No one’s ever asked me this, but if I were a guest blogger I’d want to know: the most popular guest blog ever published on the site is this one – about wearing a butt plug in public. It’s a phenomenal post, written by the excellent @Absolutely_Ruby, who popped back later to record it as audio porn so her sexy words could be accessible to more people. She’s amazing, and her writing is incredibly hot, which is why I’m delighted to welcome her back this week with another real-life sex story, about getting caught having sex in the office…

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Today is an odd day – I am sitting on my sofa nursing a giant hangover, still reeling from the election last night. So it’s fitting that instead of trying to come out with any words of my own, I’ll give my very tired brain a rest and hand over instead to a guest blogger. Clementine is here to tell you about a recent sexual encounter with a guy… and how that encounter sparked fantasies about someone completely different. No prizes for guessing which of the very specific lines in her piece press my ‘submissive lust’ buttons…

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I hate my sofas. I hate them with every single fibre of my being. I hate them more because I should have anticipated the problems I have had with them, and left them to rot in Marks and Spencer where they belonged. With their shitty sleek design and their evil spindly legs. And their squeaky, ill-placed, uncomfortable cushions.

I cannot fuck on my sofa. And although this might sound like an entitled whine (it is), I want you to be able to learn from my mistakes if you can. Never ever ever buy a sofa you cannot fuck on.

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Fishnet tights.

I know, they’re obvious. They’re easy. They’re prone to laddering. But they’re hot. And I can’t wear fishnets to this day without thinking about urgent, spit-lubed buttsex. Here’s why.

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It’s fucking hectic behind the bar. Every drink comes with a second, because the regulars are feeling generous, and he, I and a bunch of other staff are lining them up. Landlady’s insistence: we’re allowed to drink on shift. And it’s Christmas, so no one thinks about saving the money, we just say ‘ta’ and line them up:

Vodka and cokes: have one yourself. Have six yourself. Slur ‘Cheers’ as you’re pulling the next pint.

When I rush round tables to collect glasses, Steve (a regular – skeezy and greasy and ‘harmless’ depending on who you talk to and how many pints he’s had) sneaks up behind me. He follows me around until I’ve got four, five glasses in each hand. Then as I turn to take them back to the bar he grips me round the waist. Hard hands, insistent squeezes.

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