There are two levels on which I’m enjoying dinner. On the surface, the main conversation – catching up with friends I’ve not seen in years. Beneath the table, something even better – his thigh nudging against mine. The oh-so-casual initial pressure that could easily be written off as an accident conjures a flash of possibility as I realise that… yeah… this guy just might want to fuck me. A rush of teenage horn flushes across my skin as I decide that I’m gonna nudge him back to find out for sure. Meeting his pressure, thigh-against-thigh, I remind myself that this guy has a wife.

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This story contains elements of dormophilia (i.e. wanting people to touch me up while I sleep), all very consensual. Don’t do this sort of thing unless you have discussed in advance with your partner and you’re sure that they would enjoy it.

The night before Christmas, he tiptoes into the bedroom to make sure he doesn’t wake me, but he doesn’t need to be that careful: I pretend to be asleep anyway. Lying on my stomach, head turned away from the door he’s just entered through, I keep my breathing soft and calm and make out that I’m sleeping. If he knows I’m awake he might try to talk to me, and at that point sleep will be impossible. Besides, if he thinks I’m out for the count, it’ll be way hotter if he tries to do The Thing I Like. I’m wearing my silk knickers, just in case. I really want him to do it.

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I’m not going to tell you about the first time I shagged this guy. I might in a later post, but not right now. By way of backstory, I’ll just explain that I’ve known him online for a while, and recently we ran into each other and fucked. It was extremely fun – so fun that we did it again the next day. I’m not going to tell you about that now, though, because after we’d finished round one, as his spunk was drying on my face, he asked “are you gonna write about me?” with such eager, puppydog energy that I thought it would be fun to make him wait. However, once I’d returned home (after washing my face, naturally), I did get the urge to write this. Publishing it might seem like a bold move for a woman who may never see this guy again, but fuck it: he has a kink that I’d dearly love to flesh out in my wank bank. If you’ve ever shagged a rich person hoping for a ride in their fancy car, you might understand a little of my motivation here: I really want a go on this guy’s kink. It’s the Porsche I’ve looked longingly at but never had a chance to properly drive. Something so gutpunch-wank-bank fascinating to me that I reckon its worth potentially embarrassing myself for. So instead of writing a true account of the first time we fucked, I’m gonna tell you what I’d do if I got the chance to hang out with him again. Here are some questions I’d love to ask of the man I have only fucked twice.

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When I was about nineteen years old, a boy I was madly in love with grabbed me by the wrist to flip me over in bed. I still think about that moment. It was swift and confident and perfect. Crushed up facing each other on my single student bed, we were breathing so close to each other’s mouths, with such burning lust, that we could easily have just passed pure carbon dioxide back and forth until both of us passed out. Maybe that’s why we were so high on the horn of it. At some point before I fully fainted with desire, he took action. And the way in which he acted was so fucking hot it made my cunt swell with a tortured throb. He reached down between us to where my arms were held across my chest, grabbed the wrist of the arm I was lying on, encircling it firmly in his grip, and pulled it down my body and over my waist. Using it to flip me over so that now – instead of us facing each other and there being a cold gap between us at crotch height – I was facing away, my arse pressed up tight against his aching, diamond-hard cock.

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Here’s something that has never happened to me in the whole of my slutty life: after a fuck, a guy pulls his dick out of me and shuffles down the bed, so as to get a better view of all the cum dripping out of my freshly-fucked cunt. Never happened. Ever. This is the shining truth at the heart of why I hate the term ‘creampie’.

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