This gorgeous story – ‘Beg me’ – was written by David of The Big Gay Review. It is read here by Luke. 

I’m bent over the dining table, my arse framed by the thick nylon straps of my jock. I sway my hips, wriggling my butt in his direction. He gets up, and runs his hand over my smooth, hairless cheek. I reach back and run my hand over the growing bulge in his jeans. His button pops open, allowing me to slip my hand inside and feel the warmth of his cock radiating through his boxers.

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I’m so pleased to welcome Violet Grey (@v_greyauthor) back as a guest blogger today. In previous posts she’s done sterling work shattering the idea that women can’t be submissive feminists, tackling the headlines about millennials not having enough sex, and sharing extremely hot erotica about being humiliated and used. Today, she’s here to teach us about a cinematic trope that really pisses her off. As a bisexual woman, she is sick of seeing LGBTQ+ characters routinely killed off, so she is here with a message for screenwriters: don’t bury your gays.

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“Tell me a sexy story,” I asked him, and he thought for a full three seconds before saying:

“OK. Picture the scene: you’re wandering past a bar, and inside there’s a raucous group of guys out on the town for a stag do…”

Although the reality of the British Stag Do is often cunt-witheringly unsexy, there’s potential there that he recognises as something I may well enjoy. It’s not just the fact that there’s a large number of men, although naturally I am a fan of any situation in which I am the sole sexual outlet for a gang of eager guys. There’s something about the stag do specifically that flicks that switch.

It’s often taken as a given that straight blokes will be keen on cheerleading squads, women’s hockey teams, and all the rest of it. They want to see the cotton-panty-clad pillow fights and soapy shower scenes that definitely happen when women get together (and they do, I promise. Like, that is literally all me and my mates ever do when we get together. Pyjama-clad romping, excessive giggling and showing each other our fannies). Yet when I have, on occasion, mentioned my desire to be wined and dined and slapped and tickled by an entire university rugby team, men I am with have expressed some degree of surprise.

I am thinking about this a lot recently, because I have got very solidly into a brand new trashy reality-TV show called ‘SAS: Who Dares Wins’ and apparently my overtly sexual running commentary on the programme is somewhere between ‘dogged’ and ‘aggressive.’ Long story short: I want to fuck all the men who are in it, over and over, until their dicks are raw and they can barely muster a single drop of wrung-out spunk.

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