This story contains elements of consensual non-consent: i.e. when someone feigns reluctance in order to heighten the atmosphere of a sexual play scene. I think I’ve done pretty well at writing her enthusiastic consent into the story, but I’m adding this warning on the off-chance that I’ve been clumsy with it. If CNC isn’t your sort of thing, or if you struggle to distinguish between fantasy and instruction manual, please don’t read on. On the other hand, if this sounds like your cup of tea and you like the idea of punishment by proxy – being given a beating by someone who isn’t your usual top/dispenser of BDSM discipline – then this might appeal to you. Especially if you, like me, enjoy the ‘thwack’ of the belt… 

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This erotic fiction is the next in the emotional fucks series and OH MY GOD did I enjoy writing it. Previous fucks have included the pity fuck, spite fuck and rebound fuck – today we’re embarking on a hate fuck.

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Sometimes writing is about having a great idea then spending ages writing, rewriting and editing until it can work as a story. At other times it’s just about vomiting an idea onto a page and hoping that people like it. If you’d like the former, check out some other erotic fiction here. If you’re happy with the latter, here’s a story I wrote this week.

Content note: this fiction plays with the idea of non-consent/reluctance, so if that’s not your cup of tea please don’t read on. 

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This morning I received a strongly worded letter from the Sex Blogger’s Association, informing me that as I have not yet written any custom content for Masturbation Month, they will soon be removing my Fuckblogger badge and ripping up my membership card. The only way out of this is to write some sauce that explicitly references ‘Masturbation Month.’ So here goes: 10 wank fantasies that you can steal/tweak/edit and enjoy at your leisure.

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We love each other. We fancy each other. We live together. I think about his cock almost constantly, and I’m betting he does too. We are inside each other’s heads all the time, and in bed together every night. We touch on the sofas while Netflix is on, and we steal kisses on the tube on our nights out to go and meet friends. And we only ever really fuck on Sundays.

After the report that many Brits only have sex once a week, I considered writing a blog post about why ‘number of times you did it’ is a shit way to measure how happy people’s sex lives are, and how annoying it is that these studies usually only include a very narrow set of acts in their definition of what ‘sex’ is. But that didn’t seem as fun as what I’m about to do, which is write some erotic fiction about a couple who only fucks on Sundays. 

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