubicle or room next door can poke their dick through in the hope that the person on the other side will accept their invitation to grab it. Something about the furtive, anonymous nature of dick-through-hole cocksucking makes all of my insides clench with lust. I’ve never been lucky enough to find one, much less find one with a willing cock poking through, even in some of those awesome love hotels they have in Japan. Luckily for me glory holes exist elsewhere too, and this week’s guest blogger has been kind enough to write up his experience with one.
When this story dropped into my inbox I nearly spat out my coffee, then popped off for a frantic wank while I thought about all the hot gay sex that happens in it. Please take that as a warning that this blog is in no way safe for work, and is best read while you’re tucked up in bed with one hand down your pants and the door firmly closed.
Historical erotica take 2, and the inevitability of personal fantasy
Last week I wrote a bona-fide erotic story. One with two characters who definitely weren’t me, in a setting that wasn’t my lounge, partaking in a dirty fuck that I have never had myself. I very rarely write fictional stories. Of the nearly 400 posts on this blog, fewer than 1% of them are fictional.
But every now and then something in particular strikes me as gorgeously hot, and it’s something that isn’t possible to recreate in my life at that exact moment. Whether it’s sex with a stranger, a gang-bang of some kind, or the kind of sex that would require my own Tardis. This week (and last week and – thanks to my recent discovery of The Tudors – probably next week as well) the hot stuff comes wrapped in lace and frills. Tight stomachers, breeches, and hard leather riding boots. ‘My Lord’s and ‘Your Grace’s and posh people dismissing their hot servants with a casual wave of their hand.
Thing is, with any fantasy I have, it always seems to end up in the same place. Last week I wrote about a maid getting fucked by a duke – the cold barrier between two people of different ranks, and the easy and nonchalant way in which he shagged her, with the same proprietorial ease with which he’d order her to turn down his bed or scrub the fireplace.
And this one, despite the complete role reversal in terms of power, doesn’t fundamentally differ because… well… when I give my mind free reign to wander wherever it likes, it always pops back to a very similar place. Guy on top, girl getting used, urgent sweaty fucks performed for no reason other than a desperate desire.
Every now and then I get drawn into a discussion about whether you can shape your own sexual desires. Obviously you can’t change fundamentals, but some people assert that, by introducing yourself to new experiences or pushing yourself into new fantasies, you can mould your own fantasies into something different to what you’d normally go for. I strongly suspect you can’t. I certainly can’t. While I’ll embrace any number of filthy fucks, unusual fetishes, or brand new experiences, my core sexuality will never significantly change. From the first wank I ever had over the idea of pirates punishing a serving wench, to the last one I’ll have on my deathbed, I suspect the theme will remain:
Guy meets girl. Girl bends over. He uses her like that’s all she’s good for.
Now here’s the story.
Guest blog: ‘The silhouette’ – an erotic story
Although I had a bash at some historical fantasy writing last week, one of the things there’s a real dearth of on my blog is traditional erotic fiction. There’s a reason for this, and that’s that I lack imagination. As a general rule, if it hasn’t happened in my bedroom, or appeared to me in a flash of arousal while I’m masturbating, it probably doesn’t occur to me. My fantasy characters are one-dimensional. They lack names, backstory, even faces. Beyond the vague reasons for them getting down to a hard fuck, they may as well be emotionless robots. Not very romantic, I know. So when Al sent through this guest blog, I thought it’d be an excellent opportunity to redress the balance. Something entirely fictional, and story-based. Something with a beginning, a middle, and an end that comes from a more interesting place than my furtive wank-induced fever dreams. In short: an actual erotic story. Enjoy.
What’s your ‘magic number’?
I have a list of all the people I’ve fucked. I know, that sounds intensely weird, and also a little bit creepy. I compiled it many years ago after a long, hazy night in a bar in Amsterdam, during which a good friend and I tried to work out what our ‘magic numbers’ were. I wasn’t particularly bothered about the total, but the exercise gave me pause for thought, and subsequent enraged weeping, when I realised that I couldn’t remember everyone’s name.
I thought I’d got it right at first. I counted people off on my fingers, smiling with glee when I got to a particularly good one, hissing when I reached the name of a person who’d fucked me over, and reminiscing over some of the filthier moments of my life. He did the same, regaling me with some sexy anecdotes as we sipped pints and hoped no one would notice that we were flagrantly ignoring the weird ‘you can smoke weed but not cigarettes’ rule that had just come into force.
Eventually, we both settled on our final numbers, and we clinked glasses – delighted at our powers of recollection.
An hour or so later, a cold dread crept over me: I’d missed one out. Not just any one either – a pretty significant guy, with whom I’d had some fairly intense experiences. Back to the mental drawing board, and the back of a napkin to make notes. And eventually the final list which, while possibly a bit strange, was a godsend when it came to writing my book: it meant I got the chapters in the right order and didn’t have to go back to cram in a quick fuck that I’d somehow forgotten.