This gorgeous chastity story is written by Cara Thereon, read here by Sherryl Blu. 

She was a horny mess.

He’d woken her with kisses on her inner thigh, his lips skating up her leg until she’d parted them with a sleepy sigh. Strong hands slipped beneath her to grip her ass before sliding to her waist just as his lips had fastened to her vulva.

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This orgasm denial erotica, by sex blogger Molly Moore, originally appeared on her site. It is read aloud here by Leo Di Luca. 

Please, please….

Her begging is so pretty but it takes time to really get her to that place where it is consuming her. At first her words are almost just that, words, tripping off her tongue in an all too casual manner. There is no guts to them, yet. That will only come when she is finally teetering on the brink of collapse.

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This post, by sex blogger Molly Moore, originally appeared on her site. It is read aloud here by Leo Di Luca. 

Lift up your skirt. Higher … higher. Come on my love show me, I wanna see. They all want to see. Don’t make me wait, you know you want to really, that shy little look doesn’t work on me, I know that if I reached underneath your dress right now I would find you dripping wet. No need to pretend with me slut, now do it, we are waiting.

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When I think of chastity, usually I picture it as something that one person is imposing on another. In the past, the closest I’ve come to chastity play is telling partners not to come for a few days before they next see me, so they can give me a huge load of spunk. So when this week’s guest blogger got in touch to pitch a piece about self-imposed chastity, I was really intrigued. Meet Thomas, who’s here with a fantastic guest blog explaining how self-imposed chastity significantly improved his life…

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We love each other. We fancy each other. We live together. I think about his cock almost constantly, and I’m betting he does too. We are inside each other’s heads all the time, and in bed together every night. We touch on the sofas while Netflix is on, and we steal kisses on the tube on our nights out to go and meet friends. And we only ever really fuck on Sundays.

After the report that many Brits only have sex once a week, I considered writing a blog post about why ‘number of times you did it’ is a shit way to measure how happy people’s sex lives are, and how annoying it is that these studies usually only include a very narrow set of acts in their definition of what ‘sex’ is. But that didn’t seem as fun as what I’m about to do, which is write some erotic fiction about a couple who only fucks on Sundays. 

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