Tag Archives: illustrated
Don’t be cool, be desperate
If someone were to ask me what I bring to the table, sex-wise, I wouldn’t mention specific parts of my body. My body is fine, my hair is fine, my clothes are basically clothes. I like to think I’ve got a pretty filthy grin, but apart from that my physicality is nothing to either write home or pen a strongly-worded letter of complaint about. So if we’re having sex, what I’m bringing to the party isn’t my body, it’s my attitude. To be blunt: my enthusiasm.
Guest blog: Menopause horn – the sex surge is real
We don’t talk about about the menopause and sex. And we definitely don’t talk enough about the fact that some people experience increased horn when they enter the menopause – as evidenced by the fact that as I was researching where to link to from this post, the NHS website entry for ‘menopause’ only lists ‘low libido’ as a possible symptom rather than a sex surge. Today’s fantastic guest blogger, Elena Bennett, is here to give you her story though: that of a woman with intense, delicious, powerful menopause horn. Take it away Elena!
The first stroke: making one fuckstroke last as long as possible
Once, I asked him to give me the first stroke as slowly as he possibly could. Prolong that initial shot of cock for as long as humanly possible. From the moment the head of his dick touched the wet lips of my cunt to the final stretch as it nudged against my cervix: make the first stroke of that fuck really fucking last.
Toxic femininity: oh, the men I hate when I’m on my bike
This post was inspired by someone on Twitter a while ago who objected to the phrase ‘toxic masculinity’ and wanted to know if there was such a thing as ‘toxic femininity‘. I don’t know that there is, but this is the scenario that leapt to mind.
I don’t hate men, but I do hate this man. We race together towards a red light. He’s not far behind me, but he definitely is behind me. We yank on our brakes to come to a halt, and he pulls up next to me. Then, side-by-side, we sweat. We pant. We eye each other up. Then amber, green: go – we’re off. Another futile race which he cannot possibly win. He’ll try anyway, why not? And I don’t care if he tries – I like that he does. I swallow his attempts to beat me like shots of tequila and cum, delighting in how bitterly they burn as they slide down my throat.
Cold air, hard nipples: boss-level tit play
It’s chilly, and we’re outside. Leaning in to each other for warmth, but delighting in the cold as well. My shirt is unbuttoned slightly and pulled down below my shoulder to expose one of my tits. He licks the tip of his finger slowly and runs it around the nipple. Wet spit meets cold air and hard nipples, and I shiver with longing.