This is my favourite sex position: me face down. Head buried in the pillow. Heat that borders on claustrophobia. Legs straight, and slightly parted. He kneels above me, ideally holding his dick in one hand, using the other to squash and pinch and slap my arse. There’s a vulnerable feeling – being exposed and examined and used. Occasionally spread.

(more…)

“I think the barista fancies me,” he explained as we wandered towards the coffee shop. “She’s quite flirty, you know?”

Yeah. I know. I know a million guys who are convinced that the barista in their regular coffee shop fancies them. They pop in of a morning, freshly showered and ready for work, and order their usual from someone who knows how to make it. That loving ritual of giving and receiving hot drink adds an extra tinge of flirtiness to an otherwise mundane transaction. A simple ‘how are you?’ can be transformed into a declaration of playful lust.

“No, she doesn’t fancy you,” I told him, twattishly. “Everyone thinks the barista is flirting with them – they teach them how to do it in barista school.”

“Yeah,” a twitch of something that looks like relief on his face. “You’re probably right.”

(more…)

He sent me a picture of it once – swollen, bright red, and leaking a fat, shiny drop of pre-come. Skin so taut I could tell he’d been edging, even if he hadn’t told me. Seven days’ worth, if I remember correctly. Seven days of edging – touching it, stroking it, playing gently enough that he wouldn’t quite climax. Until the whole thing ached and he had to go to extreme lengths to get settled down before he had to leave the house. Digging fingernails into his thighs, cold water, that kind of thing…

(more…)

For a writer, I have painfully little imagination. Sometimes things pop into my head – filthy scenarios or interesting characters, or an unusual image that relates to a twist in a story I just can’t quite plot. One day I’d like to be better at writing fiction – to write a book in which the stories are ones I’ve invented rather than lived.

(more…)