It’s hard to conceptualise cock worship as a kink in and of itself, because I already love your cock. The idea of specifically setting down to ‘worship’ it feels as odd to me as collective prayer might feel to a person whose spirituality resonates in everything they do. Worship your cock? What, specifically and deliberately? I already live in a state of low-level cock worship even when it isn’t in my mouth.

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This fabulous post about watching her partner suck cock on New Year’s Eve is written and read by Joy As It Flies.

Their cock is a thing of beauty. Just the right length, the perfect thickness, wrapped in his fist and then, when he drops it, landing hard and heavy on the pale expanse of their belly. He lies on his front between their open legs, and as he lowers his head he closes his eyes. They’re rimmed in kohl, dark and wet and glittering with intent, and as he opens his mouth to lick their length his painted lashes flicker against his cheekbones.

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OK so hear me out: ten condom fucks. Fucks which require a large number of condoms. Fucks which start at about 2pm, are interspersed with drinks and chatting and playing Beat Saber and slow-dancing sexily in the middle of the living room. Fucks which ebb and flow between oral, penetration, and naked touching, meaning each time you decide you’re gonna get down to it, you slip on a new condom. Fucks which mean you have to scatter condoms throughout the apartment so there’s always one easily to hand. Ten condom fucks.

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This breathtaking story about a blow job in a sex cinema is written and read by Joy as it Flies. Note that this scene contains breath play and BDSM. 

I love sucking his dick. Jesus, I love sucking his dick. I love the taste of it, the feel of it, the way it fits between my lips, the dimensions of it perfect as it slides towards the back of my throat, awash with saliva. I love the rhythm of it – the change of pace as I move from active to passive, as we swap from me using my mouth to him using my mouth and back again. I do not love this man, I barely even know him, but I am utterly infatuated with the sensation of his dick resting on my tongue.

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We’re in bed, getting down to it, and usually my one-track mind is laser-focused on what it will feel like when he slides his dick inside me. At the moment when I realise that’s not going to happen – he’s slowly softening and the look on his face switches from horn to confusion or embarrassment – I remind myself how lucky I am that I don’t ever have to worry about erections myself. Twenty years ago, if a guy went soft on me, my main feeling would be heartbreak: he doesn’t fancy me enough. I’m ugly. Unsexy. Incapable of teasing a boner from him. Ten years ago, I’d be annoyed: did he have a wank before we met up? Has he had too much to drink? These days, frustration and sadness have (thankfully) made way for a different feeling: relief that the pressure isn’t on me.

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