Despite the best efforts of cinema and TV to convince us human beings can be smooth in seduction, most of the time we’re as ham-fisted at that as we are at everything else. Flailing around and trying to act cool when really we’ve no idea what the actual fuck we’re doing. Which is why it’s lovely to encounter someone who manages to pull off a smooth transition: from hanging out to making out, with no pissing about in the middle.

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For reasons that I will explain in a later blog post or (more likely) never explain at all, these days when men come to visit overnight I ask them to sleep in the spare room. It’s nothing personal. No man is allowed to share my bed. The up side of this is that I get a decent night’s sleep which means I am capable of having fun the next day. The down side is that sometimes I find myself lying awake and horny at 5 in the morning, fantasising about the tempting cock attached to the guy in the bedroom next door, lamenting the fact that I have no one to rub my bum against till they get hard and wake up to shag me. Usually I’m an advocate of the motto ‘it can’t hurt to ask!’ but I’m working on the assumption that 5am is a hard limit for almost everyone, so I do not venture to the spare room on a dick hunt. I just pop on a blindfold to shield my eyes from the dawn and debate whether it’s too early in the day to have a wank.

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This gorgeous caring kink story is written by the Queer Earthling, and originally appeared on their site. It is read aloud here by My Wild Lens. Note that this story contains consensual pain play, nipple clamps, sensation play, kink honorifics including “Daddy,” passing mentions of caregiver-little dynamics, mentions of depression and stress.

Daddy says, “Let’s make it better.” It doesn’t matter what’s wrong, in this story. Maybe I slept badly, maybe I’ve just had a stressful day, maybe my constant low-level depression is creeping in again. But something is wrong, and I can’t quite pull myself out of it.

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Note, before we begin, that this post is going to describe a rape fantasy. I use the phrase ‘rape fantasy’ instead of something softer like ‘consensual non-consent scene’ because I think it’s more accurate. As with any fantasy, the fact that someone enjoys it in their head does not mean they’ll necessarily enjoy it in real life, and so my writing should on no account ever be taken as a justification to do anything like this with your partners. Nor even, if I’m the one you’re fucking, should you take it as permission to do it to me. If you fully understand this, and you’re not going to be freaked out by the idea of that, let’s talk about why ‘sorry’ is the hottest word you can say at the moment of climax.

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It’s important to me that you know this: I don’t publish sexy blog stories about people without their permission. That hasn’t always been the case – when I first started blogging I wrote about people who were so far in my past that I couldn’t have popped back up in their lives to get their OK, so I just fudged a lot of details and shot for anonymity. These days, everyone I’ve slept with recently knows that I’m girl on the net, which handily bypasses some of the more awkward conversations I might have to have with a stranger, and also means there’s no excuse to not ask before I turn our fuckstories into #content. So: sex writing and consent. Do people approve their blog posts? And if so, how does that work?

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