Tag Archives: lust
Physical yearning and yo-yo break ups
I used to yo-yo break up with my ex-ex. Number eight. The guy I met at university and loved for many years (whose dark dark eyes and devious filth you can read about in my first book if you’re interested). We had our problems, but we also had our passion. Long, tortured silences in the middle of arguments that would stretch on for what felt like hours, while each of us rummaged in our equally-wordy minds for the perfect phrase that would lift the blanket of sadness. But words can’t always do the work: sometimes, most times, the physical yearning would beat our mouths to the punch, and one of us would reach out to touch the other. That touch would set us both on fire, then we’d fuck like the fucking would fix it.
Good Friends, old fucks, new journeys
Back when I was dating, in the times Before Him, a mate used to sometimes ask the question: “is he a friend? Or a Good Friend?” Good friend – that’s how we discerned them. The boys I was fucking from the boys I was not. I’m gonna tell you now about one of my Good Friends.
Guest blog: I’m into sexy noises
This stunning guest blog, by @nookysemper, came out of an incredible thread she wrote a while ago which appealed strongly to my inner pervert, who loves the sexy noises people make when they’re horny. When she approached me to offer a guest blog, I asked if she could elaborate on that delightful ode to sexy noises, and voilà! Here’s her gorgeous post…
Lust letter: you’re sexy when you do nothing
It’s really easy to talk about how sexy you are when you do stuff. When you perform delicate tasks with precision, or say things that make me melt. And logic might dictate that it’s harder to see why you’re sexy when you do absolutely fuck all, but that isn’t always the case.
Insomnia love lock – a midnight sex story
This midnight sex story, by erotic author Tabitha Rayne, originally appeared on her website.
Insomnia grips me.
Awake but in stasis, I should just get up, start my day but it feels so wrong. Blood runs fizzy in my veins and my head throbs. Why can’t I be one of the sexy insomniacs from the films, pounding the streets or hunched over a laptop writing wretched dark novels while chain smoking with gaunt cheeks and staring eyes.