Last week I wrote a bona-fide erotic story. One with two characters who definitely weren’t me, in a setting that wasn’t my lounge, partaking in a dirty fuck that I have never had myself. I very rarely write fictional stories. Of the nearly 400 posts on this blog, fewer than 1% of them are fictional.

But every now and then something in particular strikes me as gorgeously hot, and it’s something that isn’t possible to recreate in my life at that exact moment. Whether it’s sex with a stranger, a gang-bang of some kind, or the kind of sex that would require my own Tardis. This week (and last week and – thanks to my recent discovery of The Tudors – probably next week as well) the hot stuff comes wrapped in lace and frills. Tight stomachers, breeches, and hard leather riding boots. ‘My Lord’s and ‘Your Grace’s and posh people dismissing their hot servants with a casual wave of their hand.

Thing is, with any fantasy I have, it always seems to end up in the same place. Last week I wrote about a maid getting fucked by a duke – the cold barrier between two people of different ranks, and the easy and nonchalant way in which he shagged her, with the same proprietorial ease with which he’d order her to turn down his bed or scrub the fireplace.

And this one, despite the complete role reversal in terms of power, doesn’t fundamentally differ because… well… when I give my mind free reign to wander wherever it likes, it always pops back to a very similar place. Guy on top, girl getting used, urgent sweaty fucks performed for no reason other than a desperate desire.

Every now and then I get drawn into a discussion about whether you can shape your own sexual desires. Obviously you can’t change fundamentals, but some people assert that, by introducing yourself to new experiences or pushing yourself into new fantasies, you can mould your own fantasies into something different to what you’d normally go for. I strongly suspect you can’t. I certainly can’t. While I’ll embrace any number of filthy fucks, unusual fetishes, or brand new experiences, my core sexuality will never significantly change. From the first wank I ever had over the idea of pirates punishing a serving wench, to the last one I’ll have on my deathbed, I suspect the theme will remain:

Guy meets girl. Girl bends over. He uses her like that’s all she’s good for.

Now here’s the story.

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A friend of mine recently quizzed me on what I think about while shagging. Or, more specifically, who.

I’m drawing a blank, I’m afraid. I mean, it’s not like I go unconscious as soon as I get my kit off, but in terms of mental energy I don’t think I have more than is required to focus on what’s happening at any given moment. I’m not saying this to boast about how amazingly focused I am on sex – I don’t think ‘thinking about a celebrity arse’ is some sort of crime, for which you get a tick in the ‘bad sex’ column. I just don’t happen to do it.

Other people do though, apparently, at least according to my friend who – while humping a guy she didn’t really get that excited by – has lived a full and rich mental life in which she’s performed sex acts on most of her favourite TV stars and a few of mine to boot.

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All hail people with cool fetishes. Splosh fans: I’m talking to you.

In case you’re not aware of the utter and delicious beauty of splosh, it’s essentially a fetish that involves getting extremely messy in gunge, custard, cream cake, and anything that takes your fancy.

Smearing it all over yourself, sitting in it, pouring thick gloopy liquid over your face and neck, and generally making the kind of mess you haven’t been allowed to make since you were two years old and smearing banana all over your high chair.

Amazing.

YKINMK but fuck me splosh is sexy

I have a mental list of fetishes which I’ve never partaken in, yet which I find deeply hot and really want to have a good go at. Splosh is one of them. Pony play is another. Furries…? Maybe not for me, but I’d love to watch someone who was really into it have a satisfying wank through a blue fuzzy costume.

Splosh is top of my list though, because not only does it often involve custard (second only to rice pudding as one of my favourite things) it also has an awesome air of genuinely gleeful play. When I ‘play’ it’s usually pretty dark: serious, straight-faced stuff where guys will stand sternly over me and I’ll pretend to cower as they whip me with belts and tell me I’m dirty and wrong.

Splosh, on the other hand, feels genuinely ‘playful’. Like, the actual point is that things just feel good, and damn whether you’re presenting yourself properly or maintaining the proper straight face: your face is probably an inch thick with cream anyway, so no one will notice. What’s more, it has overtones of the kind of messy sex that I rarely get to indulge in but that makes me properly happy.

I like sex where I get fucked up. Hair messed up, clothes stretched or ripped, eyes red from watering and jizz dipping from whatever bits of my body are available to squirt on at the time. Messed. Up. I like kneeling in the mud to give stealthy outdoor blowjobs, drooling spit down my chin and the front of my clothes after a throatfuck.

So when I met a guy who was into messy sex, I wanted to do something awesome.

Messy sex

“If you’re on your way over, drink some water,” I told him. “One hour before, then again half an hour before. Get really desperate.”

This dude was into mess, and the idea of getting to cover me with piss pushed a fair few of his buttons. He turned up at my door horny and bursting, so I led him into the bathroom.

“Kneel down,” he told me, between slightly bitey kisses. I stripped to my underwear and did. Staring up at him with a grin I couldn’t suppress. Maybe he wanted me to look more nervous.

“Are you ready?”

“Of course.”

I waited. Then a bit more. Then more. He held his stiff cock in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, and with my tits out and a weird grin plastered across my face, I couldn’t help but feel a bit of a dick.

“It’s hard to piss with a boner,” he told me, unnecessarily.

We fucked instead.

But because we’d failed so hard at the messy-fucking-while-covered-in-piss plan, I wanted to do something a bit cool for him at a later date. He loved messy things, and wanted to watch me get covered in something – piss, mud, custard, it didn’t really matter. The key thing was that he’d watch me as I tore my clothes, poured gunk all over myself, and touched myself until I was smeared and covered with slime.

Sweat, spunk and custard

Initially I thought a paddling pool might be a good purchase. But apart from the fact that I have no rooms big enough to accommodate even a small one, I think I’d end up worrying about splashing stuff outside the pool and ending up spending half the day after shampooing the carpet. The only option: a wet room. I looked online for hotels nearby that had proper wet-room bathrooms. I wanted to make a proper fucking state of things and be able to hose it all down with the shower head so the cleaning staff wouldn’t know, or hate me.

I found one or two, and began saving my money. For the room as well as a whole crate of Ambrosia custard – the stuff that comes in cardboard cartons and pours all thick and gloopy. I knew exactly what this guy wanted: he wanted to touch himself while he watched me, in knickers and a tiny top, pour custard from the cartons onto my face, my neck, my tits. He wanted to watch me writhe on the bathroom floor and squish around in it, getting sticky mess all over my body, and slipping in the splodgy stuff.

Watching from nearby, he’d sit touching himself, getting harder as I got dirtier. Pulling his dick out of his trousers as I opened the first carton, and gripping tighter as I poured. Frantically rubbing at himself as he watched the mess slip down my skin, and tangle up in my hair. As I sat in puddles of it and felt it squish between my thighs and in my crotch.

When I was good and sticky he’d stride across the bathroom, barking orders that I shouldn’t touch him: I was far too filthy.

‘Put your hands behind your back,’ he’d tell me, as he pushed his cock into my mouth. He’d grab my mess-streaked hair with one hand, keeping the other hand far away from the dirty creature he was holding, and face-fuck himself to completion, pulling out at just the right moment. Squirting come onto custard, then rubbing it in with the one hand he was willing to get dirty.

Then he’d push me back onto the floor, where I could lie satisfied, feeling humiliated, degraded, sticky and spent. Licking my fingers and squeezing my legs together, and running my hands through a mixture of sweat, spunk and custard.

If you’re wondering why this story is peppered with ‘would haves’, it’s because the guy dumped me before it happened. I still haven’t fulfilled this fantasy, and I often think of it with one hand down my knickers, and a sense of overwhelming regret. Still, it’s hard to get really sad about a break-up when you’re surrounded by delicious cartons of leftover custard.