The following post contains some filthy sex chat about erotic asphyxiation – I’ve put it below/behind the cut so you don’t have to read if that kind of thing disturbs you. Likewise, if you don’t understand that it can be well dangerous, please don’t read on. I realise you can probably work this out for yourself, but occasionally I get linked from Reddit and people leave comments assuming I’m instructing everyone to treat sex like it’s a no-holds-barred Ultimate Fighting championship, and I get stressed. So this message is here as much for me as it is for you. 

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I’m going through a phase where I really crave spanking. All I really want is to be smacked. Flat palm, bare bottom, good hard whacks. Lying on the sofa, with my feet in a guy’s lap, my usual whim would be for him to slide a hand up my leg and into the warmth of my crotch, casually thumbing my clit through my knickers until I wriggle and beg for a fuck.

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Sometimes there’s this thing he does. Or, more specifically, this thing he makes me do: spread.

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You know how you’ll go through phases in terms of what you fantasise about? Well, maybe not everyone does, but I do. One week I might be obsessed with the idea of locking eyes with a stranger on the tube, staying on the train with him until our carriage is empty at the end of the line, until – with a quick jerk of his head and a filthy smile – he invites me to sit down on his cock and ride him to the final stop. Other weeks I might need more guys to make the fantasy complete – three or four willing gentlemen who pop round my house to gangbang me on the sofa – that kind of thing.

Right now, though, I am obsessed with historical fucking. Snatched moments between princes and parlour-maids, gentlewomen and stable hands – frilly skirts being hoiked up to the waist and corsets yanked down to expose jiggling tits as someone’s fucked against the wall.
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