Note: this post includes a sexy role-play scenario which touches on somnophilia (fucking someone while they sleep) and is only ever hot with someone I trust absolutely, with whom I’ve discussed this kink in the past, who knows how I can withdraw consent if I want to. It is not – and should never be – a ‘how to’ guide on fucking. Don’t do this unless you have the express consent of the person with whom you’re doing it. 

Please try not to judge me when I tell you that sometimes I like guys to fuck me while I’m pretending to be asleep. I like the idea that they’re so horny they just want to slip it inside and grunt their frustration out on me, spitting cum inside me without bothering to wake me up first. Something about it ticks the same boxes as the idea of being a fly-on-the-wall for someone else’s wank. That intensely private, pleasure-hunting-at-all-costs urgency that someone leans into when they allow themselves to let go, with a side-order of actual dick in me. Yum.

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I’m really delighted to welcome back @OxyFromSg (whose erotica you can find at Oxy And Phedre’s Sinful Stories) – a prolific guest blogger who has written stunning posts before on music and sexual memories, making a DIY gloryhole and (my personal favourite) sucking his own cock. Today his post is more topical, focusing on Covid and libido. A total drop in libido was one of the things that alerted him to the fact that something was wrong…

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This gorgeous real life story about play in a BDSM club is by Victoria Blisse, and first appeared on her website. It is read here by Sherryl Blu. Features sadism, BDSM, pain and blood.

It was Kev’s birthday party at Miss Ts. I was wearing my new polka dot dress with pockets and telling everyone it had pockets because that is a given. I was doing my hosting duties and when I wasn’t I was sitting between Kronopticon and Palantilin. I tell you, there’s something quite decadent about flopping down on a sofa between two hot guys, both happy for you to snuggle close and touch them. The two meanies hadn’t met before, but they seemed to bond quite happily over their mutual desire to hurt me.

I was glad to be of service.

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He’s really cool, of course. Sweet and thoughtful and politically angry in good ways, not to mention kind and fun. He’s an excellent cook and he has lovely hands and he sometimes picks me up which makes me squirm. But I think, if pressed, what I like best about him at this very moment is that sometimes he makes me say ‘please.’

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It wasn’t that my body was wrong, for a start. Over the course of our relationship I changed a lot – sometimes I looked fucking spectacular and other times I looked crap. Same with him. I fancied the fuck out of him, always, regardless of what shape or size his body was or how he’d chosen to dress it today. We lived, we grew, we changed: our bodies could never have been the reason why we broke up.

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