Sexual compatibility isn’t always about liking the same things. It’s nice to discover that your whims and lusts match up sometimes, when you both fancy exactly the same kind of shag. But to me, being sexually compatible is less about always wanting the same thing and more about being intrigued by the other person’s kinks and quirks.

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I love a good dating story – the more unusual the better. As a now-mostly-monogamous person, I like to live vicariously through singletons, remembering the heady days of internet dating and the weird and wonderful things that can happen when you match with someone on Tinder or OKCupid. This week’s guest blogger – Fran MacLaine – is here to tell you about her first three hours on Tinder. And it’s a rollercoaster, so strap in tight…

Names and identifying details have been changed. 

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I’ve never been a big fan of massage oil – it gets all sticky on my hands. While it’s delightful to stroke and prod and knead someone else’s body (particularly the arse – God how I love rubbing oiled-up hands on someone’s arse) I’ve always been a bit put off by the fact that when the massage stops and the slippery fucking begins, there’s nowhere to wipe my hands.

Until now, because I have one of these amazing tactile fluidproof sheets, and holy shit do I love it. The following post isn’t a review, it’s just an account of some wet and delicious sex I had. It’s also written pretty much in one take, because I got horny while I was writing it and it was a choice of either editing it for ages or just putting it live then having a wank and a nap. Sorry.

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Five years ago, if you’d asked me if I’d like an ‘erotic massage’ I would have told you to fuck off to Ann Summers and take your gentle vanilla sex with you. I used to think that ‘erotic massage’ was basically a cunning way to delay a fuck, and thus an unnecessarily cruel trick that a partner might play on me when he didn’t really want to shag me and hoped I’d fall asleep before things started getting sticky.

I think it’s partly because the word ‘erotic’ is, to me, anything but. It evokes a gentleness and romance that I don’t find particularly hot. Filthy? Yes. Hot? Yes. Erotic? Nah. It’s why I’d always rather say that I write ‘filth‘ than that I write ‘erotica’. For many people that word may well mean total cunt-throbbing power, but for me it sounds like soft strokes and feathery kisses and the tickling touch of a considerate lover. Erotic massage, to me, never felt like something I could enjoy with the all-out aching lust that I look for in a decent fuck.

I was wrong.

Erotic massage as powerful filth

It’s late, and as usual I’m in bed first. Face-down on the pillows and just nodding off as he comes into the room.

“Are you awake?”

“Just about.”

He grabs a bottle of moisturiser from the shelf and pulls the bedcovers down so that I’m exposed from the back of my neck to the tops of my thighs. He slaps me on the arse. He straddles me.

I’m tired – so tired. I’m struggling on the edge of sleep and torn between wanting to fall into it, and wanting to stay awake for his touches. I hear the slick squirt as he grabs a handful of moisturiser.

“Do you want a massage?” He asks like it’s a gentle thing – a generous thing, but I know in this instance it’s not. Because, over the course of a year or so, he’s changed my opinion of the ‘erotic massage’ – it’s become something exquisitely filthy, dirty. An excuse for him to touch me. It’s something he’ll only do when his dick is hard and he’s throbbing and he wants to coax my cunt into throbbing in the same way.

He puts his hands on my back. One at the top, pressing down just below my neck so my face is forced deeper into the pillow. The other slides roughly down, snaking from my shoulder to my spine, down below the line of my knickers and into the crack of my arse. The wetness from the moisturiser spreads. He pushes his hand back up to join the other at my neck, then pulls both down hard, dragging along my wet skin, forcing my back into an arched curve. His hands reach the small of my back, and he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of my knickers.

His dick is pushing into me – hard and urgent through my crotch. His hands work more quickly. Pressing, pushing, dragging along my naked skin. Not gentle: rough. Not generous: desperate. He squeezes me, presses me, moulds my back into willing shapes. Up again to the nape of my neck to push my face further into the bed. Down to the small of my back to force my stomach tight against the sheets. Up to grab a handful of hair and make me gasp. Down to my arse, squeezing at me, spreading the cheeks so he can shove his cock right up against me.

I’m awake now – wide awake. Arching and pushing against him, lifting my arse and spreading myself to guide his dick into me. He drops the moisturiser and grabs lube.

As he did with my back, so he does with my cunt. Moistening, pushing, shaping. Rough hands and slick fingers working lube all over me. Every inch of his cock and every line and fold of my crotch. He pushes dripping fingers into me, and uses wet hands to pull me open. I grip the pillow with my fists and push back, begging him to fuck me.

“Please,” as I can feel the tip of his dick stretching the entrance to my cunt. “Pleeeease.” A whining, desperate moan, and his hand is on my neck again. One hand at my neck, and one on the small of my back, holding me in the perfect shape. He holds still. Waiting. Twitching. Controlling.

I urge him forwards but he won’t move – he’ll never move. He’ll wait until I make it on my own, as I struggle against his grip and try to pull myself down right onto the shaft of his swollen cock.

“Please.”

I push harder, straining against his solid grip. Finally, I feel it – the rush and twitch in my cunt as I ease backwards onto him. As he fills me up with his lubed-up dick and tells me I’m a dirty girl.

Then – and only then – does he really start to fuck me.