This delicious fantasy about being the ‘backstage girl’ is written and read by the fabulous Barefoot Sub, and originally appeared on her website. 

There I was, outside the door that would take me to him. I had dreamt about this moment since he first came into my life, since the first time I was allowed to see him, albeit a photograph. Though the fantasy that I knew would never be brought to reality had been deep-rooted since my teens, being invited to one of his gigs was almost as good. I could stand in the crowd, listen to him play, watch his fingers dance over the frets knowing exactly what those fingers could do. I would mirror those fingers as I followed my instructions, to edge myself during the course of his set. I wasn’t allowed to orgasm, but he wanted to be able to find my eyes and see my heat through the crowd.

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I dipped into Twitter occasionally when I was on leave last month, and one of the things I spotted was a tweet that made me riotously horny. It was from @19syllables, one of my favourite people on Twitter (her feed is so full of joy and beauty, I love her). She tweeted “Kiss chase, but you and me in a forest and if you catch me you can take me.” It gave me all the soft-yet-powerful horny feelings. So I wrote this.

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Remember my free use secretary from about a month ago? How she got fucked in the middle of a job interview while doing a sterling job of pretending it was completely normal to get railed over your prospective boss’s desk while discussing salary expectations? Remember how we’ve talked about my kink for misogyny and the fact that it manifests in fantasies but should never be practiced in real life outside of a safe (and consensual) playspace? OK sweet. Well, she’s back. This is the next in the wank tales series. There are multiple free use secretary scenarios (catch the third, like wank-fantasy-Pokémon, if you support me on Patreon). This one’s called ‘the phone call’, and it features dubious consent (possibly coerced, maybe outright non-consent, I’ve tried to write in some consent cues but it’s borderline), plus other things that might be triggering to some people like choking, voyeurism and aggressively entitled posh bankers called Tarquin.

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Next in the wank tales series, a fantasy I have about being a tavern wench who is dragged forward to service a medieval king when he demands ‘wine, food and women.’ Note that this story features aggression, brutality and sex that can best be described as ‘only very dubiously consensual.’ In my head, when I wank to it, ‘The King’s Men’ is a rape fantasy (these are extremely common, and they do not mean that those who have them wish to be raped!). Here I have tried to subtly weave in a bit more consent than I usually would when I’m masturbating, but it’s still fundamentally non-consensual/extremely coerced. I also want to flag that while these things are extremely fun to enjoy in my mind (I have a kink for misogyny and I’m into consensual non-consent play), you OBVIOUSLY shouldn’t rape anyone in real life, or indeed play with this dynamic unless you’ve discussed limits and preferences in a LOT of detail beforehand. If you don’t understand that, or if you just know that these types of fantasy aren’t for you, please skip this one.

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Next in the wank-tales series, in which I tell you some of the fantasies that I masturbate over (and which are precious to me, please don’t kinkshame), I’m gonna take you forward to an unspecified point in the future when most of humanity has been wiped out and the remnants are trapped in huge communal bunkers. This piece includes some dubious consent (potentially non-consent, but I’ve tried to write a few consent cues into the text so it’s less brutal than it is in my head). As explained before, I have a kink for misogyny, and fantasies about being used fit the bill for that kink pretty well. As per previous stories like free use secretary, this is not a how-to manual for life, it is only fun in fantasy and role play. Features some BDSM/beating, aggression and coercion too. Here’s a story about being on post-apocalypse relief duty.

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