This is one of a bunch of random fiction pieces loosely gathered under the concept of ‘emotional fucks‘. Most of them are a bit vicious and harsh – hate fuck, pity fuck, spite fuck – because those are the ones I enjoy writing most, but very occasionally my heart becomes squishy and I have to write something nice. This one’s a friendly fuck… 

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A random selection of ridiculous reasons why boys aren’t allowed to break up with me. FYI.

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If you’ve been here a while, you’ll have met this week’s guest blogger before – back in May she wrote this gorgeously hot account of the sexy experiment that turned out far better than she expected. Now LM is back to talk about role play, and embracing sexual play that makes her feel small and cute.

Like a few other guest bloggers and kinky folks, A uses ‘Daddy’ as an honorific for her partner, and they role play within that context. They are both well over the age of 18, and aren’t related, but please do be aware before choosing whether to read. 

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When the fuck is done, he doesn’t ask why I’m crying. Even though this is make up sex, and this weeping is more intense than any that’s come before. He doesn’t ask why, he just holds me. Kneeling on the floor, with my arms wrapped round his neck, and his spunk rapidly cooling on the inside of my thighs, I sob and sob and sob. And he doesn’t ask me why.

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Recently I’ve been writing about being sad. And while it may make me seem a little mercenary, I have to tell you that sadness makes good content. More than that: sometimes it’s the only content I can produce. Yet when I write about being sad, people often message me to ask “are you OK? Do you want to talk about it? Is there anything I can do?” to which the answers are, respectively, yes, no and yes. For those who might be interested in the minutiae of what it’s like writing a sex blog, here’s a longer answer…

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